late notes after a full day and at least I don’t have gang green

was writing in the old notebook. should say new, ’cause it’s rather new, but it remains the ‘ol notebook, because it doesn’t start just with dates or the first page beneath the cover. good time is spent in bed reading and writing this way, after a long day. the longest days demand a lot from me. let no one say I don’t put a lot into what I do, even if it’s something as mundane as ironing out kinks in a printshop. it is more than that because they make it so. what a neurotic bunch demanding bunches of reassurances and for me to hold their hand for them, remind them every day they’ve left their coffee in the microwave so they can come make room for the food I put in for the lunch ritual. I learn that I can always write more. I learn that I, we, are always selling ourselves short, our true potential is poetic, something amazing, something a face lift and extreme makeover will never supply you.

let me tell you about a new cat in town, Panther. besides a few kinks, this thing makes my machine hum like a brand new engine exciting me like a little kid at xmas. but it is up to me what I do with it, with another tool. toolboxes and tools overflowing by the year 2003, not dreamed in 1983 while I was skating curbs at shopping centers nocturnal.

somene wrote “5 more reasons for sleep” or something like that. only one I can remember, which was the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles part ii. something like that. I am more into cats like lesbians are into cats – I have two. cats.

cannot hear through cell phone static what you’re trying to say but it sounds important. yes, this age is digital, but water still runs, keep your extension cords dry. staying alive serves me well if memory serves well and the rest of me serves well and I don’t dry up like a well. can’t tell. she writes, “fruit is the meat and trees are the medicine, and we are the free promised land children.” and I believe it. she is not pulling any fakeness.

there is smith mountain lake. I hear it is beautiful, but haven’t been. when, oh when? time on earth for a lot of things, you better go for the better things instead of discussing Jerry Springer topics like a broken record till the record player itself breaks, dismantles, lights itself on fire, burns more, burns for five minutes, burns till it reaches the fuel tank and explodes.

reincarnation is sensible enough but stings nonetheless. nothing easy about being born, but that memory is gone, for now, till next time, till the time comes. then we shall see all we have forgotten. I would like NOW with a child’s time on my hands. used to complain about school, at least I had whole summers off. of course I didn’t know what to do with myself, so there were prisons all about – the biggest one lacking self esteem and the inability to express myself, understand things on a deeper level, developing vital awareness of the universe to be alive. this came through a tough leather of years. this came through the trials. this came with miles. this vehicle, mind, time and space, opportunity, freedom if you seek it if you are intelligent not just pledge blind allegiance to it.

her poem went, “hasn’t it ever occurred to you that I have my own Jesus?” and won first prize tonight’s slam. that is that.

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second cup of tea

sore eyes
what is working
what is
half working
what is exhausted
collapses

finding
the first
cup doesn’t
work
finding
myself on
the phone
in the morning
now on
the writing
plane
sketching out
facts and figures
chest pains
from
over-usage
the way
an engine
is burned
out

kefir is
definitely
out of the question
I can set my
watch to it
if I drink it
sure enough
I’m not going to
be able to
breathe
in the next couple
of hours.

and there are
all kinds of
computer
problems
because I
am rash
and well
two months
of writing
have
accidentally
gone out the window
so I suppose
I’m upset
over that, too.

distressed
because
I can’t fucking
breathe
each breath
becomes
gold
godly
I clench my
fists
and scream
in my mind
till the
lead paint peels

I’m fighting
not
to be
violent
everyone
else is
sleeping
waiting
for presents
to fill
their stockings
I’m just cussing
throwing
trash on the floor

forced awake in the middle of the night…

forced awake in the middle of the night because I find in the dream world and the lying in bed world myself full of wheezing and in fact this is light weight actually allergies to dandelions

now I don’t have a name to put
on anything any more
except
fucked
is sounding
good
right about
now
I could
say
kefir
is in large
part
not working
out for me
all the
solid objects
in the world
run from me
lest
you seek
to have
yourselves
punched
full of holes

I would pay a high price for some rest. it seems every time I turn around I’m being pulled in opposite directions. this cup of tea is my only friend in the world right now, is the way I think, is the way I have to think, yes, the way a drowning man can only hope for one thing, the surface world, the oxygen of land, or the birth of gills. if I am here, if you want me here so bad, make me a fish! I will swim passionate punches and sing to a full train car of insane people.

basketball, basket cases
battered – I don’t know
what I was dreaming
before I woke up
battled
nailed down boards
over the windows
to deter the high winds

in California
fires
jump from house to house
you don’t
need me
to tell you!
but it’s that one
across the street
that survives
unscathed

I am an in between house
burnt but not burnt
fully to the ground

so I am going to turn
my instant messages
off for awhile
that will just
be my way of seeking
rest
to make a vow of silence
even with
fingertips

writing journal entries
is something different
it is still directed at
myself after all

henry miller said –
I am not writing for an audience
but insane people
writing to kill readers and
book publishers

I’m sure he went through
a lot of frustration in his day
getting his stuff to print
and dealing with
the industry and its phoniness

I love to read
these days are madness to me
people keep asking how I’m doing
it is a pain to hear from someone the truth like, well, I’m not doing very well, and it is a pain to keep saying it. so much of it is a pain if you feel like hell but you have to keep getting up and getting up every morning at the same exact time in order to get out the door, get into work with hair put in order the way they want it, clean shaven, mumbles taken out of the mouth like an old woman removes her dentures at night.

is there a name for what is wrong with me? is it a list of things? is there a name, can it be uttered, or shall parents have to re-teach their children the alphabet? I used to call these wheezing nights asthma nights, the doctor says they are mere allergies. my eyes have begun to sting, then water. I had to put the Sandman down and turn in. this brief dreaming before I had to rise again muttering all kinds of fire. the pumpkins are already rotten and smelling on the front doorstep, and I just let them do their thing. three weeks before Halloween is too early, but they were given to me, so what could I do but accept them as gifts and watch them turn to mush before chance to carving them, lighting them up so shapes would glow out like they always have.

I want to have time again to read novels – I just have too much going on. it is really hard to figure out why I still insist on this being my favorite time of year, probably because of halloween and my affinity for it, but they keep saying Christmas comes earlier and earlier, which is something they need to get right before I re-steer rental cars through store front windows because I’m feeling so fucking festive!

quick notes

not in an overall good mood with a stomach ache and general pains caused by life and those opposed to it. but that’s just me. I’m sure there are some people out there doing all right and who are being productive. my school projects can force me to panic because they’re so involved and I can’t take much more outside of work and everything else. I feel overwhelmed and freaked out by life. maybe it is kind of a relief being old, knowing for sure you have just a couple more years left. as of now I’m tormented knowing I have so many years left of struggle, and I’m not its patriot.

yesterday I was thinking maybe I could use November’s National Novel writing month as an excuse to write my own book, whether it be fiction or not – but I realize I just have too much going on to add something else like that. and it’s a shame, because I pride myself on being a writer.

I find all these other
things in the way

day gloom

set clocks back
actually,
I kinda like that.

day bloom
I have
good intentions

others wanna
take advantage
capitalize
because
it just
“works for them”

“capitalism works!”

works as in
it exists!
but does not
work for everyone

and that is that

evening

waking up. I’ve said drastic things. that I’ve fallen from the sky, from a plane, and survived. survived how? well, things are broken, but never mind. complain all the small things out of your mouth. the doctor may spot something just in time. as I am hoping with mine. the new meds are fucking me up – how will I live a new life? more bedridden? how will they move a bed into the office? they would sooner move me out. if I were to tell them… gasps. warm bodies. able bodies. the cold makes a guessing game of me. eating vegetarian chili wondering how conscious they were to give me vegetarian medicine.

4 pills a day keeps the doctor away, at least for another month. 4 pills a day, my stomach glows and aches so that when food reaches it, it hurts even more. never had that happen. (after this bottle, if my leg is still aching, they’ll have to put it on a block! whatever that means. this bottle of rattling pills is a time bomb, rattles like a snake, bites, bites like a hungry snake.)

the king
and his subjects.

an idea. a subject.

subjugate.

loyal subjects.

boring subjects.

studying a subject for school.

father asks his daughter, what’s her favorite subject.
she answers, English.

—-

film deteriorates, I hear. vanishes. deaths.
what’s the name again? – there is a film
about the death of film. hearing about it
on NPR. iPods and NPR form a solid army.

—-

I am onto volume 4 of Sandman. school is going well, though exhausting. last night I had my first portfolio review, scoring a B+, which I think is pretty good for me. my first class in ten years. she says I will do well in this field (I just want to do well, period, but I know what she means).

our microwave died in mid-cook last night and has decided not to come back. casey is kinding me lemon drops. I’m looking fwd to going back to bed. I can read there and just chill out. I need much rest.

need advice on how to remove a master drive from my G4 tower. anyone? the angle in which it is mounted, a typical screwdriver cannot reach. what are the proper tools?

fragments and particles

hello. your name?
color. full color.
this evening drove
up and down the roads.
bad news came.

small ticks. small ticks biting me.
small ticks biting me and
giving me lyme disease.
doctors calling and leaving
these small messages in my voice mail.
hey guess what, you have
freakin’ lyme disease
small panics.
small calm downs.
small panics.
lie in bed
thoughts.

the future holds unknown data. I will transform more into a mental/spiritual being than a physical being. the physical will wash away. this reality is smacking me around. I have zero control over it.

still managed to sleep a full night’s rest, thanks to these meds. small thoughts on what the future holds, a little worried about what’s going to happen to my legs. upset that I can’t skate any more, or even run. can barely walk around in a grocery store, have to use the cart to brace myself.

constant interruptions here in the work place even during my lunch break. they come in right in the middle and request more assistance. I’m starting up annoyance like I’m pulling the cord to start up a lawnmower. the interruptions distract, postpone, or obliterate the journal entry.

pens:

1.
having a terrible time
I don’t know about you
at least it is Tuesday

2.
we sit in Subway
I pull out a pen and
write on a sweepstakes card:
“what a day. today they diagnosed…
pray big for me.”
and I put the card
back in the box

3.
keep losing pens
losing patience
losing sleep and breath
and they ask
in conversation
how I am doing

4.
I pen in reply
“I think I am done
writing for
devotee based magazines”
don’t feel bad about it
I don’t want to offend
or come off like
I have a bloated ego.
it’s just that some movements…
are too international.

5.
pry a pen from my hand
if you think you can do it.
please leave me be…

6.
printing, offices, digital
meetings, chairs,
lunches, phone calls,
florescent lights,
hand shakes, thank you’s
goodmorning’s
what is more
what is more?
what is bored all the way
to the bank?

strange day, twisted. a mortal day. I will write more later.
late. upset. reading in bed. trying to make life decent enough
worth living. is this possible?
small things matter, especially as you go along.
various moods and strengths. concerns.
serious matters.
good night.

after saying nothing, I can talk about how today went, and that was pretty much nowhere but to continue working on my art project, and run a few groceries through the line, pick up a Sandman, and head back home. watched that movie the edge with Anthony Hopkins during. really liked it. did not read much today. um, did not read anything. been listening to music, the new RZA album and a little Noam Chomsky. my head is blank as blank can get. I am completely sore from dotting white ink over and over, assigning so many different textures. the pains shooting through my arms as I write this assign their own textures to my day. I have to step back and see the value. was able to return to the Thursday night poetry readings, and I guess I did well, considering I was running a fever and was starving. they gave me a warm welcome after having missed the last couple of weeks. it feels good to read meek journal entries and maybe it will encourage others to do the same.

time spaces continuous no sound no sound get your movies straight

inclines
declines
light
sound
moving
movement
sentient
typing
patters
on the keyboard
hoping you’re okay
well beyond
just okay
non-dairy
non-dairy queen
how is it
you get to
be mean?
you pay
later
so your
priviledge
is pretend
we’re small
gods
for instance
can click
the right mouse
button
to copy and
paste
we effect
small and
large things
knowing, not knowing

light bounces off skin

black holes: there are some
stars containing
such intense gravity
light cannot escape them
thus there
are many stars
we do not see

eye strain

bite off
more than
you can chew

if you chant mantras
or meditate
best way
through it
is love and devotion
who do
you have
love for?

try to wrap up
hurt feelings
this is the
hardest world
to live in

vague
platinum
plant life
sort by use of folders
medium
a grain
spotted
blotted
dotted

sound of your name
the old times
more and more getting old
remember all those trips?
temples
I think we nodded yes too much
of course we were
being polite
but it was our lives on the line
well it was well worth it outside the norm
though pains go with it

that is rise and fall
we think we are
so significant

prepare new avenues

I contain
intense gravity
I will remain quiet
and strike
on a beautiful day

sayings

there’s a saying that the tree that survives a forest fire is now the tallest tree in the forest.
sometimes I feel like I’m getting that kind of credit. burnt credit. not earned credit.

of course I’m the computer guru, the computer genius, if I’m in a room full of people who can barely find the power button.

spent much of today
feeling out of place
thinking if maybe I should
be somewhere completely different
these are luxurious questions
in the sense that I have
just enough time to think them
October doesn’t seem to want to give me that
it’s okay – I’ll just have to accept it
fight for the bread
fill the stomach
okay,
enough
with the jargon

time to
sit down
and get
centered,
as they
say

ending in letters

this is definitely halloween weather. high winds tonight. I should know. woke to the neighbors banging the front door down all to hell. turns out gigantic branches have fallen and crushed my car. well, not the entire thing. the back area, the top of the trunk. it is one of those October nights, dark and windy, to tell ghost stories to, but hope nothing unfortunate happens for real. I am thinking of car insurance and working on my art project. Edgar Allen Poe stories are playing in the background one after the other, the Raven, the Black Cat, the tell-tale heart…

I think this weekend I will do some jack-o-lantern carving and read more Sandman. the current issue I’m reading is all about cats. Sandman, being a god, can assume many different forms, so in this case he appears as a cat. how freakin’ cool! Neil Gaiman is one of my new heros.

I’ve had a bad past couple of halloweens. it’s a shame ’cause it’s my favorite holiday and I want to do it up a bit. it’s kind of hard when you’re my age, however, and you don’t have kids or too many people to hang out with. this results in merely reading scary stories, watching something halloween oriented, or walking around the neighborhood watching others. one year I went out taking pictures. not too eventful, but it still has such a cool feeling to it. I think in the next few days I will indulge in telling a few small time October stories.

Dear Nighttime,
please be at least half-way kind to me. I’m trying to read. I’m trying to write something, could stand to go without interruptions. then I would like to read. please allow me to hold my eyes up. which leads me to switching this up…

Dear Eyes,
please hold up for a bit tonight, I’ve got a little reading I’d like to do before I go to bed. don’t feel strained so much that I’ll start complaining.

Dear friend that called me on the phone Saturday/Sunday(?),
sorry for not being around to pick up. I was, anyway, going through some stuff and wouldn’t have been much for conversation anyway. you know about those days, right? this whole emotional thing, man.

Dear Emotions,
try not to get yourselves in such an uproar. I swear! this is a complicated, intricate world! so easily you allow yourselves to become offended and your defenses are terrible. quick to return fire. no good, no good!

Dear Old Times,
you cannot come back again, but I like thinking of you. keep up the good work! how is it I have fond memories of even the hard times? I find this baffling and quite fascinating.

Dear LJ Entries,
I’m looking back on old versions of you, out of curiosity. what is prominent in my mind is that I try to be somewhat consistent and write every day. you old entries, some of you have been quite short. still, you’re there. you belong to me, I wrote you. but you don’t. you’re separate from me, shot out, and you’re on your own. sometimes when someone asks me what was meant in you years back, I cannot explain the obscure meaning. that is how you maintain your own life, and also, someone may read you in a different light altogether and you become theirs. this is wonderful the way you blend into the landscape. goodnight!

musicals

strange dream, I won a swimming competition and was awarded free movie tickets to see a new Eddie Murphy movie, but it was only showing in Disney World. I kept wondering through the dream if plane tickets were included. what is this dream telling me? most of the deals out there are their deals, not mine. what appears to be advantageous to me only lines someone else’s pockets. other day I was scammed by a phone guy on insurance for my new bank card, and I just let it go because he said I’d get the paper work in the snail and I could cancel it then if I didn’t like it. nevermind the hassle of canceling later, being put on hold, trying to get through to them while I’m juggling things at work, or pushing it off on Casey. our time is so valuable.

I’m also asking myself how much heart do I put into things – if mostly I’m just moving along to get by. this gets back to the Buddhist concept that one must live NOW. most of us aren’t. we’re meditating on the next thing. we get to the next thing and we’re meditating on the next thing. the carrot moves forward. the donkey doesn’t get that carrot. do typos signify lack of heart? the way you put your pencil down signifies something. the way you drink water. what if we were to dance around during the day like in musicals? would we be happier, more creative, more well balanced? I think we would. so I think of ways that I can dance without someone noticing, without the attention drawn to me.

balancing various work tasks, prioritizing what I think should come next. and I have started chanting HK mantras, just lightly, though I don’t know why I am telling you. an ISKCON approach has left me long ago. but there is something. I don’t know what it is. some kind of calling. the value of chanting or prayer, of song… is calling out to me. I continue to blame long work hours. if they were shortened I would have more clarity.

I have become fed up with so much. a friend mentioned that in my Sep. 14, 2001 entry I sounded so angry. it’s true I was in a different time and place then, but this is still a part of my current make-up and I don’t suffocate or discourage it. but I have an inkling also this may be a sign that I need to see more, get out in the world more, travel. being cooped up in offices is probably not all that good for my constitution. these business people love it. I don’t get it. and they’re so difficult to talk to! vicious.

tuesday, bored. lightning and thunder. poems if I’m not careful. milligrams. CCs. let’s get this guy some milligrams! let’s get this guy some CCs. blah. blah.

writing sessions

1.
she comes into the front counter: “I’m about to kill myself. can you make it so I don’t?!” real pushy woman. she’s got her messed up Microsoft Publisher document, and she’s all frazzled – continues to ask me if I’m going to save her life.

imaginary: woman, get this. are you going to save mine? it’s been a long day, and probably a good one to die. I doubt you wanna place your life in my hands. I’d sooner drop it to the floor to reach for some Kleenex. I don’t understand people like you. you wait last minute and come in all in a panicked and expect us to deal with it. you rich and well off sure like to dump a lot of trash! why are you bringing that to me?

2.
I shift from room to room, wash dishes, pick up a few things. I guess I’m waiting for day to start. lazy sunday is making me lazy and I feel like I don’t have a thing on earth to write – which is killing me. of course this is momentary, and as I watch this paragraph form before my eyes, I start to feel better. ’twas a rough week last week. just stressed out and all kinds of things going wrong. it was good after all of that to sit down in meditation yesterday and let everything just fade away, or for my mind’s grasping to slacken up a bit.

I don’t know, it is boring around here, or I am boring. it could be either one. at least the sun is out. come winter, these are the kinds of days we kill for when we get cabin fever and can only take walks for ten minutes at a time.

dream worlds and memories are vast. some come back to haunt; especially haunt when sense cannot be made and there is information overload. my head is blank this morning, but I feel I’ve pushed something down into my subconscious which I chose not to face and I’m feeling hints of it. ghosts. it could just be that I’ve procrastinated studying all weekend and I have much work ahead of me which I find intimidating.

it is strange in this town living here with virtually no close friends, practically no one to talk to on a serious level. the people I work with are like children and can’t even do their own jobs adequately, what to speak of speak dreams and ghosts and authors and verses.

3.
writers I now feel far away from, Henry Miller, Dostoevsky, Tolstoy, James Baldwin, SDG, Thoreau… this woman sat in my office and told me this thing I’m in is fast becoming rote, and I agreed with her. “not satisfying you deep down.” you’re right, you’re right. I guess we all have our highs and lows. these are low times kinds that add lines. these writers I hold so high in my mind to predict weather deep down disappointments with people and this world. if I don’t work it right I may never hold Brothers Karamazov in my hands again, or Crime and Punishment, any of it. how much went over my head in Tropic of Cancer (was he in his when he wrote it?)!

4.
notes to
shake you till
your kafka mirrors
rattle
and we
bring back
halloween
to full esteem
let us get
things
in proper
running
order again

5.
2 cats making me laugh
headache causing lapse
eyes closed inducing naps
soothe saying
tooth and the roof
of your mouth saying crap
and the lies of your eyes say it all
running laps
high blood pressure inviting collapse

6.
blood tides rise high
what does this bring you
“I’m gonna tell on you”
little kids
book wish lists
beat poems
beat street, king of the beat
beat downs
haul off slug fests
summer music fests
midsummer’s dream
letting off steam

7.
come on
sat as a statue man
stomach rumbles
that is stone cracking
the audience laughing
the audience going home
throwing garbage, they
actually brought tomatoes with them
these are people
who love their groceries
but hate those who try
come on one just one of you
try and get up on stage and see
what it’s like, you’d rather die

8.
all saturday requirements
have been met
yours?
I’m writing and
it don’t matter what
he says so much
that he trusts his gut
we see so much
this guy
doesn’t know
what the hell he’s doing
can’t even remember
people’s names right
or anything when these
things are quite important
so this frustrates us but
there is nothing that
can be said but to turn
the blame back around on
him in the end: now is that right?

9.
rumbles, rubbles, barney rubbles, many of them, troubles, so many troubles, doctor said back of my throat looks like a cobble stoned street. you’ve seen old city streets, haven’t you? yes, I’m from Georgetown, and I get sore throats.

10.
back hurts, too. believe it blue. hello on this postcard, you get me standing here in this picture washing windows. it is important not to run out of gas and to see straight. bug guts be gone. rule 2: don’t fight in the car, especially on road trips. do not be one of those bad mood drivers. rule 3: know where you are going so that you don’t have to look down constantly at crumpled directions and wreck your shit up into crumpled tin-foil. rules, so many rules to drive to. better turn on music, too.

mother’s panic

the new journal template is set up. check it out!

last year I started writing novel, though I never followed through. this may or may not be of interest. here we go…

Chapter 6
Mother’s Panic

They were free to die like that, screaming their goddamn heads off with no one to save them. No one willing.

One day, growing up, he saw a spider as big as the front foyer window of his parent’s house. By now he was unable to discern if it was a dream or a part of his horrors in waking life. He put it out of his head, hoping he would never see anything like that ever again.

How could a boy grow up without a father, she would ask him, referring to his friend down the street. David was raised by three women – his mother, his aunt, and his grandmother. “You’re lucky, Graham” his mother said, “that you have a father. Every boy needs a male figure in his life.”

He walked through all the damage, parched, worried about what he was to become. He dried his tears the best he knew how, and hardened himself to hide the fear. He grew up with only a few friends, kids he could joke around with, and ride bikes and join in rock throwing wars with around the neighborhood, and yet still feel superior to, something he could not explain in the rare times he felt aware. Poor grades and an awkward shyness would make him an outcast all throughout the grades.
David had consumed himself in channel box games and what appeared to be self taught martial arts. Graham was interested.

They became friends ordering stuff out of comic books, all of the standard ninja paraphernalia: throwing stars, tree climbing spikes, everything. Although Graham’s grades were poor, because he couldn’t see a point in what they were teaching and was much more interested in skateboarding, television, ancient fighting techniques, and comics, he managed to pass every year.

It was always the humiliation that had got to him, the fights, the empty blows, and the not so empty blows. These were the days of social fighting. Later this occurred to David more clearly; in the inner cities it was about spilling blood. Here, crowds took sides more quickly. It was about building up the winner’s ego, so in that case, there was always a winner – even if a fight was broken up early. Lose traction and slip on the hill, you lost that fight. If one kid swung at the other, as long as it was violent and graceful and like something they’d seen before, even if it missed his face completely, or any other body part for that matter, he was deemed the victor for the roaring crowds and he would be remembered for many weeks as a hero.

Of course this was a drag. After all, he only wanted to stay at home, especially after “beat downs.” If this keeps up, David thought, I don’t know. I don’t know what I’ll do.
Graham knew. He watched David, who came out on top in the end, training himself to become a full fledged ninja. No one could say any different, because who there, besides the two of them, knew about these wars from the orient and how those days had passed for real?

On the hot nights of summer, someone dressed all in black would climb through these windows and beat these bratty neighborhood kids to a pulp right in their own beds. Sometimes the two boys would join together and smack up the sides of their houses with tomatoes, or even paint bombs (glass Christmas tree ornaments filled with house paint, a vast array of bright yellows).

“My God!!! Oh my God!!!” Graham’s mother screamed from down the hall, absolutely panicked. One hour, then one half of an hour came chopping along, and it was spiders. Many of the little bastards. Everyone screamed so damn loud, dogs began to bark, and then cower from these eight legged beasts. Military men missed the opportunity for this one a long time ago. They weren’t going to miss it this time. Helicopters flew over dropping tear gas and other poisons causing girlfriends to pass out and boyfriends to forget it all, if just for the rest of this chopped hour. Whatever the spiders were here for, more ninja training was required. David, however, was no where to be found, in fact ever again from that day forward. Within minutes this was blamed on him, as if the devilish heaps of bodies piling up were a formation of his revenge. Mother’s began screaming out from top floors, “Kill the Davids! Get out there everyone, and kill the Davids!” And who knew how long it would last? One half of Graham wanted to go out there and partake in the blood fest, but what if that really was David, what if he were to go out and kill his friend with an axe down into the sidewalk? Unbearable thoughts crossed over like a year’s worth of leeches. The tirade of Davids broke not so gracefully. In the end, the town had vacated and only old folks would decide to retire there, after long periods of deliberation and bravery. David had succeeded in having the joint named after him. A maxim graced the 20 mile marker: “Soon Entering World’s Famous DAVIDSVILLE. 20 miles. ENTER AT YOUR OWN RISK.”

Graham wound up moving away soon enough to fly a few planes and date a few college cheerleaders, activities of the like which will not be permitted for discussion, for the time being. Hay days and lead based paint on the walls, perfumed women consumed up all the beauty products and glazed doughnuts at tremendous speeds, concerning no one else, thank you, thank you very much for keeping your face out it. Question any of it, and you get a drumstick in your eye. Erased was Graham’s poor, sad old memory of a social fight with, yes, a girl of the same age. She bitched at him all the time like one who had yet to find a boyfriend, screaming at him, calling him names in front of everyone and raising a whirlwind of a stink all about. Verbally, his shy speech betrayed him, and he remained quiet, abused like water dumped on a cat with nowhere left to go.

A fine bus ride home had her in a good mood and screaming at him as usual. When it was his time to get off, she grabbed the back of his shirt, pulling him off balance, and started flailing her nails at him and sending the rest of them into absolute hysterics. He fell on top of her, raising not one fist to her. Everyone by now was rolling in the aisle. On top of him flailing away like a true red head, she spat and cursed the gentle boy out until the driver had come to drag her off. It was the social fight of all time, and he was the loser. How would he manage to show his face to the citizens of planet Earth ever again. He had the spiders to thank, who, on the day deemed “Mother’s Panic,” had choose this poor girl among many, and lopped off her head. It was a fancy feast.
From the 8th grade onward, Graham took advantage of low numbered classrooms and closer, personal attention from his teachers, who would all the time tell him how special he was. If only these things were true, he thought. He did not realize himself, at first, in the midst of those tirades as a repellent human being, but it was true. All the monsters appeared to dart around him, at a speed almost as if through him, unharmed. This was the closest thing to being the witch of the town, but without enough people to form lynch mobs. So on second thought, he was special, and had a set of smooth, flowing days upon him, eating fresh corn. Enjoying the ghost town life was too good to be true. David’s violence had freed him from his own. He was a free man.

Gearing up for a new year, Gwendolyn caught his eye. Finally he began throwing paper at her and started up a friendship. Dances were starting up, and he didn’t mind. So he asked her around to them, to which she accepted, and wore high school dance type dresses. Only this year he could really let loose and be himself, because all the humiliation was behind him. Those that did have the guts to remember even the greatest of social fights, then without choice were forced to remember the true devastation of spiders that had the faculties in an uproar. Posters adorning the luncheon walls, arachnid beasts, emblazed with the words “We Will Never Forget.” You know, Quark Xpress junk like that.

A similar red head would split them apart, however, hissing and threatening, and hauling off on Gwen as if she had ripped a tear in the space time fabric and left the kitchen sink full of dishes since the following Tuesday.

“You will have to do the goddamn fucking dishes yourself you bitch,” Gwen often spit back. “I’m not going on no goddamn fucking talk show.”

“Wonderful,” said Graham, laughing in a quick breath. “We’ve got real military type wars in the world, a threatened ozone layer with all kind of holes up in it, freakin’ crop circles showing up out the yin yang – and you two act like it would be more fun killing each other than to stick around and enjoy it. Well I know I’m old when I have to keep reminding everyone they’ve got a true veteran alive and well standing right in front of them.”

Rolling their eyes, as if to say, “This. This again.”
“I know, right?” he laughed, “These veterans are all the same. Give ‘em a few streets of spiders to survive and they get all high and mighty on you. These proud bastards are all the same, right?”

They just stood there and looked at him, not knowing. This was taught as un-knowing, un-knowingly the subject appears depressed but we cannot accurately ascertain the man and his soul on the inside and fit his essence in a form’s check box. Un-knowingly, the filed complaint must be summarized in simplex terms to the best of one’s ability.