Inflammatory Questions

Is it that Braindead suggests politics are a pathology? And how does an adorkable waitress use Tide Pods to tidy up her cluttered, empty life? Is the lie the only way to tell the truth? Can only song say what the heart thinks? Do you just need a man to fumigate your brain, or as comic relief or a tool to grip? Some parasitic ideas are you sick? What’s eating your brain today, and why can’t you just say it? Who can we get to fix all this? Who says success is anything but what you think it is for you? And what the fuck do you know anyway?

Why are children making eyes at one another when they’re making glittery balls of foam to represent the solar system? Are kids with iPhones, programming android apps at school, really going to be taught by a grown adult who thinks it worth the precious youth they can’t get back again?

Have you ever been told you that you’re fuckable? Oh but what was the context? Have you been subjected to the force of the stranger, the other, the alter ego, the doppelgänger, the drifter, the shape shifter, sidestepper, blindsider, backbiter, mad-faced doubletalker? Have you played the part in some off broadway production? Oh haven’t you gone off on someone?

The thing is, if you ask what’s on my mind, why you don’t you take the time to listen? That’s not your mission, huh? You’re here for some grander purpose? Somehow in the blizzard of suffering we’re all weathering, do you think you don’t deserve it? And what if you do deserve? So what? Well if life doesn’t matter now, will it ever? Did life ever matter? Or is life the water being pushed by the wind? What is the wind, the invisible force which moves us, the pneumatic thrust? Is truth incendiary now? Is there justice now, if our mode of justice serves to rust us, corrode our trust? Which lives matter?

Can you ethically support murder? Does it feel better to justify a murder, or to murder someone else for committing the murder and call it justice? Why are some beatings assault and some fantasies rape? When you were a kid and you got tagged, did you say it doesn’t count?  Do your tinted shades and tinted windows shade the world from your brilliance or you from their ignorance? Is death the penalty for disobedience, or the worthiest opponent to the futile charge of being alive? Do you order your brothers and sisters over the throw pillow trenches to soak up the couch fort’s machine-gun fire? Can you lose all the battles but still win the war? Is a mob more moral than man alone?

The sacrifice you made; was it enough? Did it glorify god? Who was pleased by your deeds? If you glorify and give pleasure to yourself, do you sit upon your own throne? Do you climb upon your own cross? Do you give so others gain? Do you move amongst the masses, setting their tongues to flickering flames of ancient names? Who do you inspire by setting a tree on fire?

Scale Independence

I’ve spent so long looking for someone to love me. To really love me, not in common terms or the sparkler of affection, commuter flights of fancy or infatuation turned attrition. A love to light the way home. Not where from, but where to.

I’ve started on so many promising paths, wading through dusky pollen plumes and it’s only when the blooms close up shop for the last time and it’s just hard jaws and sideways glances and hammer toes in fuzzy robes, do I find myself lost. And what am I supposed to do now, you say? Just run away. Dive into the underbrush, choke on thorns, bumbling through brambles and snag your ankle, tumbling downtown in Dirt City.

If you’re familiar with scout groups and wilderness troops, you were taught when you’re lost to stay put, that way someone can find you. But no one is coming to find you. You must find yourself, in the thick of all this mess and bloody tears and bricks in your throat that somehow you made, though you can’t remember when. You breathe again, wipe your eyes. You soak your open sores in oak, and stand up on your shaky knees.

In the quiet terror of this momentous endeavor you want like hell to see something familiar in the blotchy blackness, some splotch of color or obscure letter, some flash out on the periphery of never. But it’s all throbbing darkness full of nothing, and you stare so hard your head bulges and your teeth squeal and in the apogee of an erratic orbit the thousandth time: a pixel out of place catches your microwave array. With pupils wide as coffee mugs, pouring over the readouts again but there’s no sign of love. And you’re lost as before, a wounded deer stotting over your fears towards the hope of something you can’t quite say what, just not here.

You run anyway, thrashing in the moss pit, a no-look barrage of wild kicks at the tangling vines and rocks and twisted roots until somehow at a loss for breath or worry you trip over nothing, floundering on even ground, a salmon in a grizzly mouth, moonlit teeth are all around, little pearls that welcome you with a wool blanket and a stump to sit on. They coo over your torn pants and toast your arrival with mulled wine and it’s not a home but you’ve been gone so long, not more than a fawn when this all started, what do you know about home? So you sit and you drink and wrap your eyes tight until sleep, the thief, comes for your worried mind.

Then everyone, the pearls, the warm, the blanket, even your pants are gone. It’s colder than it’s ever been, a new ice age settles in but nothing looks familiar in the cannonball haze of the blue and the grey. So you’re lost, a-fucking-gain. Somehow it’s worse today, the way everything just seemed alright, the height of your joy become the depth of your decline, the path to your doom, circling the drain of what remains of your sanity, chasing a filmy dream faded in the dawn. And you walk on. Out of the cat’s cradle of fabled rhymes and downed power lines and into the long day alone. And now that you see, you don’t need to believe, the syncopated palpitations cease as the tree grows into each one of its leaves.