Saturday, November 26, 2005

Over here
This stream is changing
Held by rigid land

I stand
Time running downstream
The outline of a man

Up above
The rain is falling
Around the place I stand

Tuesday, November 22, 2005

Sidney ascended the steps of Temple High School, leaving behind her a wake of confidence and illusion, the engine of course -- her attire and demeanor. The hallways were jammed full with studets, the usual silence that had followed the mass production of the 'Spectacles'.

The Spectacles are a pair of ordinary looking seeing glasses, but they are far beyond the fossil like 'seeing glasses' in function, far beyond. The glasses were essentially computers akin to those you are reading this story on. The Spectacles are equipped with eye sensors as well as a visual keypad projection system which allows the glasses to read the input from the typing of fingers within a specific grid in relation to the sight of the user.

It is far, far, more adventagious to think about, and type out a sentence you could easily spill out without any editing or provisions. As well, given use from early youth into the middle and high schoool years, it is for the most part far, far faster to use your hands than your mouth. This is not to say that everyone in this day and age doesn't know how to actually speak english, in fact almost every single person on earth knows how to speak an actual language, just like they did back in the prior years. It is necessary to be able to speak without use of the spectacles as sometimes talk is needed that cannot be monitored in any real way.

Sidney traverses the crowd of silent people, hearing a vast number of conversations flickering to her at a specificly set proximity/time ratio before finally crossing the threshold into a particular room, she finds a seat to her likeing and sits down.

It is not long before the teacher enters the room, she is a middle aged blonde. Sidney thinks to herself that Ms. Blackstone was almost positively quite an attractive woman back in her high school years, that is.. provided some of her extra plumb did not used to reside under her ivory, pale skin. Ms. Blackstone smiles to the students in the class and says "Greetings" outloud before moving into Spectacle speech, the room once again completely undisturbed by any sound except for the occasional cough.

After taking care of some administrative matters, the teacher begins her lecture: "Today in history will we be looking back to the events leading up the great revolution. In particular we will look at the construction of the individual I'm sure you all have heard of, a man by the name of Jesus. Now this is not his actual name, he made it up to coincide with some fabrications in the book we looked at last month, "The Bible". Jesus, using some fairly secret technologies, ones we know of today, but something that the people of the times would even have had a concept of. Things like MTP, and Transference. "Jesus" proceeded to manipulate the succeptable masses of the world into buying into him as a "Religious" figure. Perhaps the most telling mistake of Jesus' career as a tool for the elites was his public siding with with what was called the 'republican' democratic party. This man was the catalyst for the main events leading up the great revolution, but in the end, his technology could not do what the 'god' he suscribed to was apparently capable of. "

* * *

Sidney sat there, drumming her fingers along the top of her glass desk. The glass is tinted as to be optimal for an ideal visual backdrop when using the spectacles. At this moment Sidney was watching the conversation between the teacher and student. It was blocked from 3rd party access, but Sidney was smart enough to know how to crack the firewall without being tested. So, with nothing before her but a boring suck-up conversation, Sidney waited for the class to empty. When it evetually did she gathered up her stuff and approached the teacher.

"Hi there Sidney" she said outloud, followed by a smile.

"Hello" Sidney said over the SPectacles, followed by a smile. "I've been doing some reading about this 'God' concept that we've sort of skimmed over in class now, I'm just wondering what -exactly- is a 'God'?" the student asks, with a seemingly genuine gaze.

Ms Blackstone nodded a few times while chewing on her lower lip, "Ok.. well, Sidney it's actually sort of my job to n-... to refer you to other experts in that particular field. They don't like us really teaching you guys about -that-"

Sidney scowled at this, "I just don't understand, How exactly does it exist -outside- of the empire? I mean.. doesn't... .. Well I just don't understand"

The teacher sighed slightly and sat back down into her seat, apparently ready to engage in quite the discussion to save her credit for a child prodige, but also to avoid getting fired. "Sidney, do you know much about 'faith'?" she asks, testing the waters.

"Yes, I think so, sort of like a.. belief in something which is not within the net?" the young woman responds, studying the teachers reaction after she stops to get a feel of the worth of the answer.

"Well... sort of" the teacher explains, "You can find it within the net too. Say for example.. the pornography archives, you wouldn't look there for say.. word definitions or standard calculus equations would you?"


"Exactly, you know -where- to look, and how to trust your own judgements and conclusions, just like you must do with the trails when you are quite young. In the same way you learn to trust your observations about nature, faith is trusting yourself to excercise your intelligence and ability to screen through the say.. level 4 information, compared to say.. the level 2"

Sidney gave a 'hmmm' to this. "I perhaps see now.. the 'God' for the prior timers was not an object, but that feeling we have in all of us, it is the order and the mystery.. and maybe.. maybe even the reason why we have been able to figure out the mastery behind the empire"

Ms Blackstone wouldn't say Sidney was perfectly correct, but she had to admit, the child was awefully smart for her age.

Saturday, November 19, 2005

Deep within hormone pools
reflect star filled skies

I laughed at myself
as I could not look away

A magnet for my eyes
the attraction of fools

She persisted to fake dismay
threw her to the topmost shelf

----The years between, and the days apart
All of this time, you are my art. ----

I see her there, out of reach
I'm reminded every time she speaks

I set this dinner with myself as the wine
She rips out the cloth, time after time

The woman with the lyrics styles
You don't need me there forcing smiles

I'll always look out for you, I have from the start
Give up on you? I can't even my heart

Tuesday, November 15, 2005

Kingdom of the ruling lovers
The taste is sour of oak keg waters

Drum on to the future beat
Where these words and lines will surely meet

Hedonistic devil go away
I love you but another day

Read between and you find time
Here, now, in this rhyme
The journalist traveresed the steps of the building the best he could; the whole thing wasn't a regular vertical staircase, for some reason it was this apparent maze of sporradic upward footsteps. The building, as he came to realize was what he considered somewhat of an architectual failure, the layout was not symmetrical and did not make sense. It required the journalist to think, and he did not like that, he preferred a labeled sign and an orderly fashion any day of the week.

As he stepped up onto a particular landing with a door sitting nonchalantely to the left of him on the wall he reached into his pocket to retreive a crumpled up peice of paper wich had,
written on it. "This is it" he inhaled to himself before stuffing the peice of paper back into his suit pant pocket and opening up the door.

He was greeted by a long hallway, with no doors whatsoever except for the one at the end. The color scheme of the hallway was that of a crimson red; the journalist noted it at a near unconscious level. He continued down the hallway, staring at the ominous nature of the hinged rectangle that lie in his path, blocking him from what truly rippled the calm waters of his thought process. The door was completely void of decoration or color, it was a simple wooden door of 'wood' colors; yet for some reason it disturbed the reporter, it's very existence seemed to annoy the man, his distain for the texture and the sight of the object was only outweighed for his love of it's lack of transparency.

He stood there, for a couple minutes with his hand on the doorknob, contemplating why he had been called here, and for what purpose. Alot of ideas raced through his head, and he almost wished he had a pen and paper to write down some of the fear inspired ideas he was having at the moment. The one idea he was unable to shake was that of free will. The fact that he was here, with his hand on the doorknob was indicative of his seemingly fated nature; sure he has the choice to turn around and run away, but wouldn't serve him an almost more certain fate? It seemed to him that we rely on the myth of free will as much as it depends on us to exist as a thought in the first place. Indeed, it was with this thought that he turned the knob and pushed the door open.

The room revealed a much different scene that the reporter thought it would. Instead of the 'animal-head-on-the-wall' theme he expected from a ruthless dictator, the reporter instead was presented with what appeared to be a.. ..comic book inspired theme. The reporter walked forward slowly towards the desk in the middle of the room trying to contain his grin; who would have thought that Rudolf was such a fan of comic books?

Rudolf appeared to be a small man, but he was covered in a number of electric gizmos which sat atop of an extremely complex clothing ensamble. He sat at the desk with his hands folded in a rather stereotypical 'bad guy' fashion. He did not really move, aside from his eyes which watched the journalist take a seat on the other side of his large, but simplistic glass slab desk. He was a pale man, but had a strange glow to him, a self assuredness the reporter did not often run into.

"Do you know why you are here?" Rudolf asked the reporter.

"I mean no offense Sir, but I haven't the faintest clue" the journalist replied, trying his best to appear what Rudolf would describe as 'not guilty' and at the same time confident.

"Good" Rudolf replied, pausing for a moment to rub his goatee, as if in thought. "Another question my friend, do you know why I prefer to have a neatly cropped facial hair style, such as the 'goetee' type I am sporting as of right now?"

"I am sorry Sir, I do not"

"Good" Rudolf replied, smiling openly to the reporter. "Then I shall tell you the answer to both questions" he stated, drumming his fingers against the glass plane that basically comprised the entirety of his 'desk', which upon closer examination was more of a table than anything. He gestured around the room to the various comic book pictures and posters. "Every story must have a villian, and out of determination on my part, and some luck, I happed to land in the villianous role. This is not to say that I am a 'bad' guy persay, but every person goes through life with a purpose, be it to be great' or to do shit all, both are a purpose for the sake of this discussion. The problem though, as you may know, is that once I made it to the top, I no longer had a purpose. I could get no more power other than already had in my country, and so I had to make some changes" Rudolf explained, staring into the eyes of the reporter the length of the speech.

The journalist did not quite know what to think of this, he supposed it made sense at one level, but he would rather the dictator would just tell him what he wanted, rather than ramble on. "Please.. go on"

Rudolf nodded, his thin smile widening for a fraction of a second as he saw he was getting through to the reporter. "As I said, we all need a purpose.. we choose it of course, but without one we are damned to a personal hell, and that is not something I want to endure" he stated, before pointing to his goetee, "I am an evil man! I will conquer the world with fear and violence, and I will be known for it!" he affirmed, more himself than anyone.

"As you wish Sir"

Rudolf slammed his fist down at these words, and the reporter stiffened in his seat. "This is not what I command you to do, this is reality, this is the life that we both endure." He scratched at his goetee again, a bit more agressive than the previous time, "Do you know how much I loath the feeling of this hair on my face? Of hair in general? I must endure this life, this toxic waste of a proper species, this inherent forum of specialized idiots and regular idiots alike. I am too smart for it, and for this reason I am in the role you see before me. What else can be my purpose to distract me from this noise, this.. quicksand that I call reality?" he paused for a second, looking at the reporter Rudolf did not feel like the man was going to repond with anything useful, including a typical scared yes-man response so he continued. "What else can I do besides sculpt the hair on my face to distract my mind from the behive of distraction, of iching and uncomfortability? What else am I to do but continue with my 'reign of terror'?" he used his hands to indicate the last phrase was 'in brackets', but the look his eyes seemed to betray his actions; the man seemed torn. "What am I to do, listen to the critics and do the 'right thing'? Give up all I have worked to accomplish? How can I accomplish this task, how can I itch the feeling that is so pervasive in my mind, that only seems to be affected by the fingernail of death? I need purpose as you need words, without it we are nothing, and I cannot turn back now"

The journalist did not really know how to repond to this. Was this an elaborate speech to indicate his usefulness had been outlived, or was the leader of all leaders simply ranting?

It seemed the latter was correct when Rudolf said, "You may go now, communicate your opinion as per your service to the empire"

The reporter nodded and after getting up he gave a slight bow to the pale leader and turned back towards the door he had entered. Trancending the threshold of the frame the reporter thought that it was ironic he was now fearing what he would have to do on this side of the truth: How on earth was he going to turn this into a story that his, or any news organization would accept? After all, the opinion of the most powerful man on earth means nothing if it does not correspond to the artificial attitude many have already grown to love. For the reporter, to tell the truth is to be branded a liar and sentenced to death.

Tuesday, November 08, 2005

he police officer stared through the glass at the brightly lit, ever-so-simple room. In fact, it was one of the brightest rooms that they had here in the building. She assumed the extreme light is designed to be uncomfortable, but somehow it seemed the reverse for her right now. The detainee, seated at the interrogation table seemed to be quite at home, he was slouched over, using one of his arms as a headrest and drumming away on the table. A white male.

Exhaling she placed her hand on the doorknob; the males in the precinct called the first interrogation 'popping your cherry', as she stood there about to penetrate the room so to speak, the police officer wondered if males felt this nervous the first time they lost their virginity. I mean, who knows what'll happen once she's in there? Such a foreign place, she never really realized how much the (male) penis puts it all out there, the periscope of the human sensation submarine so to speak.

"Alright! It's gotta happen sooner or later" she said to herself before confidently twisting the doorknob, and proceeding into the bright room. She made a point not to look away from the suspect as she calmly walked over and took a seat across the table from the suspect. He had a very young face, smooth with a shaven head. He wore the basic 'street' attire, which consisted of an oversized winter coat with a fur outined hood, a pair of baggy jeans and some sort of basketball jersey over a white t-shirt. Amazingly, this style has not seemed to evolve at all like the rest of fashion.

"Ok Mr.. Fontana, here's the deal. You've been brought in on intent to sell, you know the drug laws in the US will nail you to the wall. You give us some information, maybe I can make this little.. incovenience go away." the police officer said sternly. She wasn't sure what to make of her initial speech, I mean it sounded alright.

Mr. Fontana sat up a bit straighter, licking his lips slightly his hazelnut eyes scanned the police officer. She would say that she was a fairly attractive woman, and she knew what a sexual look looked like, and his was definately not one of them. It was as if the boy practiced being interrogated, because she felt naked, revealed under his gaze.

"What's your name? Rookie?" he finally said, with a coy smile.

"Fuck" she thought to herself before finally responding with a stern, "My name is Detective Emilia Ramirez"

Fontana nodded at this, rubbing his chin for a second. "Lemme guess" he started, rubbing his hands together overdramatically, "Small town, High IQ, someone scarred you real good when yews was young" he nodded, rocking back and forth slightly. "Das why you got into dis here work ya girl" he held out his hands, "MMm? Am I's right or not?"

Emilia was stunned, how could this guy know all that? This is impossible! She did not what was worse, her surpise at this suspects knowledge, or her inability to even pinpoint his age. He could easily have been 25, or 18; why hadn't she checked his chart again before coming? "Rookie" she yelled to herself. Trying to keep it together she managed, "How.. How did you know that?"

"Ya wear it on ya face ya girl" he responded, "Look, in yer line of work, you's got ta leave that shit deep in ya mind, you's in love ain't ya?" he leaned forward, "You got stuffed by ya man this morning, and you loved it"

The couldn't even respond.

"Let me spell things out for ya, I respect the law, I know it's gotsta be there, we's all in this together you know, the dealers and you guys. Cept we gots the jails and the pleasure sted of the dental plan and da protection like y'all" he paused for a moment, scanning Emilia's face once again, before going on. "Aight look, I ain't scared a bein here, I know I'm gon be back on the streets eventually, but while I be 'detained' like y'all like to call it, let me tell you a thing or two about what you ain't seein. Girl, I can tell you's a smart one, I ain't wanna see you wing up dead before your time you know what I'm sayin?"

Emilia, wide-eyed, slowly nodded.

"Aight is like this. Da streets is a different world you know? I mean literally, our world don't exist with everyone else. Government, rules, morals, all that shit is an illusion. We gots Kings, Kingdoms, warriors and assasins. Da streets be home to some of the smartest niggas the world has seen, just like y'all employ some of the dumbest motherfuckas the world has been." he paused for a second, glancing to the mirrored glass before continuing. "You think I wanna see some child get mowed down in the streets? I hate evil child raping, innocent killin motherfuckas as much as the next foo, but on the streets shit's gotta get done, just like on the force. There always be the thinkers and the doers, and it always be the doers who fuck up. General can't control all his troops ya know, all that shit, some are rouges, some just disobey, some just be motherfucking cracked out motherfuckas. We be in milkin the world business, I choose the danger and the payoffs, you be in the maintaining illusion business, choose the comfort and the peace of mind. Believe it or not, us 'criminals' believe in justice just as much as y'all" he laughed at this for a moment, "How else y'all think things run so smoothly? The integration between us two groups."

The police officer glanced over to the window for a second, she did not think anyone would be listening if she knew the officer like she did. She did after all, pick this time to 'pop her cherry' for a particular reason. "Go on"

"There ain't no more to be said" the suspect responded, "You want justice? So do I, but ya ain't gonna find it from some judge, or from some rulebook, y'all find it in your heart and it'll make things alot easier for you. Ya gotta accept the rules, and then abandon all fear, all emotion. You wanna play this game and love's gotta come second, it's all gotta come second because if it doesn't it'll get sucked from you or pushed under your skin anyways. If you can't handle this, I suggest you get out of this game girl, take a desk job"

Emilia was finally beginning to get over her initial shock, the guy was smart, but she had to save some face. "You know what, you should like someone numb to the world, justifying your actions moreso to yourself than to me, you think you can just ignore the law?"

Fontana raised an eyebrow at this, something else the police officer couldn't do. "You're talking to a mirror girl. " He stuffed his hands into his coat pockets and looked at her for an extended period of time. "This is the world we live in ya girl, the politicians that run this country employ us, and you trust their law? Who is really the numb one here?"

Wednesday, November 02, 2005

She had made a lot of mistakes in her day, she knew this. With mistakes comes a certain degree of intelligence however. Her son could never understand this. She praised him, even to herself for his doctorate, and subsequent teaching position, but he always made the right choices, starting with his one to run away from home. She couldn't blame him, a kid that smart with a mother like him? It was mainly for this reason that she did not mind that he was not here with her now

"So, Mr... tough guy, how did you get that bruise on your neck?" her stepdaughter, cocking her head to the side and withdrawing the lollypop from her mouth, making sure to get every last bit of juice from the red sphere as she did so.

The random man --who the old woman had to admit, was fairly attractive-- looked around the dimly lit piece of shit apartment hastily and shoved his hands into his pockets. "Look lady I got into a fight... do you think I can get that shit now?" he rocked forward on his heels slightly, nervously from his place within the kitchen, near the door. The kitchen was its own room however the wall dividing it from the living room was missing its top half, thus giving the kitchen an 'open' feeling. He tried not to look directly at the stepdaughter's husband, passed out with the old woman's husband in the living room.

"You want that smack.. do you?" she stepdaughter said in between licks of her lips. She took a step closer. "Do you... wanna give me a smack?" she breathed, bringing her hand up, brushing his crotch before she raised it to place the sucker back in her mouth.

"No... I'll.. just take the smack please"

The young blonde took another half step closer, bringing herself well within the man's personal space, "Oh so you do want to fuck me?"

The old woman pretended not to be watching, but indeed was with full interest.

"Look, Lady... I don't want any trouble ok?

The stepdaughter reached down to grab the man's genitals, the old woman could tell by the look on his face. "If you don't want any trouble, I suggest you stop being worried about that fucko over there in a coma, and take me into the bedroom and fuck my brains out." She let go and stared into his eyes.

The old woman knew what the man was thinking: "For a whacked out addict, she's pretty hot"

"You do that, I'll see what I can do" she said softly, before turning to walk out of the kitchen, the random man giving a good twenty looks to the stepdaughters husband passed out on the couch, next to the old woman’s, before finally following the blonde. "Don't worry; they’re NOT going to wake up"

That was the last thing the old woman heard from either of the two for a couple minutes, but then that changed. The old woman had to say that she envied the stepdaughter, as clearly she was getting what she asked for. The old woman, in her wisdom guessed that this envy would be a temporary thing, at best. The old woman pondered if this particular fellow was simply brazen, or if the stepdaughter was faking it, wanting to get caught. Either way, why hadn't he just threatened to take his business elsewhere?

There must be something truly divine, transcendent in our lover’s sex sounds, because it sliced through the fog of heroin racing through her husbands mind. He snapped awake suddenly, his eyes narrowing with every second it took for his mind to get caught up on things. He stood there for a long time, listening.

Finally he reached for the gun at his belt; he looked at it for a second and then tossed it on the couch and grabbed the backpack on the ground. From within he grabbed a bunch of dime bags and started down the hall.

The old woman listened intently from her run down, yet comfortable chair. She hardly moved from the chair these days, likewise her husband barely moved from his slumber except to shoot up. As she heard the yelling coming from down the hall, she contemplated her situation.

The random man emerged from the bedroom and hastily hurried to put on his pants and shoes before exiting the apartment.

A couple of minutes later the sex sounds started again.

The old woman had made a lot of mistakes in her life, she knew this, but what is a mistake without the logic to illuminate it? She glanced over at her husband, still asleep and she smiled. What is love without the mistakes to illuminate it?