This is something like a love letter. This is probably something like a rant. This is too many words, brain-spillage. This is not poetry. This is not prose. I am sorry if that is what you were expecting today. I’m sorry if I am not what you were expecting today. I am not what you need. I am I. I am probably not what you were expecting today. I am single-drop hemoglobin in vast, ocean-endless veins. You are type-O carrying while I am AB-incompatible, toxic. I am I. I am I, inside of I. And I tend to lack the propensity required to carry on conversations. I tend to lack the emotional drive to lend myself to others more than just temporarily. I am I, internal-searching. I am I, inward-facing. This is expulsion. Evac/Recharge. Evac/Recharge. I am lack of responsibility for you. Do not leave your feelings in my hands. Do not expect me to hold water or sand. I am sieve. I am leaking. I am not fit for holding. I am vessel of me. I am awareness-raised yet surprise-unwarranted. When I say I am inconvenient. When I say I am unreliable. When I say I am lacking. I am dissociating. I am I. Please believe me.

Suburban gods dwell in dumpsters and much like all others forget to make any appearance

They convene with the rats

Or maybe not at all

Probably not at all

Hum hallelujah

But I’ve become acquainted with the way the light hits my eyes just right

With the way my lacking seems to glow a bit brighter than the homes of the homeless

With the way that my sweat creates more miracles than I’ve seen spew out of churches

You ask me to drop to my knees

When all that I’ve learned is that falling is for standing back up

Press my shoulders with hardship

I will not pray

The dictionary says:

A small fiery particle thrown off from a fire, alight in ashes, or produced by striking together two hard surfaces such as metal or stone.

My own personal definition:

A spark is the beginning of a hot and heavy relationship with another individual.

Example sentence:

Twenty years later and he still lights the spark that sets my soul on fire.

The lad wandered....

Into the forest~deep

Searching—

For his weapon.....

Where was the sword?

He hoped he’d find it.

His eyes caught

Something bright ‘n’

Dazzling in the ground.

A doubloon!

The minute the

Coin was in his hand-

He was no longer

In the forest,

But in a city of gold.

The lad stared at the

Golden paradise,

Such a grand place!

He smiled at

All the shiny

Paths, & splendor.

Then he walked

Over to the palace.

He thought to himself:

Why was the place empty?

There was no one

To give him a tour of the city.

After a short while,

The sun began to set.

The ground started to shake.

He looked around him..

Piles of bones rattled ’bout

Forming a skeleton army!

The lad felt beads of sweat

Trickling down his forehead,

As the skeletons drew closer

They moved in rhythm

Even sliding toward him.

He was amazed & terrified!

He begged them to let him go.

The skeletons slapped their knees

Then chuckled & shook their heads.

Here was another human

To add to the ones that

Had stumbled into their city.

They came with a feeling-

Of loss, looking for something

That was precious to them.

When they find the gold

Its always hard for them to

Not seize it for themselves

It is too late for them now

To turn back and head home

They are a part of the golden city!

#LaVilleD’or.

Inspired by the legend/myth: El Dorado.

Why can't we just place a number of Hurricane-Free Zone signs all over the coastal areas of the United States. Doesn't that always work?

The greatest political tactic - Permit your enemies to speak whenever they wish, about anything they wish, allow them their Constitutionally protected rights of free speech to bash the Constitution and free speech rights, bestow loyalty to foreign governments, labor for excessive taxation, exalt the benefits of those who kill and permit the murder of infants, extol the advantages of an oil-free 17th century economy, permit enemies of the US to acquire nuclear weapons, and lie about their involvement in a failed coup d’état. You will be blamed for listening to the evil they espouse. You will be charged for the evil they have planned. You will be branded for resisting this evil they push. You will even be accused of treasonous acts by the very same people committing the same treasonous acts they advocate, but you, and everyone else, will see them expose themselves for what they truly are: petty totalitarians who cannot survive without an ill-educated, un-armed, un-questioning populace that needs to be herded like the sheep (slaves) these politicians require to be half of the people they could have been in their race to the top instead of their journey to the bottom.

Has Hillary Clinton copyrighted the quote, "Give that Man a Suicide"? It could be worth millions on user fees and royalties alone.

Q: What did Ilhan Omar's husband say when he discovered she was cheating on him?

A: "I'm telling mom!"

Last time I checked, President Trump hasn't been this far behind in the polls since the night America elected him President of the United States.

Q: How can Hiroshima rebuild from a nuclear attack faster than Detroit from a booming economy?

A: Hiroshima never elected a Democratic Mayor.

Would the media create a Category 6 storm if a Republican created a film entitled, "The Death of a President" involving the assassination of President Obama instead of President Bush? Would it still receive critical reviews and be nominated for an Oscar?

Would the media create a Category 6 storm if a Republican created a film entitled, "The Hunt" in which wealthy Republicans lure unsuspecting Democrats into isolation so they may be hunted and murdered to the cheers of audiences? Would such a film be held under-the-radar until publically screened? Would the director feign cluelessness about any negative reaction even existing? Will it be nominated for an Oscar? Only time (and not the media) will tell.

Has anyone copywrited the quote, "Rules for Us, Rules for Them"? It could be worth millions on user fees and royalties alone.

My brush titters against paper, and colors run. I let them have their freedom to churn and explore each other. No better way to learn to depict a wave than to experience being one. Yet, bristles against the page, I divert them from a sketched line of a hoof. Even free, the colors must stay where they belong.

As I edge the horse’s curved foreleg, my family’s criticisms echo in my head. My subjects are always running; I should paint something different.

They are not running, not really. They are frozen in a running pose, but they never go anywhere.

I am not a real artist, my sister says, because I do not use real paint. This imitation is odorless, quality sacrificed to make it safe, but I want to believe it can be just as good as normal paint. If it is strong enough to hold my dreams, what makes it inferior?

For now, I swish out my brush, dry it, and lay it aside. The colors will have to set before I can move on. Art is patience, and patience is an art.

My world has one easel, four white walls, a bed sheathed in plastic, and a matching chair. As I sit, the cover crackles, wrinkles pressing into my thighs, but laughter outside rings louder. It pulls me back to my feet, a heavy fire flickering in my chest.

I want to laugh like that.

Standing at the door, I see them through the sliver where the frosting doesn’t quite reach the frame. They look like me, two legs, two arms, two eyes, a mouth, a nose.

“I’m glad you guys came,” one says, smile so wide, it seems to expand beyond either side of his face. A crutch angles under his arm, and no foot peeks beneath his right pant leg, only a curved piece of metal. “They say I’ll be able to leave soon.”

My hand curls around the latch, swivels, and pushes. As the bolt releases the frame, it squeaks, and the door cracks open. I can step out there, introduce myself, hear their stories, laugh with them.

My eyes run over their t-shirts and shorts, their smooth tanned skin, and my fingers rise to my sleeve. Through it, I cannot see the bumps, but they are there. I know better than to open the door any further. Even if it did not exist, I would not step over the threshold.

I cannot leave this room. I do not belong in this world.

“You should come with me to the sunset concert on the roof,” the patient soon to leave tells his friends. “There’s supposed to be a meteor shower, too.”

The words are a lasso swooping around my heart. It tightens. Tugs. For once, I want to hear a musician play, not a speaker’s rendition. I want to see the sky with my own eyes, not through a screen.

It is a horrible idea, a stupid wish, but I cannot stop thinking about it.

***

The clock displays 7:30pm, and I again stand at the door, knuckles brushing the glass, hand on the lever. I am courage. I can do this.

I slow and deepen my breaths, savoring this last safe air, bitter as it is, turn the handle, and run.

“Raquel, you can’t be out here!” the nurse at the station calls, a blur of white and brown as I tear past her, eyes set on the door at the end of the hall. Stairs wait beyond it, ready to take me into the sky.

Arms encircle me and tow me back. I squirm, legs still pumping, and the embrace tightens. My nose presses against a shoulder, and cologne seeps into my brain with every breath, chemicals translating into thoughts.

I bat them away with practiced phrases. Be strong. I can do this. I am not broken. I am human.

The intruders grow shriller. They drown me, repeating, overlapping. I do not belong here. I am worthless. I am inconvenient. I should die. Who am I to think myself worthy of looking at the sky? To breathe the air? It was never meant for me.

Tears run down my face, hot and sticky. Throat closed, I cannot breathe anymore, but still the fragrance fills me, trapped within, louder than a thousand explosions. All because this nurse wanted to smell like cloves. Who am I to ask that he not wear it? If I did not exist, my presence would not inconvenience him, and he could wear whatever he wanted.

A mask slips over my mouth and nose. It smells bitter, but the air is safe. The swelling recedes; my panting evens into soft snuffles. Gradually, the voices in my head quiet, but I remember what they said. Their echoes continue to bounce back at me, and I cover my ears. Bruises blossom on my hands.

I sit but am moving. Wheels clack against the tiles’ seams, and in their rhythm, I hear the laughter of those who had stood outside my door. Why can’t I be like them? Stong. Normal.

I can do it. I just have to get over it, suck it up, go for it.

One deep breath. Two deep breaths. Three.

Cheeks puffed with one final inhale, I rip the mask away and run. I ignore the shouts, twist and leap and dive, skin stinging where they touch me, but I ignore that, too. The door flies aside.

As I race up the stairs, I no longer feel my legs. Good, that is less pain I have to ignore. The fire in my lungs is hot enough, too hungry. By the time I reach the top, I cannot contain it. Fingers of flame crawl through my throat and nose, drawing in this unsafe air.

It is not too bad, faintly sweet, somewhat stale. It is okay. I can handle it.

At the door that leads outside, I stop, hands on the push bar. What will the air be like out there? Can I trust it?

I want to. In my room, I am safe, but it is not where I want to be.

The heavy door does not budge easily, as if it demands proof of how badly I want to leave its safety. With all my strength, I push, and the remnants of the day greet me, warmth that smells of tea steeped too long and colors giving way to night’s dark blanket.

On a small stage on the corner of the roof, a fiddle plays, bongos thumping behind him. They are separate here in person, one slightly further than the other, and I can hear that difference. A flute laces between the violin’s running arpeggios, gentler, lighter, but no less full, and I feel the sounds playing with one another like my colors running on the page.

Tears dribble down my cheeks as I stumble forward, hands finding the back of a chair, but this time it is not a bad thing. White streaks shoot across the heavens. How does the fiddle manage to punctuate the brightest of them?

I am not an artist at all. I could never create something this beautiful, art that wraps one’s entire being so that sound is felt and color is tasted. I have never eaten a cherry; it would kill me, but if it tastes anything like the sky’s red—tepid, sweet, and deep—then it might be worth it.

Another taste creeps in, musty, burnt, and sour. Smoke fills my nose, and a javelin spears through my skull. A whooshing throb overwhelms the music as my gaze falls to the crowd. A gray cloud streams from the mouth of someone in the audience as blankness replaces my entire view of the world and I fall.

***

Colors run again, red swirling into orange, purple consuming black as I try to capture the image before it leaves my head.

I wish I could have seen more, but I shouldn’t be greedy. I should be grateful for the moments I was given, the precious few seconds where I could pretend I was normal. Who am I to expect others to hold back from what they want to do just because it will ruin something for me?

I had my moment. Is that not enough? I have my painting of it, now finished. I can keep it forever. So why does the scene blur? Why do tears spill over my lashes? Why does my brush still sweep the colors as if I never want them to stop running?

-fin-

I I am uh ch charlie a uh and th I I know y you won’t bu buh believe me but I need t to tell s s someone um so it uh it was with my family and oh my god it was so awful it oh god I have to start from the beginning so we were st stay staying a at the e the elm manor a and th the no in the summer so school was out a and w we were on a t trip in Ohio the morning middle o of no no nowhere I was actually really bummed cu cause I wa want ted to h hang wi with a all m my fri frien friends and so we went it was a three hour c car ride ride it was over overnight a and so we got there a and it wuh was so so ordinary looking it was like the wo worst ho hotel r room e ever an and it was all wh white with cra crappy a art work um uh and so we stayed there for a while and it was so boring and normal I was so bummed and I was like why are we even going and my mom told me to stop complaining I should have listened oh god so okay I was bitching about it and my mom starts yelling at me and so soon a man comes up and tells her to shut up too and she yells at him oh my god I was so embarrassed so we got kicked out of the ho hot hotel an and oh god please no I mean wait I’ll keep going so I we ended up going to another ho hotel and thi this one was cooler it um uh looked so uh cool and um well it was like a haunted hotel from a movie it looked so fun so we went in and paid it was super cheap and everyone acted really weird they told us curfew was at ten and lasted until six am and and and and we had to be silent or else well and anyone who broke it would be fined a thousand dollars ma promised we wouldn’t at looked at me I looked back and oh man I was like woah a thousand bucks that is so much and why would they do that it seems so extra but anyway so then we get to our room and it has some really cool paintings of cat castles and it is still boring but I am so glad we are here and not at that other place so then it’s really late so we start getting ready to go to sleep and when I get in bed it is 9:57 and my parents are talking and I am laying in bed staring at the ceiling and then a female voice comes to our door and sa says th that okay so she says tha that cu curfew is n now and so we can’t talk anymore so everyone is quiet but I am still awake and now it doesn’t seem cool anymore ma no no way it it is way way way way t too creepy creepy man too creepy so um well I listen to the click it sounds so loud in the silence and I can’t fall asleep because it is just too too w weird ma man it is so so so so so so so so weird oh man and then oh god oh god oh god anyway so then and then at midnight I hear my mom and dad talking again an and I do don’t kn know wuh why but I feel so scared I want to yell at them to stop don’t you know we need to pay a fine but I don’t I’m too scared but then I hear a knock at the door and my bones freeze in in in in in inside me it’s like so scary man I have such bad goosebumps and I am so scared we’re going to get fined and pay a thousand dollars okay so I know a thousand dollars isn’t a lot of money to adults but it is to me cause I only have a hundred dollars and I’m saving up for a bike and the bike I want is a thousand dollars so if I have to pay money then I I I will end up being broke and in debt but maybe mom and dad will pay it they have jobs and stuff so a thousand dollars is probably o o okay fo for for them to pay but still they are going to get fined at least they aren’t talking anymore they are staring at the lock and I close my eyes and hope they don’t see that I am awake oh god I am so scared I don’t know why it’s just so weird this place is weird so weird I we shouldn’t h ah have cu cu come here becau because there is something evil but the knocking is back and it’s louder and oh god my heart is pounding why did we come oh god we won’t escape well we will be eaten and we will die and no one will miss us and we will be ghosts trapped here forever the person at the door is yelling now trying to get us to come out it’s a guy he is yelling get the fuck out of there and pay your fine mom and dad are scared too they stare at the door with shining eyes their eyes are so wide they are so scared then I hear a horrifying sound the jungle of keys and oh god he’s coming in so I roll over and close my eyes and vow not to move until it is morning when there is light because right now it is dark and my eyes are shut and I am hearing sounds I don’t know what they ar are but I know they will realize I am awake eventually I am staring at the blood spattered wall at some point something came in one one of tho those thi things th that makes the weird noises and then my mom screamed and then my dad made a gurgle sou sound and so then uh um oh oh god oh gu god I can’t okay but I have to yes anyway so then I look and there is this thing this it looked looks like a human but but it’s sk skin is so so so pale and it’s so weird it looks like a walking skeleton covered in plastic wrap oh god any anyway so so so um well then it turns around and I close my eyes and I hear my mom and dad scream more and then I open my eyes back up and my mom and dad are hanging from the ceiling like okay so this one time my dad took me into his butcher shop and it scared me so bad cause there were was all this de dead meat hanging from the ceiling and it smelled so bad well that was now and they are all bloody my parents are all bloody their chests are sliced open and they are all red oh no god I have to puke but I can’t bec because so anyway they are all torn up and I wa want to to lo look a away and um well then I shut my eyes buh buh becuh because so the monster is coming again and so I squeeze my eyes shut and oh god it’s so scary so then now I open I open my eye eye eyes and there is the monster face it is so disgusting it’s rotted and fleshy and white and carved into the flesh where the eyes should be is the number ten but it has no eyes just shallow ditches webbed over with white skin and grayish patches of skin are falling off it and it has a a a nose like a snake and and and it has no mouth either just a slit that is a smile cut into his skin he’s the reason the curfew is ten he he is the reason he is so scary oh god I’m so scared tears are dribbling down my face and it looks at me and smiles and it says you’ve been a good boy you followed curfew you are a good boy and then it looks at me so since you’re such a good boy you have to join us and then my eyes shut and I was asleep and when I woke everything was normal we are back at home me and my family and my dog and then I woke up today and looked into the mirror and my mouth is gone it’s just a slit and my skin is fleshy white and then as I watch the disease creeps up my face and my eyes go da dark bec because I I don’t ha have any eyes to see so that’s why I’m recording this on my ta tape and oh I hope someone finds this I am so alone and I’m back in the hotel and I can see but I can’t control it and the disease I kill people oh god they are everywhere there is so much blood and I thought that a thousand dollars was enough to keep them away and oh god I’m only eleven and why can’t they just listen to the people they need to be silent after ten it’s not hard oh god I should never have come to this hotel and they need to up the price maybe a million then maybe they’ll listen or maybe just I don’t know but oh god it’s almost ten again I have to go out and hunt again I can’t control my body anymore I can only do things when it is daytime and I have to hide out of sight out of the light the light burns but please someone come and put me out of my misery I am in Ohio at please come it’s nine fifty nine the address is....

*static*

*hears screaming in background*

*audio recording ends*

I rarely miss anyone enough for it to be painful

I miss time

And spaces

And places

And minutes

But the tangible slips

It is leaky-faucet drips

People are context

People are stillborn

Dead-aching

Unmoving

Unyielding

Stagnant

I miss hands and mouths

I mourn words

I mourn touch

I hold funerals for sunbeams that fell through leaves long since passed

You will find me penning epithets to hungry breath lost on cold air

I will leave flowers where music once rang

I will dig holes 6 ft deep for ghosts

And leave the bodies to rot, carrion-feast

And I will drown weightless in their graves as I stitch myself to phantoms

I collect people like canker sores in the mouth of a masochist. Raw-flesh, kept wet. And the blush of it turns white with how it can’t grow back over new. I build them up along my gums. Let them tear across the scarred, pink insides of my cheeks. Throat craving slow-crawl of saliva, copper-tinged. How many ulcers does it take to get to the center of my mouth? Wait. That’s not how that goes...but, then again, this narcissist wasn’t built in a day. And I only know how to write about me. It’s like searching for you in a me-stack...huh. Not sure about that one. I am eating myself alive because nothing else knows how to fill me. Ouroboros, self-devouring. I am diving into my own rib cage. Grave-digging my innards. Viscera-cemetery. Mausoleum-me. Maybe I can kill two relationships with one mental breakdown. Throw enough bodies into graves. Eventually something will stick. Damnit. Wrong again. And nothing stays buried anyway. Stop tonguing that ache. It’ll never heal.