There is a sin

coming up second

to rape

and sitting right above

murder

and it’s the cardinal sin

of being boring.

There is no shortage

of boring damned people,

an extreme surplus of them.

They have been ruining

the world

and collapsing civilizations

since their have been civilizations

worth collapsing.

Interesting men

have always gone to war

to run their bayonets through

other interesting men

because of the needs of

boring men to feel

adequate

to grab at other

sources of power due to

their lack of being something on

their own.

Boring men

destroy interesting women

so a man with more

doesn’t steal them away

and leave him with

his dick in his his hand

and boring women

erode interesting men

from the inside

because when they

fell

In love with him for his

ways

They didn’t expect it

to be so hard to

outshine him

so they decide he

is an oppressor

and start to sharpen the

guillotine slat.

Boring people wage

terrorism

on the others of us

every day with their woes

and their boring cancerous

conversation and it chews

at the rest of our contentment

with living.

We see their rules

and their governments

and their sycophantic societies

and we decide we’d rather

be somewhere else

because if they are right

it’s too much to bear

being wrong.

So we grab

interesting tools

built by interesting

gunsmiths

and we cross the

crevasse

of fear and unknowing

and make an interesting scene

for someone else

to find

and wonder:

’How could someone do

something like that?

What a coward.

Was he sick?

Look at these scribblings

on every surface

and all those books!

He must have been sick!

Yes. He surely was.

My goodness.

Goodness me.

Anyway,

I have to get this over with.

The game is on at 7.

We (they) are playing the

(Whatever’s).’

cardinal sin numero dos.

“It’s getting hot. Let me drive you guys.” My mom called from her home office.

“You know, I could always drive… the library is not that far…” I had to try.

“Nope. It’s only a permit. Besides, you know you can’t drive with your brother in the car.”

Crap. It’s only two weeks until my driver’s license appointment.

“Okay," I sigh loudly "We’re hoofin’ it. No big deal.”

“Wear hats and take water bottles. Text me when you get there. Keep an eye on your brother.” She pleaded, peeking her head out of her office doorway.

Like I wouldn’t. It’s all I ever do: keep an eye on The Oblivious One. My mom clings to worry like a talisman. As if letting it slip from her hands meant inviting “something bad” to happen.

“Okay, Safety Sue…” I mumbled under my breath, walking away.

“I heard that.”

Wow. How did she even hear that? Her hearing is as stellar as ever.

“Love you, Mom.”

“Bye Momma!” My little brother called out in his annoying Texan twang as we left. His voice had changed recently, but it still cracked in strange places when he spoke. Freaking hilarious when it did. And when is he going to stop calling her “Momma”, like a baby? Gross.

Dear God, please tell me I was not that awkward when I was that age.

We walked out of our planned community and onto the main road. Four lanes and a center turning lane. I wished I were driving instead.

I heard the honking ahead of us before I could see what was happening. The danger soon came into view. A white, flatbed work-type truck was driving erratically and too fast. Weaving into oncoming traffic, traveling in our direction.

SHIT. No time.No time.No time.

I looked at my brother, walking slowly—always so damn slow! Fumbling with his water bottle lid. Not even paying attention to his surroundings as usual! Can he not hear the commotion?! I felt instant annoyance and gripping fear.

Unless the truck suddenly did something completing unexpected and even possibly defied physics, it was going to hit us. Immediately. I thought about Trig class. Yeah. I didn’t need any fancy calculations right now to tell me we were about to get crushed.

No time.No time. We’re about to die RIGHT NOW.

I grabbed my little brother by the scruff of his t-shirt and by the back waist of his jeans. I hefted his thin body roughly over the guardrail on our right, swearing at myself for skipping the bench press lately. He let out a strangled, mixed cry of surprise and anger. His cry quickly morphed into noises of pain as he landed, tumbling violently down a slight embankment.

Tuck and roll, bro. Protect your face and head. We’ll worry about the rest later.

I heard the truck’s engine nearing as I remembered that hurdles were not my event. Turns out, they’re even harder to pull off from a standing position. I didn’t clear it. My left foot caught on the guardrail. I tensed up, not knowing which impact to expect first: the ground or the speeding truck.

Time’s up.

I know a lot of people say their lives flash before their eyes when they are in mortal danger. That wasn’t the case for me. Besides rapid-fire associations having to do with the immediate situation at hand, all my memories were of my little brother:

Feeding him as a baby.

Helping him take his first wobbly steps.

Cutting food in half and giving him the smaller piece.

Pushing him on the swings at the park.

Me taking his Legos.

Him taking my Naruto books.

My jealousy of how he could pick up any instrument and play it skillfully.

The two of us sneaking candy into the movie theater.

Laughing at stupid videos together on family road trips.

All I knew at that moment was that I could not let anything happen to him. I didn’t even think of myself for once. I thought of the worry in my mom’s eyes this morning before we left. I thought of how I’d rather die than have to tell her I had lost my little brother.

I tumbled hard as the sound of twisting metal and splintering wood took residence in my ears alongside the pounding whoosh of my rapid pulse. I had come to rest in a patch of fading bluebonnets, hurting, but alive. My little brother was now sitting up, rubbing his bloody elbow and taking inventory of the damage to his knee. He looked around for his glasses that had been knocked off during his fall. I hurt all over, but I’d take a look at my injuries later. I helped my brother to his feet. People were now gathering around the accident scene on the hillside just above us, trying to help the trapped driver, and calling for EMS.

“Whoa… Momma’s gonna freak OUT, right?”

I paused, wondering if there was any way we could NOT tell her. Negative.

“You bet your ass she will. You have no idea.”

Not solid

In sips and starts

I feel more human

Am I human?

I mean

I got food

It’s in a box

I apologize

To my food

I hate

Being in a box

Yet

I love

Being ingested

Am I food?

Am I human?

Is lunch real

Or a societal construct

Created

So you will conform

To an 8 hour workday

If lunch

Is liquid

Are you bucking the system

Or feeding it your soul?

Truly a tale of extremes, my friend. It breaks my heart to be reminded of that self-afflicted torment. Allow me to suggest an alternative: Momus, not Prometheus, is probably a more likely fit. For the mistake of finding Aphrodite the only one worthy and capable, thus deserving, of his (or anyone's) admiration, he torments himself and any around him for their falling short of acceptability. Love, in life, can seem a lottery of hearts, and we hear tales of those who profess to have won. They present themselves to mock our loneliness. Just remember that lottery winners pay heavy taxes--it's not as it appears on the surface. The tales of pure love are often tall, and just as children dream of astronauts and princesses, our mature dreams of passion and love can make our goal of a kindred spirit unrealistically lofty as well.

When we were young, our fathers put pressure on us to be our best, and the more intense the pressure, and the higher the expectations, the more likely we were to fall short. Why should a lover's engagement be any different? We are all but humans, not gods. To expect a commitment, especially to one who loves so deeply as you, to knowing every thread of your soul, to not only bringing forth her own very best, but to inspiring and motivating your very best as well--that's an expectation to rival our fathers' proudest dreams--as if we could ever achieve them.

And streets are lined with tents and sleeping bags--littered with the punished souls who were not granted their winning lottery tickets. I wonder if they look at people passing by--struggling day-to-day, working tirelessly, doing whatever it takes to feed their children, pay their mortgages, and stretch with all their might to reach just one more rung--and think, "Those lucky bastards!" And all the people passing by could pick out this soul or that, give them their days and their nights and their worries; but in reality, they will more likely pick out any one of those souls, and though they may search desperately for some speck of hope, end up thinking, "Why would I give a man such as this anything more than a few bucks for lunch?"

Those who wander the alleys and defecate in the streets so often ramble to themselves, flailing their arms and cursing every last thing, including the wind, are really quite similar to the politicians and lawyers with their arguments and speeches... "Listen, all who are near! Hear me and know this! For anything short of total agreement with all I say or believe, is..." what did you call it? "Mouths full of platitudes, meaningless blabbering with no basis in reality." To be perfectly honest, that was my favorite part--I've always had a soft spot for fatalism.

In truth, I was once you. I think a lot of people have been (if I may risk using myself as the norm). I'd wished for too long to believe that wishes come true. I considered for hours what I, too, called fate. And I threw it all on the winds and accepted it as my own. Then the very next day, The Boss came into my life, on what seemed like chance. It wasn't perfect or easy or completing or any other extremes but one-- it was hard work-- not hard in that I had to complete grandiose tasks or make life-changing sacrifices; it was hard in that I had to tell myself "yes" when so many times I thought "no." I convinced myself "stay" when my pride told me "go." I realized that this woman was not going to magically bring out my best, but that her love was going to require it--it was my choice, and my responsibility, to bring my best out of myself.

You see, my friend, it wasn't fate or karma which stood in my way--it was my own image of a love I didn't realize I had to earn to achieve--my unearned Aphrodite. In fact, truly, looking back, I've never met a man, woman, or child who I could not love--I only failed to allow it. I expected perfection and weighed each lover on that scale--not that they never had a chance--I just never gave them one. Those who win lotteries so often end up broke again, because their investment was only a dollar or two; but those who invest every ounce of their being into building a fortune others yearn to possess--a treasure they know through and through, which required their best and provided a fortune in return--they are the ones who will never, ever curse the wind.

(Robert Frost was arguably the finest classical style poet of the 20th century. I would never put myself at his level, but this one does capture a little of the feel of his work.)

To greet the dawn, I crossed a meadow green,

still blanketed in jewels of morning dew.

I sat upon a rock, still and serene,

and watched the sky transform from black to blue.

Even before the silhouettes of trees

defined the border of the unborn sky,

I heard the morning song of chickadees

and listened as a loon bid night goodbye.

The entrance of the sun brought colors forth

in hues that brightened slow from dark to light;

'twas not for me to judge this beauty's worth,

but merely to record the glorious sight,

and then to make my way from whence I'd come,

with miles to walk to find my way back home.

-------------------------

© 2023 - dustygrein

You told me the truth. I should have listened:

“I’m radioactive dog shit to women.”

At the time, I chided you for saying such a terrible thing about yourself. However, I would eventually learn the truth. I had all the puzzle pieces in my possession, I just didn’t realize it yet. I am a bit slow in areas of the heart. Even when logic is screaming right in my Pollyanna face.

When I did snap those pieces together, the picture sickened me.

You hate all women. They are either “demonic”, borderline personality disordered, narcissistic feminists (your favorite way to diagnose every female around you), or they are insipid, bleating sheep. You hate them all.

Click

You are at odds with everyone in every single area of your life, but curiously, it’s never by your doing. At odds with your work, your church, your family, your ex, your kids, your friends, and society in general. But somehow, it’s always THEM. You have zero self-accountability. None.

Click

You engaged someone in a shared incestuous fantasy with possibly even pedophilic undertones with no regret. You eagerly became one of her many “pets” when a morally upright and psychologically sound MAN would have blocked an individual like that immediately as soon as he realized what was going on with her. When confronted, you became defensive, “It’s in the aether,” you said. You were quick to downplay the gravity and implications of your sick compulsions. You are both sick fucks and should seek help. Yes, this revelation was the ultimate deal-breaker for me. I cannot and will not associate with this depravity.

Click

We don’t speak any longer (thank God) and I’m sure if anyone were to ask you, I was 100% the problem. You’d tell them how I ended up being a covert narcissist and tricked you. Yes… Go ahead and place me on that huge shelf alongside every other evil woman who has ever wronged you in your poor, victimized life.

I'm not perfect, but I own every tender morsel of my bullshit. I don't cower behind the perceived ill actions of others or behind circumstances. I OWN what's mine. The weak-minded make excuses and hide.

I’ve scraped the memory of you off on the curb and on the lawn the best I could, but I ended up throwing those shoes away anyhow. The nausea comes in waves. The sight of your name in print, or hearing it spoken makes me fight the urge to vomit. Sequela of the initial exposure.

The radiation dose was not fatal. However, it was more than enough to sicken me.

"Just renounce your God,"

. . . the heretic said,

"then I'll end this pain,

. . . and you shall be free."

I knew in my heart

. . . I'd rather be dead

than betray the Lord

. . . who died to save me.

In my mind I saw

. . . my true love, my wife,

and was not afraid

. . . to face my own death.

I said not a word

. . . though it meant my life,

but held my head high

. . . and took my last breath.

-------------------------

© 2023 - dustygrein

not all the crusading knights made it back home...

Author's Note: This poem was crafted in a form of my own creation, which allowed the prompt line to be used as written. The form is written in octaves, has a seldom used meter, and an even line rhymes scheme.

The meter, amphibracic dimeter catalectic, is purposely stilted and has 5 syllables, (tap, THUMP, tap, tap, THUMP). The rhyme pattern is [x a x b x a x b]. The formatting was difficult, since the even lines need to be indented, but the flow stayed true, and the scene played out. -- DG

In darkest night a single shot rang out,

a body lay upon the preacher's stage;

the pages of a Bible strewn about

were evidence of some unholy rage.

My job it was, to solve these heinous crimes—

the holy dead man here was not the first.

Though I possessed a sharp deductive mind,

it had become my blessing, and my curse.

These men were foolishly all targeted

by some poor fool, in superstitious zeal,

who used a silver bullet to strike dead

the werewolves they must have believed were real.

The true sadness was one they'd never know,

as in the moonlight, I felt my fangs grow.

----------------------

© 2023 dustygrein

As I sit here not quite sleeping, in the comfort of my chair,

while the fire’s warmth is keeping wintry drafts out of the air,

both my eyes are slowly blinking and their surface starts to glaze;

Slowly I feel my chin sinking, here before the crackling blaze.

Lo, the moonlight’s stealthy creeping ’cross the window’s icy stare

as I sit here, not quite sleeping in the comfort of my chair.

In my mind’s eye daydreams dawning as the room begins to blur.

Gritty eyes and languid yawning; my surrender seems assured.

Bands of flick’ring firelight throwing spectral shadows on the wall,

heavy drowsiness keeps growing, though I’m trying not to fall.

As I sit here, not quite sleeping in the comfort of my chair,

swirled thoughts like hounds are leaping, chasing an elusive hare.

Neither wide awake nor snoozing, silent lullabies float by

consciousness I’m gradually losing; breathing stretches into sighs

quiet minutes by me sweeping. Honestly, I just don’t care

as I sit here, not quite sleeping in the comfort of my chair.

------------------------

© 2016 - dustygrein

This form, the quatern, is an old French form that still lends itself well to small stories, using the strength of that cascading refrained line. Most quaterns are written using 8 sylllables without rhymes, but this one does rhyme in [a a b b] format, and was written in a little used meter. tertius paeonic tetrameter, catalectic.

I live in the gayborhood. For pride month, they repainted the lines (There are rainbows painted at the intersections). It got me thinking. Should I repaint my lines? What lines do I cross, or not cross, that I should reevaluate? There is magic in renewal. Is there not? What if I cross lines I should stop crossing, and cross lines I should have been exploring why they even fucking exist in the first place? What if lines that were faded, could be repainted, and everyone would see something new? What if I saw something new? What if I saw you?