Twenty Years of Solitude

“How much longer do we have?”

The same question, on a loop, slips from Gatsby’s every orifice as he waits for a more pleasing answer. And the responses have blended together, no matter who takes upon himself the responsibility to provide Gatsby some sort of temporary solution to his now nearly-twenty-year problem. But in his fixed state of legs languidly crossed and head slightly tilted, he sits in one secluded area of the barren wasteland that used to nurture and shelter him – until he turned seventeen.

The others – Agathos, Nick, and Holden – separate themselves from each other as Gatsby has done with himself; they all possess their own damp, dark areas to which they confine themselves nowadays, because, what else are they to do after living together, chafing one another’s “lives” with fractious remarks and attempts at fratricide? They are brothers, after all, and even brothers hate each other after being trapped in the presence of each other for unbearable lengths of time. And this time, in particular, has stolen their once-collective glow and replaced it with a wan look of “I’m scared but can’t show it.”

Faintly, their existence ceases to pursue vibrancy as days pass in a seemingly timeless mind-trap. The monotonous drips of comatose dreams from skull walls lull them into their own sort of vegetative persistence.

“It’s been a hundred years in this sonofabitch and I’m sick of it here,” and the complaints never halt to evade Holden’s lips and fill the fragile and limited cerebral air with vehement stupidity.

“Actually, it has been merely nineteen years and three hundred and sixty-four days,” Agathos rebukes, as his tolerance of repetitive gripe grows weary.

“For crissake, who gives a damn?”

“Apparently you do.”

“I never said that.”

“The intimation was all anyone needed.”

And the rebuttal continued until Nick finally got fed up with the others’ genuine disregard for the futility of such a quarrel.

“Would both of you just be quiet?” And Nick’s question echoed in the hollow cavern of a dormant thought-shell, crusted over and dust-covered for years upon years. But the truth is there is no easy way for a group of four denizens in a cave-like dwelling to completely avoid temperamental issues among themselves after being born into said abode from the imagination of a geriatric’s unconscious mind.

And it is only natural for each of them to feel the need to isolate himself from the others; Nick, Holden, and Gatsby do, however, ostracize Agathos more than each other because of his complete difference in belief and attitude toward their “life” as a whole.

In their nineteen years and three hundred and sixty-four days together, they have figured out that where they are is not right and that there is something beyond the barriers by which they are all encompassed. Nick, Holden, and Gatsby, though, have adapted to a joint belief that their entrapment is pure punishment from some ulterior force while Agathos believes in the power of words. And while he believes in the power of words, he also has gained the theory that there is even more power in dreams.

“A dream, you see, is a culmination of those alluring moments – the wonderful and the enticing, the horrid and the frightening moments – of the everyday that, through words and through the sentiment of the contact into which we come with our surroundings every second of every minute, enthrall our very beings,” Agathos claims with unaffected conviction.

“Digression!” exclaims Holden, scornfully.

“No, actually. There is no digression whatsoever. In all of your uncertainty, Holden, of letting go of your innocence, remind yourself of where you are and what you’ve experienced, because there is no way of taking back what you’ve unconsciously given up without the slightest notice.”

“I agree with Holden,” says Gatsby with a bit of confidence.

“You do? Well it would only make sense that you do since you, like Holden, are stuck on a fine tight rope between your younger years and your potential maturity.”

“You have no idea what you’re talking about, Agathos,” Nick contends with a bit of apprehension.

“And Nick, your fear, even in your heartiest endeavor to hide it, shines through your translucent cloak of whatever is engraved in your brain. Remind me, please, what that is again.”

“I’m scared… but I can’t show it.”

The once-collective glow was not merely replaced by a frightened look, but rather, fear entwined itself with the minds of the inhabitants in their light-lacking residence and tore them down to incapable dead weight.

“What scares you, Nick?” Agathos asks with a clear look of concern painted on his face.

“A lot of things scare me.”

“Name a few.”

“There are too many.”

“Name three, from the least scary to the most.”

“I’m scared of the dark.”

“Mhmm.”

“And I’m afraid of dying.”

“That’s understandable.”

“And I’m afraid of myself.”

“Of course. But you see, Nick, why on Earth would you be afraid of something that doesn’t exist?”

And in the eye of a Wink, faintly, the dream had passed, as had twenty years of Rip Van Winkles life.

Eight-sided Red Warning

Thick pretty smoke-stacks chafe the faces

of stand-alone city youngins

kneeling on side streets with their knees in mirky drain water

on the dirty asphalt, circling a dented stop sign.

And next to a sun-worn mural of Jack Kerouac, burning fumes

and sugar strips throw a film of

distortions on the eyes of the already-blind

censored minds of middle class America.

It's 1964 and the times have changed. The music just got good

and there's this thing called freedom.

That's the word on the street, and it used to only ring a bell

but recently there's a beat of a drum never

heard over these boxy radios, never seen on TV shows

and it's not left to anyone -- no moms, no teachers,

no dads, no kids, no beavers. 'Cause now,

that makes no sense.

And the only thing that works is a four-letter word --

B.E.A.T. -- and it spells out recovery in any light.

And people love the smell of unwatched life, even through

the choking smoke clouds intoxicating

the air with high hopes and fingers shot higher,

like a bird with new wings, flying over things

as crazy as kids praying to an eight-sided red warning

beat in 'cause someone wouldn't be stopped.

no goodbyes

"this isn't goodbye"

and last night I hoped those words were truer

than anything you've ever allowed your lips to let go for my ears to

steal from others' reach

"don't forget me"

and in your eyes I saw those words

drop your heart on a string and around your face were sayings like

"things like that don't happen for us" and

I believe you

'cause every time your tongue curled and your mouth moved

to push out your soul in verbal execution

I heard nothing but the look in your mind

and you know

I believe you

and I believe the letters on that second-to-last page

because they came from you

and you've typed to me a thousand times

"I love you"

but the way your fingers gripped the pen and the obvious force

you put on the page means more to me

than silly uniform font faces

'cause in your written statements

I see your own face and it reminds me that

some days, you're all I need

so please don't let this be goodbye

the sugar's gone

run down, they once stuck to your roof top

sopping wet of sugary coatings that used to taste sweet in my mind but are

dry now and flaking around the borders of crowned molds, gilded

and losing their shine behind

firmly locked soft gates, of an off-rose shade, that gently caressed

my unattached ear lobes that night in your car while you

slurred candied whispers above the incandescent small city,

with a view from a vacant parking lot.

too many times our silhouettes tangled together under shadows to

the same rhythm the background melodies hummed in the rush of

our second sentiment.

and the way your voice sounded -- velvety, in that desirable sort of way --

tamed any quick beats of mine and aligned in a spiral with

my dying uneasiness.

but the flavor of your tone sat unpleasant on my tongue,

so I noticed the sugar was gone

'cause your words hung dry in the friday evening air.

haz mat

I'm most

surprised when

your toxicity engulfs

me late in the night; it's pitch

black outside and lacking light in here

while your warm exhales suffer to survive in

the heat-lacking air that wraps us up with aromatic

enthrallment.

and your most

recent installment

of should-wear-a-warning

love laments -- that you use to

shower me as the beginning of your

overpowering guises that, as I said earlier,

surprise me most in the darker hours of life -- reminds

me that the enticement of your existence is nothing other than

haz mat

that, as I have

learned, one needs a

license to possess and trans-

port, but as you have proven, there is

no requisite worth-proof to transpose the flow

of my quick cascading blood, rushing through my

palpitating veins, with that hazardous material you like

to call a love lament.

That Time Between

Stationary sideway steadiness

drips into languid limbs

slipping down wrinkled blankets and tumbling

over soft edges along with subconscious unreadiness to

abandon full awareness and sink

into unsure weights of mind states.

Limp legs hint at lethargy in the way they lean into

sheets, feeling like heavy anchors pulling body down

to Earth after restless

release into the dusk-covered

room, under thick atmospheric waves like tides pulled

forward and into invisibility without full reflected light

to expose its decision

on its placement.

Distanced lid shuts and shudders

and re-openings shut out the

mid-grey air shifting over the listless contours of mellow skins,

twisting in meandering lines along with shallow breaths

in that time between that

can't be named.

Drifting in and out of stable clarity and testy teases of time leaps

drops a dizziness into the leisurely state of unawake and clouds

the already hazy craze

of undecided mindfulness.

Unfinished Painting

A few days to go and this picture's almost finished but I don't want to keep painting it. These brushes slide dry against the thick-coated canvas and the scratches of bristles on clumps of thick paint over stretched cloth aches in my ears when combined with the heavy iron ticks of the clocks on every wall. No timeless studios lacking the tools to continue. There's not enough of me left to keep up the pace with this stopwatch running out of digits to display that remind me, with burning red fluorescents, that tomorrow's their last day. And these muscles are tired lately in my face, so I'll glue a smile on. But eventually, like these last nine months, that too will fall and slip behind us on wet grass as they walk across the white wooden stage, right to left from our perspective, end to beginning from theirs.

And sometimes I wonder if I can put this piece in the trash and pretend it never started, so there can never be an end. But why throw away something I created without regret, but with the knowledge that one day I'd be finished? These layers of paint coat layers of paint coating layers of paint coating layers of life I covered with more memories that could never fully hide the older first thoughts and inklings of beginnings beneath this thick translucency. But I fancy this sort of thing. The swinging feet in an apprehensive audience, well-masked by crows' feet wrinkles and full-teeth grins, slow down to the pace of the heaving hearts of unready mothers and unwilling friends who can't let go of those sharp clean-cut boys and girls in white dresses. But one of these days, we have to let go and one of these days I have to finish this work of art. I thought it would be done 'cause tomorrow's their last day, but we've got one more year and I'm sure a few more layers upon layers of life won't hurt.

I'm Holdin' On, Holden.

My night, under opaque wraps, collects my candid questions --

unkept before the walls crept back up on me and

crammed my thorough thoughts

into sufficient suffocation and disallowed my dislocation

from total cerebral closure --

and covers cognitive wonders with a dense fence-like stone cure.

The clean-cut cold sheets, tucked beneath the bed springs

spring my curiosity through layer after layer

of teeming tides of blockades and prohibition

but someone sits at the edge of the road, just before crack

drops to cliff and he catches my despair, tangled in the rye, and

before my inexperience allows me to cry,

he hurls my candid questions back my way and continues

my disallowance of detaching myself from purity.

But despite his baseball mitts, he can't catch my verbal fits

so I scream, "My wants can't be blocked forever and Holden,

I'm holding onto my life for the sake of avoiding strife with you but

celibacy of the mind can only lead to our true demise."

He looks me in the eyes, scared he'd been outdone,

so he tries to run but the cliff leaves him hanging and

I reach for his undemanding hand that swats my offer

with a backwards hat.

But his fear subsides in his recollection of his misinterpretation of

a silly old poem that led him to believe he could catch our innocence.

So wear your hat straight, Holden, 'cause in the rye,

you're not the groundskeeper, but keep your ground and

catch yourself before you fall off the cliff and lose yourself

in your selfless tantrums and your disregard for your need for wondering.

Let me break through my caul, 'cause it's burning of decay and

I've overstayed my welcome in this amniotic gate, devoid of vitality,

and I like my life in my own hands, so I'll tell you now:

I'm holdin' on, Holden. Get a grip and hold on, yourself.

Shit-Stained Penny Loafers

In your bruise-blocked glances at the gravel

kicked up by the shit-stained penny loafers

of streetwise drunkards, you catch the reflection of

a cracked-glass-half-ass ally clock

in the greasy puddle a few inches away.

2:17 a.m.

Your fast flood of tears sting running through

new cuts and reopened nightly wounds, but they

ache more so in your fickle consciousness and

lack there of because this scene is not new to you.

Your internal bleeding forces you into contortions

but before you can curl up for comfort attempts,

those shit-stained penny loafers drive themselves

through thick clods of tar and cigarette ash --

on a dingy New York night between abandoned broken buildings

that force your vitality under shadowed beatings --

and thrust into your sweat-covered swollen ribs.

And you tolerate sickening swallows of those volatile fluids

rushing up your throat, drowning out fistfuls of

scratched cries of despair, and you can do nothing

but sit there and plead with God that, if he exists,

he'll obstruct the pain and leave your every-night-wounded body

to those shit-stained penny loafers

and the poor excuse of a man standing in them

who calls himself your dad.

Sort of Home

Listless in the crevices of

this once-upon-a-

lighter-day

heartward bound train we used

to call a sort of home,

we lay,

we listen to

clockwork ticks

measuring time passes

in this lapse of

better times before cracks in

grey walls

flicked aimlessly toward narrow

corners and

before we recognized

the lines unintended in this

sort of home

leaned into us like a heartward

bound train,

removed from its tracks,

following unmarked paths

leading to crevices filled

with listless girls and boys.

And the grey scale walls

fell into pools

of black and white sheet rock

rocking steady

touching each other heavy under

piles of un-intentions

blown in circles around our

sort of home we used

to crawl to when things like heartward

bound trains crashed

and collapsed beneath our feet,

before sets of spirals that

cranked together and ticked above

our heads reminded us

of lighter-day

fairy tales and unawake

better times in our lapses of days

before the cracks

showed in

"Once upon a time."

Plastic Overlays

In our not in-obvious

provocations,

lust-covered

and laced with unprepared junctions

of finger tip to cheek

bone and lip curves grazing

neck lines leaving soft trails of

anticipation,

are lackluster warm breaths we

continue to emit and

pretend to enjoy but hide our pretenses

with sweat drops

lightly lying under our

thin plastic overlays

rubbing against each other and

ripping fissures

and provoking unprepared

junctions.

Montagnes Creuses

Sans souhaite insipide, nous

buvons nos pensées de profonde

montagnes creuses et

regardons nos réflexions dans les

souffles brumeaux

passé.

Et trembler les

murs comme ils

ne parviennent pas à nous empêcher

de nous-mêmes parce

que nous voulons

la vérité

et oublions nos propres secouant

quand nos pensées

déversement de

nos montagnes creuses.

Transient Dark Skies

Rapidly clasping

liquid dreams,

slipping between interlaced fingers

and through uncovered

bends not embraced, you and

I hold together the pieces --

with raw, untouched skins --

of naive nights,

offer nearly bare brushes ensconced

by inklings of starlit splatter

scattered past

dust-feathered window

glass on

crisp contours neglected

before wondering heeds

wandered needlessly across uncovered

bends to

embrace untouched skins

beneath transient dark skies.

Emerald reflections of dew-

glazed grass blades

cast onto newfound passions die

under lacked light

crusted over with stinging silence while

barely near hushes

whisper unaffected rhythms,

surges of slow

heart beats

falling from crescendos glowing

dimly through uncovered

bends embraced

as we hold together the

pieces of this

naive night beneath

transient dark skies.

Consequences

The only real thought on my mind as of late, repeating on a sequence, is whether or not consequences are always this drawn out. About three weeks ago, I got into a shit load, so to speak. Well, I didn't really get into it willingly--not like it was some cute skirt I wanted to slip on and take for a night on the town; I was more or less cannoned into it--like a horrendous pair of polyester overalls with a butt flap, but no buttons to keep it up. And I wasn't alone; oh no -- they made sure that anyone involved in my little hiccup was to be punished. It was their number one goal, which shouldn't have come as a surprise, but for some reason, our recollection of their tendencies slipped from our memories.

I made a mistake. I recognize that. I am sorry for that. But I am nowhere near deserving of the ongoing punitive measures that they insist to pursue and dump on me in these, well, shit loads. Sure, "shit happens," as they say, but if that's the attitude we're supposed to take, then why can they not take it and portray it in an equal manner? "You're a leader," they say. "You need not a title to prove your worth," they say. "We want you to move on and up to show the rest of the school that you can turn this around and get back to where you were before this mistake." Well you see, I would, if it weren't for the fact that they prohibit me from merely placing my name on a ballot for leadership positions. My name! My name, for Christ's sake. "Well, we don't want someone like you in a leadership position here. We want people who can be good leaders." Um...

Well, anyway, contradictions aside. Oh, but hypocrisy? Well I'd love to discuss that. Yes, let's. How the hell am I supposed to be a leader without their approval? Titles honestly are not that big of a deal to me, but when they specifically tell me they don't want "someone like" me in a leading role here, that's a bit disconcerting. I mean they took my head prefect position for next year away; they took my house manager position from this year away; they put my on final notice (I'll explain that in a bit); I had two meetings with the headmaster; I now see a psychologist; I served a week of work detail, along with Saturday School; and the list goes on. Anyway. They tell me I messed up and yeah, I did, and I need not validate their statement with an attempt at recreating my fuck up with words, 'cause I've already done that far too much to handle. But when they don't take responsibility for the fact that they let plenty of the richest children here slip up without a consistent punishment regiment, it kinda pisses me off. If the parents donate thousands, they are more inclined to keep the precious kids here. Terrific, right? Not corrupt or avaricious in the slightest.

Lies are terrible and I truthfully am about honour, notwithstanding the lies I told in this little mess up. But aren't lies on the same level of dishonour as stealing? 'Cause I definitely thought they were. But according to the recent decisions made, I'd say some disagree with such an assumption. And hey, that's how the world works. You win some, you lose some. But if you've got connections and if there's money in it, you're much safer in the long run. I'm TERRIBLY sorry that my financial situation isn't equal to that of some of the other students here. And I couldn't more thoroughly regret the fact that my grandparents donate here, my mom donates here, my mom went here, I go here, and that I am (or was) considering sending my children here. It's not like the legacy says anything great about this place. No. It did, but for now, it says jack shit.

Too many times have others gotten away with murder and not been treated the way they have treated me lately. And that's no understatement whatsoever. I just wish they were capable of seeing that they are at fault as well with the choices they've made in the last couple of weeks. This place has changed. And it's changed for the worse.

Messy Dreams

Tripping over tangled

tongue ties and

fertile love lies,

as they lie between us

contoured with skin seams,

your messy dreams

allude to grey feelings

and long misleadings that,

in our subtle hesitation,

swim through sticky

tangled tongue ties.

And the love lies to us

with its lackluster shine,

false coat of gold,

it beguiles us finely.

Shane Koyczan and His Ingenuity

I have never been more impressed with a written work than I am with Shane Koyczan's The Crickets Have Arthritis. With his "slam monologue," for lack of a better phrase, Koyczan turns an otherwise potentially simple story into a poetic orgasm. At first glance, the title doesn't make much sense; even while reading or listening to the monologue, the title is seemingly irrelevant. But when he gets to the sixth paragraph, Koyczan reaches the "moral of the story" and conveys his view on life and the fairness of who experiences the miracles it provides. It's his portrayal to Louis, a nine-year-old boy dying of cancer, of the possibility of him receiving one of those rarities we call miracles.

"The truth is: there's not enough miracles to go around kid, and there's too many people petitioning God for the winning lotto ticket. And for every answered prayer, there's a cricket with arthritis, and the only reason we can't find answers is because the search party didn't invite us. And right now, Louis, the crickets have arthritis."

There's a sort of arthritic tone in Koyczan's voice when he expresses his empathy with Louis; the knots he swallows while trying to force out impossibly depressing words create an ailment to his ability to properly tell Louis he's not going to make it. But why would it ever be easy to tell a nine-year-old boy he's going to die? Notwithstanding, however, the devastating story of Louis dealing with cancer, Koyczan kills the negative mood with an inspiring attitude and a desperate need to force to reader to understand that we've got it good. Louis, at the age of nine, understands more about selflessness, the values of life, and the world as a whole than anyone I've ever known. He knows, with aid of a monster that wants to take his life, that his life is worth something and that every single thing he has is a reminder that whether or not he makes it, he's done everything possible in the time allotted to him.

And even if Louis is merely a fictitious character, his voice is louder than any I've heard. And through Koyczan's rhymes through the lines, he creates a flow, which is what Louis wants out of life. He wants more than anything a road without bumps, which is why he cherishes the smooth parts of his journey. He takes each bit for what it's worth and holds it tight to his soul.

Life is slightly on the uneventful side for the time being, so thinking about this piece was something to get my mind off my own lackluster life.

Feelings of Betrayal

We glide through crescendos,

upsurges of down-throws

through thick brick walls.

And the know-it-alls who reach for your throat

teach the audience all they need to know --

Had we kept our inside voices

and not sung 'til our words died,

we'd have followed conduct

and been given a reason to cry.

But the knots, now tied, keep

constricted our God-given right to

scream our dreams and

fight for our life.

"I'm on your side."

Heard five hundred times and

that twelve-letter phrase

is a dozen per dime.

The papers, intangible, are,

by our keepers, signed.

Now all that we have

is treason defined.

Ego Systems

Necessarily, we step down paths,

under overcast eyes,

through old-growth forfeits,

and to my surmise,

the ego systems outshine rationality,

dispute credibility, and

reject actuality.

Faces of judgment, unwilling

to forget, distill the impure components

and purge any regrets.

Apologies ricochet against the

walls of the skulls, and thoughts hang heavy

until threads break and forgiveness

is absent.

And the words seem worthless while they

slip from my mouth,

but your ears catch the meaning

and cradle the sounds.

Through recognition of resistance,

despite my fervent persistence,

I see the doubt of the crowd.

Follow the Leader

Guilt, as it stands,

Has grown on me,

Erupted through my epidermis

Like a blemish, an imperfection,

A tumor.

Benign, so they say,

And it's soon to go away,

After maybe a day,

Maybe two, or ten, or

However long it may take --

But what they say

(Let it be or as it may)

Builds onto this cancer

And it's tearing me down.

"Upside down," they warn,

Is how I should wear my frown.

As if their name is at stake.

Please excuse my unforgivable

Lack of empathy.

But don't forget that you're the ones

Who get tense with me

And act as if I'm too dense to see

Right through your ever-present

Transparency.

Let, however, the word be spread

That my contempt is frail

And my hope is dead.

But have no worries and

Retain no concern,

Because from what I can discern,

Your pity parties

Are tiresome and time-consuming;

The false apologies

And tears turned dry

Sink heavy on your faces

While you attempt to lie.

Try, next time, to see past the fault,

Bring your mirror with you.

You set the example

And we're all waiting to slip up again.

Follow the leader is my favourite game.