Death Collects Harold Longacre

The condemned man calmly strolled down the corridor in cuffs that shackled both of his hands and feet. In addition, two armed guards followed behind studying his every breath, movement and glance while another led the way to the chamber. He had just finished his bacon cheeseburger, fries and chocolate shake. His stomach was uncomfortably full and he could taste ketchup and beef on his tongue. This was the moment every man waits his whole life for. Death was knocking at his door. Appeal after appeal had flown by him like the birds he could see out his cell window. Seventeen long, tedious, and painful years had left him a body with no soul, no dreams, and no hope. Today was the only day he'd ever had to look forward to. Today he died.

As the door opened he saw his murderer preparing the chair. It was more ghastly and fearsome than he'd ever imagined it to be; more so than he'd imagined it as the judge had passed down his sentence on a bitter winter morning seventeen years ago. His blood surged through his body and a lightheadedness came over him. He felt weak but continued the final footsteps to his destiny. To his doom. The guards removed his cuffs, sat him down forcefully and strapped his hands and legs into the chair while the executioner made his final preparations. He began thinking of his life before imprisonment. It all seemed like another life he'd been watching happen from afar. Like a television episode he could not remember the details of. As the face of his daughter made its way vaguely into his memory, the executioner spoke and her face was forever gone. 

"Mr. Harold Longacre, you have been found guilty of the crime of murder. You are to be executed by electruction. Have you any final words?" Harold could see people through a window, sitting in chairs and waiting, with no doubt the utmost impatience, for him to be murdered. He cleared his throat.

"My only wish is for all of you to recognize the incredibly humorous amount of irony in this situation. Here I am, the only innocent being in this room. You, executioner, shall be my murderer on this day. You shall see no trial. You folks in that booth: you on this day shall be witness to this murder. You shall have no finer satisfaction than to see it through. Remember my face on this day, for it shall serve as a reminder that death plays no favorites. Death does not recognize justice as carelessly as his clients. Death is all our savior and I am prepared to meet him. Kill me."

The executioner did nothing. He seemed to have momentarily gone to a faraway place. 

Harold looked into his eyes and shouted, "KILL ME, MURDERER!"

The executioner hesitated no longer. The switch went down and Harold let out a shriek before his vocal cords were burned away. The family never let their eyes off of him until his body slumped and he was finally free. 

Saint Augustine

I found peace, he met me by a schoolyard
Talked with him about a passing police car
Walked a block on rubber legs
To the church where my mother begs
In the holy building's front hall the gift shop waits
For the nuns to yell "Salvation on sale today!"
But I've come too late without enough change
And I'm still vying for the company of saints
But who's gonna pick up the check
When Jesus's wallet is empty again

Monday Morning Musings

Look at this shit eating grin. Check out the clown serving up shots and taking naps on the side of the road. Will walk for food. Will strip for money. Will forget to remember. I'm losing the appetite. We can find a cleft in this mountain where the sun won't find us. Why talk about what we can do when we could be doing something else? Finding a cure for this national boredom, we'll do a wavy dance around each other, avoiding hands. There's gum stuck under my shoe, thanks a lot, asshole. There's trash cans collecting your obscene thoughts. I'm hiding something in my fridge and I swear I didn't kill it myself. It's supposed to come wrapped in plastic like your mother's couch. You're a dead man.

On Movement

I woke up at 6:34am. At 1:01pm I was sitting up in bed listening to Howard Stern reruns and thinking about nothing when suddenly I was struck by the brutal tranquillity of my apartment. Nothing moved. I looked around my room. The faint rays of sunshine breaking in through the blinds were frozen against the floor. Nothing moved. The bag of weed on my bed could not contain its tempting aroma. But it did not move. Nor did the EZwiders, ashtray or matches. My cell phone, a sleek black talking machine that folds in all directions, could not move lest it was trying to get my attention. The clothes hanging in my closet just hung. The shoes collected dust at a snail's pace. Howard was still talking, the radio loud and soaking my senses to numbness, but it would not move. The porno in my drawer was waiting for me. It didn't move. The food in my refrigerator did not move although some of it once did. The books and the albums scattered across the apartment would not move. The cologne on my dresser could not move. My big screen TV, a monolith of entertainment, did not move. The only things that did were the hands of my wristwatch, ticking in perfect rhythym, never straying from their endless path. I had been stuck in place, rooted in my niche, afraid to break the peace. But I had to. I had to move. So I found this pen and...

Sometimes Most of the Time

Sometimes most of the time I think I'm doing it wrong. I expect less from myself than from others. Maybe its the past; particularly how I've wrapped it up like some busted extension cord and tossed it in the corner. Maybe its the non-existence of the future. My Lord, the present is the only thing that lasts forever. Does this mean I should throw caution to the proverbial wind? Let it all hang out to dry like laundry? Fuck it all, no regrets? That sorta thing? Sorry, my conscience tells me that is much too shallow. How does one ignore the billions of little children called thoughts running through his or her mind at once, like some labyrinthine playground, a new one born every passing moment? I can't stand it! Thinking is in my nature, and overthinking is a burden I bear. Remember when we were kids? Who? What Where? Why? When? How? Myself tells me nobody can get through. We're all just waiting for the bus to reach our stop. Waiting for the island where the sun is just hot enough, the clouds just white enough, the water just clear enough, the day just perfect enough for us to face it. When did we grow so many layers of skin? I'll be honest, there's lots of questions I want the answers to. But that's just half of it. The other half wishes he was brave enough to find out for himself. Patience...

'Warming'

I’ve got a stapler, some tape, a phone to keep me going
A liter of water, headphones a stress ball for throwing
Got some feelings I’m tossing in a shopping cart
Walls erected over my head and round my heart
Castles for parties, pools for swimming
Words considered for the purpose of winning
I’ve got a leather belt, leather shoes and a TV
A camera that helps loved ones remember me
I’m not here all the time, mostly passing through
Trying to find a way back to you

I’m going home, to sleep, to work - repeat
There’s a lampshade to help me find my street
Windows with bars to keep strangers out
Or are they to keep the strange things in?

I can read a thousand pages a day
I can lock a thousand thoughts away
But the bars in the windows are rusted
Waiting for everything to melt away

What I want is not what I need
And what I need should not have a price tag on it

Never Met a Sidewalk I Didn't Need

Indistinct voices ask me for change
The clicking of heels and licking of lips
As thanksgiving day turkeys escape the rush
The need for more than what they need
Knives and forks on the pulse of America
She’s not a model but she’s in windows
Not of opportunity or of time either
Pigs form a line to play in her mud
And once in a while the dogs get walked too
Cracks in sidewalks are a gateway drug for dirt
For weeds to move up the totem pole
Put on suits and ties and shoes
And become as important as dandelions
Their throats turning to butter
Little kid tricks for adults on sale
1.99 bargain price marked down from infinity
Selling soap to friends

So you can vomit any thoughts onto this thing? A robot will be doing my job in about ten years. This world is a lonely place for a person like me. New York City, the land of masks of flesh. Never let your guard down, never give in to emotion or vulnerability. Empathy was never in my diet. So many questions I can't answer and feelings I can't describe or accept. I never watch television. It's allowed me to see the world for what it is, a ball of confusion (as The Temptations so eloquently noted) Most of the time I'd like to just crawl into a hole and die. In a way, I am doing that all the time.

The River

Hate. Deciding what to name something. A task in and of itself. 'Someone's River' seems appropriate enough. Describes a stream of consciousness. Creates imagery, images, imagination. Aspiring writer, filmmaker, the usual creative person without an outlet, except for the infinite abyss of the online world. Great, thought I could hold out but obviously not. here we are, introduced so indirectly, through filter upon technological filter. Hello, how are you? Can I buy a drink? A piece of your mind? We'll be in love soon enough. Here you go...

This river is swelling, refusing to follow its beaten path
Enslaving its neighboring banks
Taking them along for its ride
Feet being swept off ankles
Found months and miles away
Confusion setting in while the fishermen begin hunting instead
Not worth any of this
To live! and the cruelty of it all
So much invested in a grain of sand
Soon to be washed away with the rest of us
The river is flooding me, fueling me
Lying to me through its babbling voice
Encouraging me to jump in, to join it
To follow it to where it meets the ocean
And becomes another withered vein in its rotting corpse