A Different Story

I've always been filled with the urge to become an eco-terrorist. Was I alone on this one? To just live in hammocks, high up in the canopy, spiking trees, and cutting the fuel lines of bulldozers? Steal the explosives that rip apart the unique American terrain and use them to destroy the constructs that dry it up? Dismantle the surveyor's markings and hide my tracks in the moonlight? ...Hayduke would have been with me.
     So would have Hawkins.
     He was always with me for anything.
     Don't get me wrong on this one. The kid was a great friend and I would have protected him to both of our deaths. That was the problem. No matter how either of us felt, we were side by side.
     I guess that's really why we ended up together. Here.
     We had plotted it for some time. We had prepared, planned, prepped, even got down to physical training so we could outrun our adversaries if the incident arose. Neither of us had been quick enough for what we ended up dealing with.
     We were together, living in the beautiful and majestic American southwest. We grew tired of the atrocities that we saw impact the landscape that had been cultivated over eons and had just started to discuss doing something about it. We even followed Abbey's Monkey Wrench Gang and started to plant strategic caches and plot out attacks against key points in the terrain.
     Honestly, most of it was just a loud, drunken chaos of he and I yelling at each other over the music at whatever bar we had picked out that evening. Aside from the caches and our newly acquired desire to exercise, each night after we had worked out, anyone in our town could find us at the bar. The cops in town had even grown akin to shouting at us from their patrol cars as we harassed the college students for never working for their keep.
     This was our regular routine.
     Until that night. That night where we finally left to enact one of our plans.
     It was a small one.  They had been building a new road up the side of the mountain. It would connect a suburb to the tiny downtown hub where we lived. A connection, though, that would change the economy and allow for a new mining industry to grow that had been started near the suburb. We were on our way to just pull out the surveyor's markings when we ran into him.
     He was our town's newest criminal. A serial rapist. His picture had just been posted about town earlier that week. That's not to say the situation wasn't a dead giveaway. He was on top of his newest victim.
     Hawkins ran up on him. I knew it wouldn't go well, he was a small framed man. He was definitely a scrapper but no match for the bastard, twice his size, that he ran towards. Nonetheless, Hawkins caught him off guard and kicked him right in his chest.
     He fell of of the poor woman with an exhale of air.
     It didn't take him long before he pounced from the ground on top of Hawkins and started to pummel him in the chest.
     I felt for my knife on my hip. I had never used it before for anything but just skinning animals so as soon as I touched it, my conscience told me to leave it rest. I ran in and tackled the bastard into a puddle in the alley.
     He and I were evenly matched. Same size. Same build. I think the difference that mattered was that I had grown up with an older brother, and Chuck liked to pick fights with me.
     He swung at me. One. Two. Three times. The first and last connected with either side of my jaw. Luckily, that had always been Chuck's favorite move in a fight.
     I shrugged off the blows like they were mere glances of a dagger against my iron shield and came in on top of him. My hands were clenched together and came down on his nose with the meat of my palms. I knew immediately that I had entirely separated his nose from his face as blood spurted all over my pants.
     His surge of adrenaline must have kicked in as he tossed me away like a doll. I hit the ground on the opposite side of the alley and my head bashed against the back door of a pizzeria.
     As he came running at me, Hawkins came in for a tackle like he was the game-winning linebacker and stole the bastards breath from him again. Hawkins stayed on top of him this time.
     Hawkins had found a sizable rock in the alley and began to use it as a fist pack.
     I joined in with swift kicks to the rib cage from my steel toed boots.
     We would have him now. We would pummel the life out of the bastard and he would go to jail to receive the same he had felt so righteous about doling out in the months prior to our midnight rendezvous.
     After a moment, Hawkins stood up and joined me. The fight had turned into a right proper romp. We made blood blisters of waffle iron markings in his forehead as our Doc Martens stomped down on his face. It was after that blissful moment of blood and boots that I kicked him in the ass and he flipped onto his hands and knees.
     I'm still not sure how he did it but he survived the beating with enough wits about him to scamper into the bushes on his hands and knees. The only thing I can surmise now is that it was the red and blue lights that flickered down the alley that had scared the pathetic excuse for a man off and into the darkness that shrouded the bushes.
     The cops came in on us fast. From both sides of the alley too. We were trapped. Not worried.
     The first cop jumped out and cuffed us immediately.
     We had been expecting as much. To go to jail as the two guys that kicked the ass of the serial rapist, that was something we had been willing to do. The ideals of our eco-terrorism had been long forgotten as we sat in the back of the squad car and waited for the cop to pop in and ask us how it felt to be the first people to pummel that bastard's face.
     When he finally came in, we couldn't believe our ears.
     "You two are under arrest for the rape and murder of this poor bitch in the body bag right over there. What the fuck do you two bastards have to say for yourselves?"
     We were too worried and dumbfounded to even say a word. So he carted us off to jail as the real bastard probably laughed at us from the bushes he had hidden behind.
     I'll make a really long story shorter. We ended up with a public attorney. The swine didn't do us a lick of good. He was caught up in the same hype we had been that night that we attacked the bastard and assumed we were just a couple more low lives that drifted in to ruin his hometown.
     He did absolutely nothing to help us and everything he could to convict us. The blood on my pants was turned into the remnants of my befouling of that poor young woman and Hawkins' bruises in his chest had been inflicted upon him as the woman fought back against his restraining arms.
     A week later, while the trial was still going on, the bastard's body turned up dead in the bushes he had crawled towards. We were charged with his murder and stories were concocted of how we had actually started a raping gang and he had threatened to turn us in and we tried to frame him on that night.
     Now we sit in prison. Our faces smashed against the bars. I day dream of our caches and plans to destroy corporate America's controls on the beautiful backcountry destinations that had been sworn to being protection areas. Hawkins dreaming of 100 proof whiskeys and craft beers. Neither of us regretting killing that bastard ass rapist that never had a chance to do it again.

Monsoon Season

The cliffs are painted
     with the thousand shades of red
     that dance within a campfire.
Their climbs protrude from
     the fresh green junipers,
     sage brushes and grasses,
     like red waves over a green sea.
The hawks circle in the sky
     like gulls above the ocean,
     motionless and waiting for their chance.
In the distance,
     the clouds are gray,
     a dark, smokey shade,
     they drop their waters
     and hide the red waves behind them.
The desert is not arid and lifeless this year.
It breathes with the life of the ocean
     and endures its scars.

Divided

Divide your time between work and life.
What's the difference?
Every day is one step closer.
Like the glow on the floor,
Cracked through an open blind,
It all has to fade away.
The same song on repeat
you find new meaning each time it plays.

Naknek, AK

I know I don't post too often but for the next 6-8 weeks I will be working in a remote village in Alaska. I will be cut off from the world and won't be able to post in that time. I'll be back soon.

The Figure Part 1

He ran across the hotel's lobby floor shouting at me. I was in no mood for whatever gamble this kid had concocted in my short absence. I had just arrived in town from a cross country flight, California to Maine. Maine?
Why the fuck, Maine?!
Fucking politics.
The dismal varicose veins of roadways spattered across America's soil had me in no mood for anything Duke was about to bring up to me.
"Sir!" He ran up to me, his voice high and loud. Very loud. Far too much cheer in that tone he had going too. The kind of tone that was enough to choke a man on his own whiskey. His hubris all stemmed from a low-rent county fair, it was just opposite the city from our hotel.
Shit.
In my childhood, this news would have excited me. My teenage hormones would have hit me with a hard on so stiff that I'd have found a half decent chick to bone all week long. Now, however, in the paramount of my writing career, and my mid-thirties, my brain turned strictly to cocaine, maybe even heroin, and the crazed story that would come from buying the drugs. Every one of the people I would buy from were the twisted personalities that erected the cavalcade of steel rails and rigged games that attracted all the local mouth breathers to what was pathetically dubbed the 'county fair'.
"You can go for your cotton candy and force fried foods deep into your gullet. I'm going for the story." I revealed a cigarette from my coat and promptly lit it as he reminded me of my publisher's commands to keep this young lawyer behind me at all times. Good damned logistics. I dragged my cigarette and swilled my lukewarm beer, "very well then, don't piss your pants, boy, because its time for you to grow the fuck up and I ain't about to hold your hand."
We hopped into the convertible Duke had conned out of the rental shack near the airport. He wasn't bad for a rookie lawyer but I could tell he and I were about to pop every damned cherry in one night. I sped off from the hotel parking lot and hopped a curb as I pulled two bones out of my hat. I smacked my lips down on one and through the wind that rushed down into the front seat, I lit it up with a crack of my Zippo. I held one out for the boy to snag, "you smoke any of this shit while you were in college?" Of course I didn't give him time to respond. I just snapped the lit on out of my mouth and tossed it into has lap, "smoke it or get your suit burned, you make the choice."
Who the fuck really knows why the publishers assigned this boy to me. Probably some kind of demented hazing they had been planning for their next new lawyer. They took a good man from my life, someone I'd considered a sidekick. A real lawyer, a true man. They fired him after he messed up an incident with a sweet and sexy publicist I'd chose to include in a story I had written up for small time publication while I lived in the Florida Keys. Apparently she wasn't too pleased that I had not refrained from changing her name, for artistic purposes, really.
The fair was exactly what I had expected it to be; the fattest men and women, children with high blood pressure and diabetes, and people so lazy they were abandoned all day in front of the same forsaken funnel-cake stand. The putrid smell of the fair gagged me as deep inside, that teenager wanted to come rushing out and find myself some strange lady to desperately try to impress as I regale them with made-up stories of war from my time spent in the military. I was a foolish little piece of shit. I looked behind me, Duke was following me like a drunk chicken, and swayed side to side each time we would have to stop in the crowd. I had all ready smoked the brains from his head and whiskey from the driver over really soaked into his blood stream.
My hound dog nose went right to work. Would it be PCP, cocaine? China white? The thought of what I could find was an easy distracting from the depraved sea of people that we swam. We quickly found ourselves in the seed backside of the county fair. We were in the dark alleys created by the campers and RVs that you dared not even look down as a child. That was where I found my people. The liquor slugging, rail snorting, pot smoking brethren that would get me my fix for the proper writing tools.
Duke's face was priceless as we approached a group of drunkards. His chin actually touched his chest and his skin as pale as an egg shell. Their radio blasted as they sat out in the chairs, a typical scene for me from my group of friends but Duke's lavish law school lifestyle had not prepared him from what we walked up on. I could smell the sweetened skunk odor layed thick in the air and I knew immediately that these would be the right people.
"God damn is it good to see some fine gentleman in this squalor they call a fair," I spat my cigarette on the ground and quickly lit another then pulled the whiskey out from my coat, "anyone care for pull?" They all took me up on my offer and I wasted no time as my bottle was spun around, "any you men want to make a little money and help another man out?" Their eyes stared right through me, "Jesus, have you all gone catatonic all ready? What hell did you take? I want some for myself and my colleague here."
They looked Duke over, he was definitely my weak link. I new the young blood could be my undoing on this adventure but he did have to be hot on my heels. Their eyes came back on me and obviously alpha male rose from his tattered lawn chair and approached me with his shoulders cocked back and a sideways stride. I assumed he hid a gun on his hip I couldn't see.
"Why'd we sell to a bloke like you? Bet you're a cop," his draw was definitely from the British Isles.
"Good god, are you Irish?"
"Accent don't mean a thing," now it was as redneck as the deepest Cajun.
"God damn, I know I"m not on enough drugs yet to be going this crazy. Pick a region and stick to it!" That was a a mistake. He picked slur of sounds that billowed out from his throat, I could only assume it to be Russian. "Come on! This is America and we speak English."
"Good on, ya."
"I'll be happy with Australian, so long as you speak fucking English!"
"Easy there, mate. You don't have to go mad on us," brave son of a bitch had the gumption to snag the cigarette right from my lips and take a drag. "How do we know you ain't know cop, undercover and here to bust the gyps that rolled in with the carnival?" He then pushed the cigarette back into my lips, he had soaked in enough slobber to disgusts a saint Bernard.
"Duke here is my lawyer."
"That's really going to help your situation, isn't it."
"Depends on if you would be offended on speaking with my very inebriated publication lawyer. You could really think of him as your human resources guy." I handed my flooded cigarette back to him and pulled out another, "in fact, seeing as he really is here more for you than me, it could really behoove you to have a nice long conversation with him while I finish my whiskey and get to know your company."

An Untitled Short Story

He paced around the kitchenette and wiped crumbs from the counter and set a dish in the sink. He didn't bother to pay attention to the news that played quietly from a radio. It made him too angry. He only left it on for background noise as he would clean. Once he was finished in the kitchenette, he straightened up the couch, on which he slept each night, and put all his books away on the shelf. The books were all he really owned in his tiny studio. The couch had been found down the street, the table was furnished by the landlords and the radio was borrowed from an acquaintance that had recently moved away.

      He walked over to the radio and reached for the knob. He turned it down all the way just before the switch would click it off, he paused a moment, shrugged his shoulders, and turned it back up to the previous murmur he had had it at before.

     He ate some leftovers he had in his mini-fridge and listened to the radio.

     More news about the ravished economy, impending doom from North Korea and fears of the gay rights movement.

     He cleaned up after himself and listened to the radio a little bit more. 

     The streets were becoming increasingly unsafe too, or so it seemed to the crime report.

     He sat down on the couch and fell asleep as he listened to the radio ramble on about another news story of a bank robber that got away.

He woke the next morning with an ache in his neck. The radio was still on. His apartment filled with the sound of cheery morning news and feel-happy-love songs between segments. He groaned and cracked his neck. His eyes shot wide open and he dropped his hand into his lap.

     He stood up from the couch and reached in between the arm and the cushion. His arm went deep into the lint filled underbelly of the couch. Sure enough, his treasure was still there and his arm shot out with a pistol in his hand, a Beretta M9 the last of his real posessions.

     He stood as he checked if it was loaded then set it on his table. The radio was still on. He was too entranced by the cobalt gleam to hear anything. He contemplated the decision he was about to make with a grimace on his face, his mouth crooked, only on the left side.

He'd chose to continue with his normal routine for the rest of that day. He canvased the town shops with his résumé, stopped briefly at the library and helped out for a short period of time at the community garden across town from his apartment. This time, he did it all with a 9mm gun in the belt of his pants.

     After he had ended his day, he returned home to his small apartment, it was just after three P.M. And dropped off his newly borrowed book from the library and ate a salad he was able to make with some of the vegetables he had earned volunteering at the garden.

     He ignored his radio entirely. He hadn't even turn it on as he cleaned the one room that was his apartment. He just sat in the silence of his cold home and checked the gun again, cocked it, and placed it back in his pants.

At 4:13 P.M., he placed a ski mask he had just purchased over his face and walked into the First National Bank across town from his apartment, near the community garden. The gun drawn and held into the air.

     “Hands in the air and don't anybody move!” He shouted through gritted teeth as he looked around the lobby.

     No guards. Barely any customers even.

     “I don't want to hurt any innocent people here! So just cooperate with my demands and I'll be on my way!” He noticed a clerk began to lower one hand, “Oh no, ya don't!” He ran up to her, she was a beautiful young woman, obviously fresh out of college and scared shitless by her first armed robbery at her new job. “Don't you even think about it!” He pointed the gun right into her heart. “It might even be best that you get up off of that chair and fetch the bank manager before I shoot your neighbor,” he then pointed the gun to the older woman next to her and looked at her name plate, “Gladys, here!”

     Gladys didn't budge and held her hands where he could clearly see them.

     The younger lady disappeared into the back for a moment and he pointed his gun towards Gladys, who smiled at him briefly. One of his eyebrows crooked up in intrigue.

     “Sir,” the young lady returned with the bank manager, his hands in the air and a calm voice arose from his lips, his face was scrunched with fear though, “please don't do anything rash. Gladys has grand children.”

     “What about you? Got kids, big whig?” He pointed the gun towards the manager.

     “I do, a newborn boy. His name's Jack. What's yours?” The manager walked up to the counter.

     “Call me Floyd,” he stepped backwards into the lobby and turned to look at the frightened customers. A young couple and an old man. “All of you, up against the counter. Everyone in the back! Get up front! I want all of your hands on the counter. Now!”

     Everyone obliged.

     “Now,” Floyd looked back at the manager, “I'ma call you Jack, get it, suit?”

     “Anything you desire, sir.”

     “First off, don't you call me 'sir' and we'll all get out of here with no more holes than when we walked in the bank.”
     “Of course, Floyd.”

     “Now, empty all the drawers. You had better make it fast too. I don't have much time left today.” The manager nervously fumbled around all the drawers and stuffed the money into a bank sack. Bills fell to the floor has he tried to stuff more and more into the bag.

     “Zip it off before you lose the peoples' money, Jack!”

     The bank manager handed an overstuffed and zipped up bank bag to Floyd.

     “Good man, Jack,” Floyd paused a moment and felt the heft of the bag as he bounced it in his unarmed palm. “This is gonna make a lot of people happy.”

     “I'm sorry?”

     “Jack, my poppa taught me something very important at an incredibly young age, wanna hear his wisdom?”

     “Yes, Floyd.”

     “Never question, cheat, or lie to the man pointin' a loaded gun in your face,” Floyd pulled the gun up to the bank manager's face. “Now tell me somethin' else, Jack: how much money y'all got in the safe?”

     “I...” the manager's voice broke, “I...I don't...”

     “Now, Jack, you wouldn't happen to be going against my daddy's words, would ya?”

     “No,” the manager took a deep breath and sighed a moment, “we just got a shipment of cash from corporate today. Nearly thirty grand.”

     Floyd laughed with a short escape of breath, “you and I are about to make a lot of good, hard workin' people very, very happy.” Floyd pulled the gun back from the manager's face, “now you go and be a good little manager and fetch exactly what your customer wants.”

     “That would be?”

     “Don't play dumb with me, Jack! I want it all!”

     “Of course,” the manager backed away from the counter and walked over to the safe, “Gladys has a code that must be entered too.”

     “May I, Floyd?” Gladys stood up and removed her hands from the counter. She cracked a small smile at him again and all Floyd could do was give a little nod in the manager's direction.

They both disappeared into the safe. After a short moment, Gladys came back out alone. The manager came out another minute later with a brief case.

     “Here's all the cash we received,” he heaved the brief case up to the counter, “should I get the coin for you too?”

     “No,” Floyd grabbed the briefcase off of the counter, “that'd all be too much to carry.”

     Gladys glanced at Floyd again and smiled sweetly, this time for far longer than a mere glance.

     Floyd turned around to exit, “y'all are about to help me make many people very happy. Good day, everyone.” He turned to the three customers who had stood in silence the entire time, “I'm sorry to have inconvenienced the three of you.” With that, he placed the gun into his pants and turned to walk out.

Officer Nelson sat in his cruiser and listened to the chatter on his radio as he ate his lunch. Aside from the APB on an individual accused of a bank robbery, the day had been uninterestingly boring. Only traffic tickets and removing a crazed homeless man from a store that had refused to sell him liquor. A piece of ketchup dripped from his burger onto his uniform. He promptly wiped it away with his napkin, tossed it out his window, and looked up to see a man with a briefcase walking into the bank across the street from the Jack-In-The-Box he was sitting at.

     “Well, I'll be,” he reached for his radio, “fucker's hittin' another.” His radio squelched as he snapped the talk button down, “This is car 240, I've got a 10-20 on our APB. Alamo Credit Union at 23rd and 52nd. He's hittin' another.” Nelson tossed his burger down in the passenger seat and shifted his car into gear.

     He closed off one side of the street with his cruiser and flung his door open. With his gun drawn, he dropped to a knee beside his cruiser and pointed his gun at the door. The sirens of the other cruisers were dim in the distance, Nelson couldn't hear a single one of them, he heard nothing over the cold steel rapping of his hear beat.

     Before the sweat could build on his brow, his nervous thoughts were interrupted by his commanding officer, Sgt. Clemmens, “What've we got here, Nelson?”

     “Perp is inside right now, sir.”

     “Alright, everybody!” Clemmens turned to the other officers that had arrived, “I want all your lead pointed on that door. It's his only exit and we've got it covered.” Clemmens turned back to Nelson and placed his hand on his shoulder, “Good work, Nelson.” Clemmens walked off shouting more commands, “I want someone to get me on a line straight to this bank. I'm sure we've got...” His voice faded as he walked off and Nelson just tightened his grip on his pistol. Only three other officers had shown up and followed suit. They propped themselves and their guns on their hinge of their doors and waited.

     Seconds were minutes and minutes were hours.

     After ages had passed, Clemmens walked back up to the officers from behind them, “here's the case, men! Perp refuses to speak on the phone and the bank manager claims he doesn't feel threatened. No demands to top it all off. Keep your eyes on your irons and pointed at the door. I want that son of a bitch dropped like a rabid coyote if he so much as twitches!” Clemmens popped open the passenger door on Nelson's cruiser, “mind if I post with you?”

     “No, sir, not at all.”

     “Thanks, Nelson,” Clemmens drew his six gun and knelt down, he noticed the burger splashed against Nelson's seat, “good God, Nelson, you were on lunch break too?”

     “Never on break in the blue, sir.”

     “You'll be a detective soon enough, son,” Clemmens looked back to the door and noticed some activity on the other side, “he's comin' out, men! Be ready.”

Floyd stepped out of the bank door with the brief case still in on hand.

     “Freeze!” Clemmens shouted at him and the word reverberated in Nelson's ears.

     Floyd's hands rose to the air. His coat drifted open in a warm breeze and one of his feet stepped away. He shot down to a runner's stance and began to bolt away from the door. His hair bounced with him as he started his pace. Nelson even noticed the butt of the gun tucked into his pants as he turned and the coat froze in the air, stagnant in the breeze.

     Nelson's finger jerked down on the trigger nine times. He followed Floyd's every step as he folded in half and fell to the ground. Floyd's blood splattered on the bank's brick wall behind him and the shots echoed in Nelson's ears.

     “Perp's down!” Clemmens shot up and ran up to Floyd as he settled on the ground. He handcuffed him and took his pulse. “Dead too. Nice shooting, Nelson!”

     The other officers holstered their guns and walked up to the body.

Nelson stood behind his door and fumbled to get his gun back into place.

     Clemmens walked up to Nelson, “first one, son?”

     “No, sir,” Nelson spoke as he finally snapped the gun down into his belt, “shot a man in New Orleans.”

     “Every perp deserves a bullet,” Clemmens rubbed Nelson's shoulder, “make sure these boys don't muss up any of your bravery in their paperwork,” with that, Clemmens waltzed to his car and tore off in return to his office.

     The victims started to come out of the bank. One by one they walked out into the Texas sun and squinted at Floyd's body on the ground. The bank's manager was already speaking with one of the other officers and Nelson walked up to get the scoop.

     “So,” Nelson spoke as he rested his hands on his hips, “how much did he take from you?”

     “Not a dime.”

     Nelson's heart dropped into his stomach, “excuse me?”

     “He came in with a brief case full of money and paid off a bunch of mortgages.”

     Nelson could say nothing.

     “He demanded at gun point we catch up the mortgages of all homes about to be foreclosed upon that the money would cover.”

     Nelson had to ask, “well, hat's in the briefcase then?”

     “Receipts.”

     “Nelson!” Another officer shouted from behind him and he walked over.

     “Um, Nelson, man, his gun ain't even loaded.”

Lose Yourself in Every Moment

The white glow was shrouded,
Hidden by vermilion cliffs.
For hours the moon rose behind them
Until her glow lit the desert floor.
We sat in silence.
In awe as she became exposed.
The fire between us,
Bound to grow.

We passed the whiskey,
Shared a beer,
And lit a smoke.
No space between the two of us
But the rocks we hopped across
Right to the edge of the canyon.
The Colorado cried our names,
Louder and louder
As we approached.

Our feet rested at the edge,
I reveled in the moment.
The only sound,
The river below.
The canyon walls engulfed
In a sweet white light.
Pure beauty surrounded
Just the two of us.

Greatest Minds

Wanderlust is never broken.
Society will provide you
The brink
Of insanity.
Your mind torn apart.
Your life broken down.

Destroyed!

To mere scraps of paper
And simple metals,
All stamped with the faces
Of lost ideals
Proved to be best to hold.
To relish.
To teach.

There is nothing you need to do,
Nothing more than nothing itself.
Provide and cultivate
Only what makes you happy.
Dismantle and destroy the rest.
Write off the spawn
That creates the worst in you.

Grab your pack,
And meet me in the woods.
We leave tomorrow.

We walk

Until

We may walk

No more.

Flames of Discontent

I'll burn down every city.
Just move into the woods.
Darwin knew best.
I'll teach the world to be true,
They'll see what responsibility
Really means.

Provide your food,
Hunt,
Trap
And forage.
Fight for your water.
Truly nomadic,
Always on the move.
Following food,
Water,
Weather.

Most of the savages,
Claimed civil by society,
Will die.

Me and mine,
We,
We will make it.
Through the sunshine,
Monsoons and snowfall.
We will become
The truest of generations.
Providing no more dishonesty
Based on fear.
No more greed
Based off this selfish social structure

We will be together,
Selflessly providing for one another
And without the bother of
All of this
Greed
Hate
Selfishness
And suffering

What's It Worth?

I walked up on it in the park.
It didn't look like I had remembered.
The full, vibrant foliage,
It swayed in the wind,
Brown and dying.
The limbs and leaves
Crackled
Through the strain.
I swear that first branch
Was way
Way
Higher.
Now it dropped below my elbow.
It was broken half way and
Sitting on the ground.
The grass at its base,
As brown as the leaves.

The Gypsy's Songbird

The lone bird chirps
In the woods
Beside the road.
Cars rush past
All late for work
All oblivious.
No one knows
She's there.
No one knows
She sings.
No one but the wanderer
Who woke in the woods
As the bird chirps.

Somewhere out there...

It was a place that I had
Never been.
A quiet place, a place
Hard to find.
Like those you hear of
Or only read.
It was a place I'd truly
Never seen.
Discovered and shared by
Drifting friends.
Indifferent at first to this place
I had found.
But what was there and
What I saw.
It was a place I will surely
Find again.

Circled 'A's and Chaos Stars

When asked, "what does it mean?" He'd simply look at them and say, "everything," and elaborate no further. He never really gave them a chance to understand what everything really means. See, to him, it really has everything he believes in. He believes that at the beginning, there would be chaos and through the chaos kids from all races, both men and womyn will unite and fight for what they believe in. That would be a society free of masters and lords. No governments to oppress humankind and they are, in turn, free to live there lives out in peace along side nature. That is exactly what he fails to explain and the inquisitor never learns anything. The only thing that comes from their sidewalk debate of neo-con politics and new age televangelist world domination, that the symbol toting punk would have the gumption to stick out his hand and ask for some change.

     Trying to sum up all of one's beliefs into a simple little symbol in hopes that brandishing it on one's arm would be an easy way to convey those belief is a cute idea. It's simply the monkey-see-monkey-do philosophy played out again. Monkey see symbol, monkey know. I think it's sad to say but in our society, not too many people really understand a lot of the symbols they see. It seems to me that Americans only understand the middle finger, bald eagle, football logos, the flag, brand logos and the little yellow ribbons that every SUV lovingly brandishes. So when they get confused, pissed off or, even worse, both, their reaction renders the symbol completely useless.

     I am saying this though with what my parents and older brother (and probably my younger fiancée) would refer to as youthful prejudice and probably a little bit of leftover angst. Well, I'm a twenty-two year old, unemployed, college dropout that's struggling to get into the tattoo industry and about to get married. Thank god! Thank satan! Thank the flying-spaghetti monster that I've got a little bit of angst left in me. I could be a bitter, pissed-off alcoholic whithering away in the cold basement of an apartment with no running water. I'm glad I've got that angst left damn it! It's probably the only thing that really keeps me going. It's just that youthful prejudice term that bugs me so I'm going to digress and break down that last paragraph.

     Of course I've got a few stereotypes about America, what it is and what it means to be an American. I'll also be the first to say that my feelings on that subject are prejudiced of me. That's what makes me creative and drives me in general. I am not, however, passing this prejudiced judgement on a people and holding my prejudices against anyone. I'm creating these prejudices about the society that I've been oh so privileged to grow up in. So is it really that fucked up of me?

     Let me get back to my main point here, the only real use of a symbol is identification. When we affiliate ourselves to anything we automatically identify ourselves to that symbol. For example, I'm on a casual stroll down the street and my endless horizon staring day-dream is interrupted by someone walking down the street with crass symbol on their t-shirt. I know the symbol. I know the band. So I wonder if maybe I know the person. The only way a symbol really works is if the viewer already knows what it means, an easy enough thought that still needs to be pointed out.

     It really is the association of symbols that can completely destroy most political movements. I speak mainly, about anarchism and its notorious circled 'a'. I would dare to say the circled 'a' is as commonly seen in American pop culture as the middle finger. Actually, I would go farther to say you'll see more circled 'a's in  the allies of Chicago than middle fingers on the Jersey turnpike. To me, that's a huge problem. Most people, the elusive non-anarchist type, have seen it played out in dodgey spray paint on the overpasses near our cities for years. It's carved into high school desks and scribbled on bathroom stalls next to Susie's fun-time phone number. It's also patched on the clothes and tattooed on the skin of travelers, squatters, and outlaw cyclists.

     I don't want my words to be manipulated into me dogging on people I know or could be very good friends with. I've got a circled 'a' tattoo myself. Hell, I can see it drawn two other times around me and it's even spray painted on my wall. I know, how cliche? Stand on the outside and look in though. If I step into the shoes of my grandmother, I can imagine what she sees: a dirty, godless child of ill-dispute living a life lacking in respect for authority. Funny thing about her association to our symbol is that it's pretty much true. We just look at it through a little more glamorous light. What she fails to acknowledge are the good things coming from a few circled 'a' bearing kids.
     Out there are a handful of kids making an immense difference in their communities. They're working at the grassroots level to take care of the less fortunate of their communities. They're out there running organizations like Food Not Bombs and starting programs like really really free markets, all-age venues, art communities, and public gardens. They're out there busting their asses to make our city more fun for all of us. They're also improving the lives of others with free handouts of food, clothing, books, music and more. These symbol toting kids are vital to the movement. They're the ones that are building the underground network of roots for our anarchic redwood forest. These kids doing all this good and being spattered with anarchic symbols are causing others to think, "does the bomb-throwing anarchist really exist?"
     That's an open window.
     An open window to expose the uneducated to a belief they may have never known they could even get behind. Yes, any one can be an anarchist. The ideals of living free of oppressive governments, laws and city codes, a place where people take care of themselves, their friends, and their family. Ideals that America was founded on, ideals every American, every person, wants for themselves. That is why this open window system is crucial. They see the circled 'a' accompanied with good natured people, instead of painted on our city's abandoned buildings, we will have the opportunity to educate. These peaked interest "converts" should be embraced, educated, and looked after, they will be important pieces to the puzzle when our time comes.

The Westbound Train

The Westbound Train
My grandmother died.
     It was not too long ago but I haven't seen her in over a year. If you wanted to be pedantic, I haven't really seen here since I was a teenager. Nobody in my family had really seen Granny since then either. She was diagnosed with Alzheimer's before I'd grow into the man I am today.
     Granny would never know me ever again.
     The image she held onto of me, was a young twelve year old, boy, not the pierced and tattoo covered freak she had only seen at sideshows while growing up in Kentucky. Inevitably, I scared the living daylights out of my grandmother for years, just by showing up. Then I would remind her who I was, only to get a, "what happened?!"
     She really was a sweet woman though. Not a mean bone in her body. Alzheimer's Disease has a pretty serious impact on the personality of its victims though. Unfortunately, Granny went from the sweetheart she was, to a rugged woman ready to run away or gun you down with words. She was a sweet old woman that took care of me when I was sick, taught me to sew and sat and laughed as Pa and I would try to play bluegrass music on a banjo and juice harp. She would bake biscuits with hot chocolate pudding drizzled over top of them for my cousins and I regularly. She liked to call it biscuits and chocolate gravy. All these memories of her would flash through my head and I couldn't stand the look of fear on her face every time I saw her or the disgruntled remarks to all of us.
     It really made family gatherings hard.

     It was actually so hard for me that I even hid away from my extended family.

     She left the struggles of this shiftless and tragic world at the break of the new year.

     Now, I've never been much for religion and never once called myself agnostic either. Plain and simple, I don't believe in any god, or gods for that matter. There is, however, an unexplainable connection that exists between humanity, our world and our universe. I've never cared for an explanation, scientists saying we are all derived from cosmic star dust has always been good enough for me. The power of the human mind is also far beyond our grasp and this has always forced me to feel if you believe in heaven or hell, you will create one for your soul to move on to after death. 

     She would live free of Alzheimer's once again in the heaven she has created.

     I didn't come to this conclusion on religion by luck. I researched. I went to all different kinds of churches and read my fair share of holy books. A fairly common thing I came across was the belief that the spirit will take hold in an animal. The animal changes with each specific group of people but a pretty common one would be crows and ravens. I have to say that this has always been a pretty far off concept to me but one fact holds true: since my grandmother has passed, I've been greeted each morning by a raven in my yard.