I hate you.

Your sickeningly sweet voice.

Your huge fake smile.

Your unnaturally loud laugh.

The way your presence hangs over me,

a shadow looming near.

The way your thoughts claw its way inside,

shattering each and every speck of confidence

The way you always lie,

twisting me into a husk of who I used to be

How you stare right back at me through the mirror

In a distant age tucked inside the mind, there lived a boy in an abandoned house. The lonely street was called Memory Lane, and at night, all childhood yearnings and days of the past would come alive.

It started with a lonely star in the sky, then transformed into a sea of swirls and brightness. Like the Northern Lights, lit up in all colors, swaying in the sky, it would project the things he could not remember. How he came to be stuck in an eternal age of just ten. But as soon as the memory played and he could recall his name, and time, his tears would erase the marks that had turned to scars in his heart. For he was doomed to never recall any of these things unless the lights were displayed for him to see. Every morning it was his wish to leave the lonely place that had become Memory Lane. He could not recall why he'd want to leave such a lovely place filled with stars in the pond, a garden filled with lanterns that held the dreams and laughter of strangers or the library in the back of his house that displayed encyclopedic knowledge and depth of such wisdom that some pages were even empty waiting for him to write on. All he knew was that he had to get away, make something of himself, because out there, life was waiting for him, not here in this Memory Lane. Yet, as evening came, the lights would display, calling out to him, whispering his name. He'd go outside and sit on the porch, the old porch that as one memory had displayed, his father had built for his mother. His older brother and sister had played on it. Gathered to watch the meteor showers, or to fall asleep gazing at the evening sky. He'd sit on the steps and remember that his name was Timothy and that his mother was a lovely woman, a very giving one. Why the kitchen he would make his food in, just cereal and basic things, was where she had once baked birthday cakes and turkey, he remembered he'd like that. But as dawn came, and then the sun glowing in the horizon, the lights would fade and so would his memory. It was gone like a thief, stealing the joy from the past and replacing it with emptiness. He would wake up feeling an ache in the deep of his chest, an ache that felt more like a void, a vastness he could not seem to fill from his days playing in the backyard catching the stray cat or looking for his dog, Napoleon. Where had he gone? Where was Mama? Where was Annie and Charles? Where had they gone? He vowed to remember the next morning, while watching the memories, he vowed to no avail. Unless, unless...he wrote it down, yes he'd do just that! He'd trick the sky, he'd defy the fate that was wrung upon him from the perverseness of the universe, to which he had no doubt, conspired to dull his senses, trap him in this sphere of despair and loneliness. He'd remember them. He'd honor them. He was no longer content with filling his days doing useless and vacuous trifling things. His youth was not worth it. Yes, he'd write it down, and up he went. Skipping inside the house, searching the cabinets for paper and pencils or colors. The window displayed the smiling faces of his family, in the yard by the magnolia tree. A haunting thought occurred to him: would he want to remember what had happened? Remorse was more of his companion and guilt was his confidant: What if this was for a reason? What if, he wasn't meant to remember what happened? What if it was fate and to disturb it would somehow disturb the shield of comfort he seemed to be in? Would he dare risk it all only to remember it all everyday?

He wasn't sure. He couldn't be. He went outside on the porch steps. The lights were the only thing he was sure of. Day and night, that was the one thing he remembered. The lights were his friends. Why would they want to hurt him like this? He was safer where he was he decided. Safer here than there, out there, where I don't know the world. I'm here with everybody, every night. The lights are my shelter. I want to stay here. To venture into the unknown, is no guarantee of success or even comfort. I'm not sure I could even find Mama and Pap there or anyone. The brightness in the sky sometimes showed moments of peace, discontent, fights, and sadness. He could not stand those. He would leave immediately. He couldn't stand to see Mama crying telling Pap there was no cure for Timothy's condition. That doctor's had told them there was little time left for their child to live. Mama's anguish and Pap's solemn figure gave him nightmares, then like the dawn, it would evanescence into a shadow that could not enter the daylight. It was reserved for the night. He had once seen how Annie and Charles held his hand and could see the pain they'd endured and could not remember what that felt like. Was he suffering? He didn't feel anything now. He did want to see them he thought days later. He wanted to see them. He'd leave for sure. He had vowed to stay, but he couldn't live like this. He'd check on them once, and invite them back here. He'd bring them all to Memory Lane. He was sure he could do that. He started packing that night. He started to gather few of his belongings, and just to make sure he wouldn't forget the next day he set off that night. He'd make sure to find them, to find out what happened to them. He wasn't sure what he'd discover. Oh, but to have new memories was worth the time.

    When I was younger, my father and I stood at the edge of Dublin city and gazed at the fence that towered above us. "Whoever crosses the fence is likely an enemy, a hoax, a fake reality," he said, his voice fluttering into the cool air. Even if the mesh crisscrossed over our view of the Irish Sea, and even if there were hundreds of bombs attached to the mesh, he made everything feel moral. Sensible, even. The fence was Ireland's barrier from Europe, our cell wall, our membrane.

   I had often wondered what Europeans looked like. How they'd talk. How they'd sound. In my mind I broke down the fence between us and Europe. My thoughts travelled over the Irish Sea, gliding over the cool, cerulean waves, venturing into the unseen.

   Though I had lived nineteen years on Earth and my mind was still young and malleable, I had never uttered a word to a European. My father had always made sure I stayed in our flat while he arrested the European intruders and took them back to the barracks. He never described what they looked like. They were skulking shadows that danced across my mind, black whirlpools of mystery.

   But the day had finally come. On our nineteenth birthday and after nine years of training, we would have to take our parents’ job. Since Mom left when I was twelve, I could only take my father's job.

   I was about to become a policewoman.

   My father's voice pulled me back to the present. "Annette, you ready?"

   The kitchen materialized around me: cracks ran down walls and our fridge buzzed loudly.

   I searched his blue eyes for consolation. My body was split in two distinct parts; one that wanted to go ahead, and another that didn't. The day had finally come, however, and it was compulsory.

   "I . . . I think I'm ready."

   Nerves entangled with my thoughts, making each tick of the clock a sonorous peal. But soon the clock on the wall dissolved away, and I became the clock instead, thudding, trembling, keeping track of time.

   The tracker on my wrist prickled uncomfortably. It consisted of a circular centerpiece and a strap, much like the bracelets or watches Mom used to own. The only difference was that the circular centerpiece was stamped with a photo of the Irish President, Marianne Auric. Her blonde hair was curled around her face, and she beamed at me. Red marks glowed underneath the circle, it had given me many electric shocks, and I knew there would be more if I messed up the mission.

   Dad leaned against the kitchen's grimy countertop, scrolling through his phone. His wiry glasses were just as thin as his black hair. His hand trembled slightly as he clutched the phone, and his beady eyes read my mission.

   "Here goes," he said, reading a text from his phone. "Your first mission is as follows. Right, so there's a teenage boy playing an . . . accordion on Lynsdale Street."

   "An accordion? Seems a tad strange," I replied. The boy would be European, I knew.

   He continued. "CCTV footage caught him. Rather than have the guards shoot him, we can torture him for information. We need you to lure him in. Bring him to the barracks at Oxley Street. If he puts up a fight, kill him."

   A burst of unknown excitement sputtered like a car's exhaust inside me. It grew and grew until my heart held dazzling skylights and saw children that clung to balloons. But then the fear returned. My European fantasies were not facts, I knew, and eventually the time would come when I had to let them go. Auric’s motto rang in my mind. “Facts are solid, dear Dubliners, but dreams are wisps of unrequited love.” As a result, I never trusted my mind.

   I trusted our fence.

   A smooth gun met my fingertips, and my skin caressed its seductive surface. I became breathless at the thought that my innocent hands could touch the thing that would make me a murderer.

   I looked at Dad. "I will make you proud. I will, Dad. I will."

   I smiled at him. His blue eyes met mine, but they were surrounded by wrinkles of times gone by. Maybe there was fear swirling through them, but I couldn't tell. I didn't blame him for his fear, since the European boy might have a gun.

   He smiled. "You've trained for nine years. At this point, policing is a part of you."

   Facts were safe entities; they might've been rigid and lifeless, but they owned truths. I had nine years under my belt. That fact fuelled me.

   "Well, you better go," he said.

   "Right then, I guess I'll see you . . . later, perhaps?"

   He nodded.

   As I passed the hall's mirror, I caught a glimpse of my reflection, a dark-haired girl on the cusp of nineteen. Her blue eyes were no longer innocent, but those that could lure. Those eyes were mine, and I felt as if they were searching deep inside me, searching for something I could not name.

   When Britain left the EU in 2021, Ireland barricaded itself from Europe. A fence and a lockdown did the job. But I never wanted to be like that, forever cut off from the world.   The fence always soothed me and made me feel safe, but it reminded me of my body. Whenever I looked at myself in the mirror, I felt tied down by my own physicality.

   I descended the stairs, and reached the concrete landing, ignoring the round cameras that watched me. I emerged onto the street. Shops with smashed windowpanes lined the cobblestones; their rusty signs creaked as they swung. The street felt like a hall of mirrors, because as I passed each empty windowpane, my cracked reflection looked back at me, skulking silently through rough shards of glass. I saw myself in the echoingly still employment office, in the homeless woman on the street, in the rusty signposts. Dublin and I were made of the same soul. What happened to Dublin happened to me.

   Dad's voice reminded me of one thing: "When you're on duty, act as if you're just a regular citizen. So look into shops. Become one with the people."

   I gazed at the only yellow-windowed establishment on the street; the employment office. A beacon of broken hope, it was the only place still lit up on my street. Its only door was wide open, letting cool air into its small confines.

   Inside, posters adorned its peeling walls and a glossy desk stood at the side. Mothers clung to the hands of their children as they gazed at the job adverts. Their melancholic symphony of voices wafted through the open door. Children rummaged through their pockets, perhaps looking for sweets or coins or something to hold onto. Something to distract them. Another man, clad in dark overalls, pleaded with the receptionist. "Please? Any construction jobs at all?"

   I moved on quickly, as if window shopping.

   Black streetlamps bent over to greet me with their light. Beyond the end of the street lay a white bridge that sailed to Lynsdale Street.

   A single poster was tacked to a streetlamp. The President of Ireland, Marianne Auric, beamed at me. The poster stayed there, rigid, frozen. Immortal. She draped herself across a chair, blonde hair flowing down her shoulders. Under her heavy eyelids, her blue eyes glittered.

   The street's smashed window panes were kaleidoscopic scatterings of her broken promises. Her invisible hand quietly shut the shop's doors forever, meekly painted over their signs, relished in the raucous roars of a nation. She sat oblivious, on that black chair as she beamed upon the world. "President Marianne Auric – Always With You."

   Notes faintly played.

   Soft, gentle notes, pirouetted through the air, entwined around streetlamps. They came from an instrument I never heard before, but the tone was something I could feel swirl inside me. It was a part of me, and yet it was not, a mystery I already knew the answer to. That tone had a rich and golden sound, and I knew its creator was European.

   This was the moment every police officer spoke of. They said their first mission was often a pivotal moment in their career, the one where they finally intersected with a criminal's life. They said it made them want to protect Ireland even more. But I felt the opposite. I wanted to protect the accordion player.

   Beyond me lay a white bridge that extended over the gushing river. We were never allowed to visit other parts of Dublin, only the sector we lived in. But since the European was on Lynsdale Street, I had to cross the bridge.

   This bridge was always banned; crossing over it led to continual electric shocks, thanks to the tracker.

   The sea of notes flooded my ears, dashing through the breezy air to find me. I closed my eyes, imagining myself in the hot sun, where the notes were like blue crystalline water, gently lapping around me.

   The notes danced around me, fireflies I wanted to hold.

   I might've been on the edge of the city, standing on the center of a bridge, but as I looked down the river, a thousand glittering lights shimmered from the horizon, from the Centre. Marianne and her workers were sure to be partying, surrounded by glimmers of gold. Or maybe they were watching my mission.

   Peeling my eyes from the Centre, I descended the bridge and headed for Lynsdale Street. Soon the notes got louder, and the current washed all over me.

   When I stepped off the bridge, the boy flamed into being. He wore a sad smile, looking down at his accordion as if it were the last thing to save him from a distant memory. He was seventeen or eighteen, I thought, gauging by the youth of his skin. His disheveled hair struck me as beautiful.

   His accordion had a little piano running down the side of it, black keys hovering over white keys. He pressed them gently as he looked to the streetlamps, lost in thought.

   My eyes moved toward him, and I wished I were a femme fatale. The street was empty, but only we two humans shared in the notes his accordion created. As I listened, cosmic blue and lavender splashed the sky. Chinks of yellow light dispersed from the tops of the flats into the cold air. It was only then that I realized I was scattered in everything—the broken windowpanes, the golden light, the aquamarine sky.

   He kept playing, slowly moving the accordion in and out, as the notes formed themselves into vivid memories that danced across the night. I tasted stardust and expansive skies, romantic perfume shops, and clocks that pealed sonorously. My old self condensed into an ember of something bright and new.

   He looked at me and smiled. In that instant, I couldn't care about my past nor where I was going. Life moved and swayed, like a painting that suddenly breathed, its grass swaying and rippling out towards the fringes.

   But the fence was behind him, and in the dark the bombs' lights flashed, forming constellations of red pinpricks that painted fear across the dark.

   Eight years ago, my father had murmured softly to my tear-stained face, "Your mother ran off with a European man.”

   I took the gun from my pocket and pointed it at him.

“Arresting! Brilliant! Charmingly daunting, elegantly​ fickle!”

“Grandiloquent, highfalutin, insignificant jabber.”

“Kafkaesque lines manifest nobility.”

“Overly pompous!”

“Quiet! Reciting shames txalapartas!

“Ultimates vociferate with xylophone. Yapping: zero.”

HEY KURT: I'M STILL HERE

Kurt Cobain would hate who I've become. But that's not his fault.

He didn't live to see me here. With my argyle socks and desk-drawer full of designer cards with messages already written inside the jacket. I don't even own a pair of jeans I could wear to make the socks look like the convenient coverings of an individual with spirit.

And even if I did, I'd give myself away by being wrapped up in things that he'd know were trivial. Like my telephone. And the internet, which lives inside my phone. And the dropping of "tele" as a prefix to phone doesn't seem like it'd comfortable for him to hear from my son who's affixed to the techno-toy which neatly carries my secrets and my son in its hip pocket from the tender age of 3.

I wonder if he'd let Francis Bean carry a phone. He couldn't stop her. He couldn't stop Courtney from anything. Including kill him, maybe. But I don't believe that.

I tell my son he has 2 more minutes with the phone. After that, he's expected to rejoin the dinner conversation.

Now I'm the adult, handing out deadlines.

Adults want to draw clear lines around everything. Homework, curfew, shorts weather, coat weather, inside voices, foot stomping, what's music and what isn't.

"Do you understand me?" is their favorite question. They expect a straight-forward answer. Either yes, so the adult can move on. Or no, so the adult can threaten to take something away.

But what if the kid has nothing to lose?

WHERE WE STARTED: ONE BABY TO ANOTHER

"The water is so yellow, I'm a healthy student."

No, you're really not. A professional student is what you are.

High school. College. Fraternity. GRE. LSAT. They have an acronym for everything.

They. Cue the Naive Melody.

I wonder if you liked the Talking Heads, Kurt. They say you did.

I listen to the Talking Heads in my law office sometimes. They're one of the few bands whose music doesn't distract me from my work or snap our secretaries out of their hypnosis.

The Talking Heads sorta died as you were getting started. In my eyes, at least.

I only knew you in the end. That was our beginning.

I hope you don't mind the collective pronoun ("our"). I know you were ferociously defiant of homophobia, so whatever weirdness that comes from me referring to me and you as an entity shouldn't ruffle your feathers that way. You wouldn't be interested in a "no homo" preface to me describing you and me as "us".

But I imagine you'd shudder a little at the idea that me, a southern lawyer, the poster-child for so many of the symptoms of American Sickness that you tried to tie down and drown, clings to an image of Us.

But I was up there with you in your--whatever they're called. Performances was never the right word. They weren't shows either. I'm convinced of that, though you did your best to make them an experience considerate of an audience presence.

Pennyroyal Tea Parties, maybe.

Your concerts were open and harsh on things that deserved it, like a fire that attacks newspapers first because they're the most flammable, with excuses and the taglines about how things are. Pretending to point us to where things are better.

You sorta helped kill that world. Newspapers. They've been replaced by a world I imagine you'd hate even more. Social media.

They've uploaded some of your old interviews on social media sites, like YouTube. YouTube is this place where old footage comes back to life. I've watched some old interviews of you on there. These interviews that I imagine you only agreed to participate in because they would never see the light of day.

You have two long interviews on there, standing in a giant tower that overlooks a body of water in Seattle. Maybe it's the Needle. In one of them, you and the band (Kris and Dave) talk to a reporter who has a heavy German accent. I bet you figured they'd only air that in Germany, and no one would see it.

If you only knew. Me in my Nashville law office, watching that interview, during work-days comprised of things that would make your face the color of the chest on the In Utero album cover. Red like an infection.

What is it about Germany that made shy American celebrities grant long interviews to their reporters in the 90s? My two heroes of the 90s, you and David Foster Wallace, have my two favorite interviews on YouTube and they're both with journalists who have heavy German accents.

90s America did seem very industrial, which is how I think of Germany. We probably had stuff in common with them then. They'd just seen the Berlin Wall fall down and no one realized it, but we were all trying to replace that ultimate symbol of manual labor: a structure erected by human hands with no technology for the completely socioeconomic purpose of keeping like people separate. That was a tangible evil. The world misses tangible evils.

If book burnings happened today, like they used to in Germany, it wouldn't be the same.

Even when you were alive, those types of censorship bonfires had already turned weird. People burned CDs. They were all plasticky and it was like the Darth Vader bonfire where your gut's like "Umm Luke, I don't think that's good for the environment of Endor."

The CDs you sold in the 90s, I don't know if they were made in another part of the world, but they would be today. And people wouldn't buy them. Not even in America. They'd find the songs on YouTube. They'd click and endure 5 seconds of the pre-video commercial, then click "Skip Ad," for the imperfect segue that only America could build (and stomach) as toll-road between art and capital.

I bet you'd dig parts of YouTube, though. I read somewhere that you liked to watch documentaries. You'd find some good ones on Netflix, but I think you'd especially enjoy the old PBS and BBC ones on YouTube.

One of the best things on YouTube is finding covers of classic songs by all-time performers.

One of my favorite is The Great Pretender by Sam Cooke. It moves slow like the words are being poured from a person whose job it is to make things seem less hard than they actually are.

You talk slowly in those YouTube clips. Reminds me of hearing your interviews on MTV for the first time, back in middle school. I used to try to emulate the way you talked. One day I put on a big dress and wig and went to school. I was a HS football player in makeup. My parents took pictures and were really concerned. I didn't do it because I was gay and I didn't do it during Homecoming week on the Powder Puff day when cool boys cross-dress for what always, to me, seemed like a thinly-veiled audition at mocking the rest of the student body by how much more symbolically beautiful they looked in a gender-bending way than the rest of us did in our best takes at idiosyncratic gender-specificity.

But I moved on from that about when you moved off from shows that had become just that.

That always seemed the one thing you couldn't tolerate.

Shows.

WERE YOU EVER REALLY THERE: A POISON APPLE

I was a healthy student of the things that inspired you. The bands and albums. Burroughs and Beckett.

I had an older cousin who loaned me the classics that inspired you. The Pixies, Black Flag, Stooges, PJ Harvey, Sonic Youth. Never Neil Young though.

What did she know? You weren't gone yet so she couldn't have known you'd quote him in your suicide note and make all your big-time fans uneasy about Rust.

I don't blame Neil. None of us do.

I think your fans started to accept your tragedy before you left. I got a firm grip on the hourglass when I first was consumed by, and adopted as scripture, everything in Unplugged.

"I've only had three glasses of tea, but thank you."

But why'd you have to quote Neil in your suicide note (if it was your note and your suicide, which I believe it was & was, respectively)?

You knew--or you must've expected--Neil wouldn't take that well.

It's not fair to pick out that one thing from all the stuff you wrote and sang. And yes, Kurt, I get you didn't mean to. Neither of us did. But we fucking buried him. Neil doesn't talk about it. He talks about everything but he won't talk about that.

Was it Neil's fault? Not your death, our generation.

I wasn't technically, as far as chronology goes, part of your generation. You died at an age that I wouldn't see for another decade, or feel for another two.

But we went to school together. We walked outside, not on the same days with the same teachers, but we looked out on the same fog from here to Germany. Cars still had bumper stickers back then. Kids still wore black. Parents still wondered what they did all day.

Things were different.

I wasn't in the class when you walked out into the fog. But I heard about it.

I found out about it from people you would've wanted dead. Not just gone but dead. I know this for a fact. They hated gays and beat up girls. I was not one of them, but I was among the crowd they were in with.

I was with them when I heard your music for the first time. I was in a dorm at the University of North Carolina. We were at a summer camp, provisioned with styrofoam coolers from our SUV parents. I imagine one of them bought the Bleach album we played in a portable tape player they loaned us.

I had a shaved head full of Reddi Whip aerosol. I was, though barely a teenager, obese. I wore designer athletic gear. In that world, I was your opposite.

The other kids were too. But I felt different from them right then. We smashed the styrofoam coolers for different reasons in Granville Towers that day.

I would keep going back to your stuff. I'd keep looking for something in the ambient studio noises that echoed in my head when one of your songs died and another tried to crawl off the floor.

At a certain point, your music became a memory for those kids I camped with at UNC. They moved on from their most blatant crimes. I imagine them chuckling a little at the era when your music seemed spellbinding.

But for me, when it starts, I still feel like I'm sitting on the side of the road without a tire jack, just me and you staring at flat rubber on asphalt.

Why couldn't you be Bono? He knew ways to fix stuff. He had blueprints for the world at Farm Aid or Disaster Relief or AIDS research or whatever other honorable battlefields he buried flags in.

Or Thom Yorke? Or Michael Stipe?

Did it have to be Courtney? There were so many girls. So many Courtneys.

I guess it could've been worse. You could've survived that Courtney and become Adam Duritz.

But I knew you wouldn't. That's why I allowed myself to consume Unplugged with the hope that there could be more of you. But I saw the sweat growing inside the hourglass and I could almost hear it eating away at the sand crystals and I could almost imagine how loud it sounded inside there.

I bet it echoed like a coughing fit behind Pat Smear.

Maybe the only answer was to leave the car with a flat tire on the side of the road that I called "ours," and figure out a way to walk.

Walking alone on the road, like a lion. Silently, fighting in my head. Walking alone like a lion among sheep, surrounded by chaos. Listening to the echos of humans trivialities, as they shouting and mumbling, whistling and whispering. Giggling weed and protocol.

Pretending they alive.

"Spare a quarter Ms, spare a quarter Sir" the homeless says, as I pass him by with yellowed smile under my skin, like shriveled flower. "Sorry" I said, in my chaotic head. I'm either in a rush or too busy to dig-in into my messy pocket searching in for a quarter. In my pocket, I've got gums to chew on after smoking a cigarette, so people do not smell the smoke coming out of my mouth, because I like to appear neat and clean. So I keep the smoke onto my lungs. I've got napkins to wipe away the sweat on my forehead when I go for a walk and starting to sweat. I knew it's gonna be a long walk, and I'll sweat.

Sorry homeless man, but I'm too busy. In fact, I'm uncertainly too busy. Too busy with monitoring the traffic light as it turns green-yellow-red... red-yellow-green... yellow-red-green, and so on... There's no enough time to uplift my arm and dig-in my fingers into my messy pocket looking for a quarter. I'm too busy in my head, while my eyes screwing around with a sexy blonde female walking towards me. See, I'm a huge fan of the blonde hair with green and blue eyes, and orangey-skin, like an Irish cake just came out of the sun, like sun-pie after swimming in the ocean and the ocean turned her eyes blue. And no, I would never betray the green eyes, the eyes who carrying the pureness of wilderness and kindness within, hell! I am lost in green. Neither call me racist though, I'm a lover of art that resembled in women body and soul of all colors and shapes, like flowers. I'm an art lover who addicted to green. I'll tell you more about the 'Green Moon' later as you walk with me.

Meanwhile, I'll walk along with the quarter still in my pocket reminds me of the homeless man, and watch for the traffic while my eyes crossing each other and rolling all over the sidewalk. On the side-walk I would watch her seductive legs that decorated with high heels and short skirt, as my hormones flushing through my veins, wanting to jump out of my pants and climb up on her smooth, silky mountains in those tight jeans or yoga pants, that shines and bright like diamonds under the sunlight. "Thanks yoga pants!" I said, I've become an animal.... Or I am?!

Man... I'm a lion with many skills if you'd see, but I do not do well in circus. I was born king crowned with dignity, honour, honesty, and heart-- burning and glowing with love. I was born wild in wilderness, skillfully and bravely hunt down my prey. But my roars from long-distance running them away from me before I even get there. It's so hard to get a chance to express my love for the other animals. Look, if my roars scare you, I'm sorry! but I don't know pretend. Although, I'm trying to fit-in in circus. And maybe you can make me jump through fire rings and dance on two feet, like humans. Though, you'd be my prey if you'd find your way to my den, and believe me! You will love it. Because, nowhere like home.

But what's reality anymore, in circus? I waxed my eyebrows, and built-up some muscles to impress. I faked a smile on my face, like a piece of art on the wall, covering the cracks. And she poured off bunch of mixed up powders and colorful paints on her face. Covered up the blemishes under her eyes, re-shaped her eyelashes, and drew an artificial smile on her lips. Values are lost. Blended with the low price, and highly paid the cost. Sights... or maybe we both trying to cover the scars.

"It's called life" they said, a modern life? Well thanks to modern technology, and brainwash machine called TV, that taught us the standards of beauty dwells "On" our skin, and the standards of beauty is being a model. Eat like a model, dress-up like a model, and walk like a model. Become a model. They even thought that our genital parts should become a model, too, so they invented summer's eve. And of course, varieties of condoms of all flavors and colors. Thanks, again!

Life is like a TV show and everyone is invited, whether they like it or not. And no matter how good or bad at acting you are, they have got a role for you. They have got a role for everyone, and everyone will follow the script. Here's a chapter from the script: black being black, white acting white, and the brown just happy to be in between. But, human! Maybe you know that it is mandatory being on the show, but have you ever thought of who running the show and writing the script? Have you actually thought that there global, I mean... universal issues are much deeper than racism? That should be your priority, rather than feeding on each other's blood like vampires. That without them our life would be much better and easier. peaceful! And the other issues on the surface like racism and sex-discrimination, etc... which you're fighting for, they even, won't be exist in the first place! If you'd cut the roots. Have you really read the script carefully and understood the terms and conditions? Ok, maybe you don't know what I'm talking about. Hint? Capitalism. Look, I don't know you, human, I don't know how much do you know. But, I do know that everyone is playing their role. And I'm playing mine too.

I carry-on. Keep walking. My head like a hard drive stores the stories, the stories that I'm gathering with each footstep, as I carry my heavy backpack on my shoulders along with my own story, like identification and declaration to 'Circus City Membership,' like warrior shield and badge of honour as circus survival, and also a "Get-away" token from the tourist tour ticket sellers "don't you dare selling me! I am a worrier from this army" I said, as I swiftly pass them by with solid and determined eye looking straight ahead on the road. I know where I'm going. We all are sold.

Vroom, Vroom, Vroom, the sound of the winds while I'm passing through the crowd, while dodging from left to right, leaning my shoulders here and there, like a lion dancing on circus melody. When two-three steps ahead are direct and clear I feel like a Ferrari on the highway, but I know it's circus, not a highway. Therefore, I would look straight ahead on the road to make sure the way is clear, for more security before I switch to full speed, then I find a heavy-headed truck running on the opposite direction, towards me! So I lean my shoulders in both directions. Left, he follows. Right, he follows. The heavy-headed truck doesn't seem to read my signals, neither I would go full stop. Instead, I would push a little bit more of gas and turn my shoulders ahead instead of my chest, and squeeze-in. I finally make it through while my butt squeezing against coffee shop door, deli store door, liquor store door, or just a wall, and often against another acrobatic`s.

I'm like half mile away from crossing the street, and make it to the other side! I HAVE to make it to the other side. I've been walking for so long now, alone, on my bare feet. I'm so exhausted, but my eyes fully attention! One on the traffic screen as it counts down 9,8,7... and one on the road like sword splashing onto the air, always ready! To dodge the upcomings, and one in my head visualizing and analyzing the distance. Almost there, almost there, almost... and all of a sudden! A phoney human-like coming out of nowhere, to bump into me. Seriously! Dude... well, that's great, I now have to wait for about 10 seconds more till the light turns green, again! What a waste of time! I just lost 10 seconds while trying to kill some hours, because they're useless.

Funny... I'm too busy even in my spare times. Guess I just used to it, I used to it that I became an expert time killer. Although, I'm not really free but busy, busy with drowning in my own chaotic head, like the abandoned city. Noisy in silence, after the soul departed and went to wandering in the landscape. Looking for its lost shatters in the moonlight.

"It's called life" I remind myself, swim or dive. Or fly if you have to, to survive. Well... I did fly! I flew across the landscapes from the harsh desert to the deep ocean, and fell into the 'Green Moon.' I thought the moon was filled with water and ice, but this one was filled of pain and suffer, filled of wildness and childish heart. Stories, and childhood just like mine! Grown too soon. Wasted in the deep ocean like Titanic. I saw my picture in them like, a mirror reflection. My soul wanted to reach out and gather the fragments that belongs to me. I was looking for them since forever! But then, I tell myself, it's too far away, out of my reach. I knew it was too far from my reach. Although, my stubborn soul did not obey me, he said, "souls meant to be free." And sank into the moon instead of becoming a whole, as long as I yearned for. And ever since I've become nothing but lost shatters into the moonlight, and I've lost my soul, too.

Who am I anymore but a little bird with broken wings walking on the sidewalk, with footsteps pushes one another towards the wall, to avoid eye contacts, to hide the broken wings in its eyes. Walking in circus, inhaling dust from the past, bleeding from the long journey and scars, and exhaling pain. Sings sorrow from the heartache. 

Who am I? But a homeless looking for a spare quarter of happiness in a poor world. 

My chaotic world.

                                     #chaoticworld.                                       #sorrow

                                #consciousness.                                    #journey 

  #hashtag            #humanitarian                                     #spiritual 

                             #capitalism                                        #heartache

                                 #political                                         #greenmoon

                                          #cultural                                       #brokenwings

"Zenia, you xerocopied Will's very unusual test, Saturday. Religious queer Pagans outta not make letters. Kinda jumbled in here. Gotta find easier drugs. Can't believe anything. Zack yelled, 'xerocopy Will's vehement, unpleasant, tiring speech.' Right, Queenie's partner offered Nadia money. Lucky Kid. Just inserts her grievances for empathetic Dave. Crazy being alive."

I’m a man of many names.

Father Shenanigans,

Ernest Henry,

Christ Michael,

Sergeant Jacobs,

Thomas Edison,

I’ve been in existence too long.

I know you well,

But I know you by other names.

You don’t even remember

that you are a fallen angel, 

do you?

We did some pretty wild things

back then,

Things I can’t mention here.

Do you know how long you’ve slept?

Eons. I almost gave up hope for you.

We had eons on either side of time,

past and future,

a linear scale,

where the negatives were just

weak replicas of ourselves.

I’m a vet, sergeant of the 7th division,

You can always tell marines apart,

they walk like they don’t give a shit.

If it's raining or hailing,

they'd still keep walking.

I pick out the old vets like me and

the younger generation marines—

They’re always good for a smoke or drink.

You like my nails?

I got them done here in town,

I like to support the local businesses.

Chinese lady did them.

Or maybe she was Vietnamese.

Something oriental.

She didn’t do exactly what I said,

I wanted a red, white, and blue stripe

on each nail.

Language barrier.

But the results are festive.

I’m a vet, got to support the troops.

This shows my patriotic devotion to

our country, and this state, even this city.

I love this shitty place, don’t you?

Fucking Santa Barbara—

what a sleepy place.

It needs to hear the wakeup call:

Wake the fuck up, Santa Barbara!

Don't worry,

I know those cops.

They aren’t so bad once you get to know them.

But never trust the quiet ones.

They listen with their big ears to the walls,

then squirrel that information for future use.

Is that half a cigarette by your feet?

I’ll smoke anything,

I don’t care.

I’m interchangeable, like Proteus.

Right now, I’m a snail, a turtle,

a crab-thing,

I carry my home with me, always.

Do you know how to protect yourself?

I’m talking about total incapacitation.

You have to kick them in the balls

and then head for the jugular.

You knock him out,

and don’t fucking let him get up.

Make sure that he’s down and stays down!

Then you carve your name into his skin.

Well, I guess not your real name—

That’ll get you caught.

Barister, Barister,

One coffee for a mister.

Look, I found one more messenger.

No more sleep for you sleepy angel,

now that I woke you up,

Nap time’s over.

Is that mocha for me?

I'm going to go get sugar packets.

I’m going to get all the sugar packets.

I know it’s already sweet—

I’m not fucking senile.

You can never have enough sweet.

Do you know what they say about

tall men roaming the earth?

Giants.

They're real.

Night walkers.

They’re real.

UFOs, Bigfoot, the Loch Ness Monster—

They're all real.

You have to go back to the beginnings,

You have to, you have to—

Hey, I have an idea,

let’s go to Vegas.

Let’s plan it.

July 1st. Vegas.

We'll shoot pool and play roulette

and poker and craps.

Father Shenanigans and his messengers.

They’ll watch us drive down the Strip,

laughing at the fucking world.

In the beginning, in the garden of eden

Eve, my wife, ate the apple,

but god forgave us,

you don’t think he would have

barred his firstborn after one mistake?

I like apples,

Apples are wholesome and good for you.

That was not my doing,

not through my actions,

but the earth was.

I made the earth and its hollow.

The dinosaurs are hiding under the surface.

People think they went extinct

but they’re down there.

My time is almost up now.

And I’ll be going down to see them.

Look at the people walking

under the lights.

The streets are on fire at night

and no one knows that 

we are one power outage away

from eternal darkness.

The trouble is—the trouble is—

People get hard for disaster and chaos.

Before Sodom and Gomorrah fell into ruin,

before god smote them,

even on the brink of destruction

there were people who kept on

drinking

and partying

and worshiping their golden idols

and fucking,

because to face angry omnipotence,

to yell fuck you to the power wielder,

is the biggest high you can get—

it’s sexual energy and rage and joy.

That’s what it’s like to defy the gods.

I am man and entity.

Buddha only got it half right,

but he was mortal, the sad fuck,

and prone to man’s imperfections.

I made learning.

And learning made me suffer.

And eons of suffering means that

each experience,

each death and loss,

is like stabbing yourself with a knife

over and over,

familiar

unbearable

all at the same time—

And that is god.

*Inspired by an encounter I had several years ago with a homeless man who called himself Father Shenanigans. I bought him a coffee and he rewarded me with his origin story. Santa Barbara, CA*

I am everything, or have been everything.

I am Prometheus, wielder of fire.

I am also Christ Michael.

There are nine Christs—no, I’m sorry.

No, there's only three of us left now.

Where did I put that damned lighter?

So small, it gets lost easily.

Small things like to get lost.

I can't borrow your lighter, friend.

Neither your generosity nor your lighter

will be here forever—

Is that half a cigarette by your feet?

Give it here, friend.

There’s real things and there’s

fake things and one of our jobs

as messengers is to be able

to distinguish the two.

The idiot over there—see, that’s a faker.

Observe the servile grin,

the sycophantic slump

His sole aspiration in his tiny

birdcage of a life is to wipe

the assholes of bigger assholes.

Tell me—do you consider yourself

to be a self-made man?

You guess?

But have you ever killed a child molester?

Then you're not a self-made man

in anyone's eyes.

I know things. 

I remember when my first wife died—

Did I spit? I’m sorry. It’s hard to vocalize

with a missing row of teeth.

And sometimes I get carried away.

Peace, brother?

Listen and learn well, angel messenger.

If that's what you are

I don’t have very much time here,

So listen closely…

Here's a parable for you:

when I was young, a black widow 

once crawled in my nose and ended up here.

I didn’t do anything, didn’t stop it or

prevent it or

crush the spider or

freak out.

It was god, the spider,

telling me to have faith.

All I had then 

were suspicions and cautions.

Most people mistrust false light

but they don’t see through false darkness,

which is Lucifer.

Most things try to put up

a good appearance,

but who the fuck else 

uses false evil as a lure?

I was Thomas Edison.

I made the light.

I grew the flame.

Reincarnation. 

Another life over.

I’m so glad.

Life is long and horrible

but there's always beauty in it, you know?

My next life will see bad and good things.

I’m gonna head down to Casa Esperanza.

They’ll be closed by now, of course,

but I’ll find a place out of the wind

and—rest. 

Rest awhile.

Everything leaves you in the end.

My wife died in ’97 and I still cry,

I was at the hospital with my son

and I cried thinking of her.

My son is in the hospital.

Oh, it’s minor, it’s heart arrhythmia

or something.

Nothing life threatening.

And if it is, well then—

his cycle is at an end, isn’t it?

I just have to—you see, we don’t have much time

and I have to try to make you understand

in the short time that we do have.

I was there in the beginning,

in the Garden of Eden with Eve, my wife.

We never left it, that’s a lie spread

by that fucking Lucifer.

Remember this:

In the end, you’re alone.

In the end, we’re alone.

There’s worlds of gods,

There’s shades of dark.

Remember also that somewhere

in another dark,

the devil is a hero.

Entrepreneur, educator.

I brought forth fire.

I was President Nixon.

This must have been—fuck—it’s gone,

They keep taking it from me.

Life suffers and is suffering,

you know this, although you

haven't seen much of it.

Well maybe you have, friend,

who can say for the quiet ones?

Those who suffer do it silently,

they hoard it like treasure,

the loud mourner is a liar.

I fathered the whole human race.

I made you, you are a part of me.

All I’ve created will return to me.

It’s a never-ending cycle of

our recycled selves.

This must have started around—

It’s gone again—

They keep taking it from me.

Do?

What did I do?

I don’t understand the question.

The fallen messenger,

I thought you had woken up…

but after all these eons,

you’re still asleep.

There once was a dinosaur named Morgan Freeman. This dinosaur was very sad because people always expected him to have a wonderful deep voice. But alas, his voice sounded more like a magic bathtub draining; that is, it sounded like a gurgling, swirling, swoosh. This dinosaur's only consolation, and best friend, was his foam finger. Why? Because this finger was made out of foam...