WTF

I found one day that I had completely forgotten how to read. Unfortunately, it was a problem that I knew had been encroaching upon the outskirts of my outer consciousness, like the shadow that slowly but surely begins its takeover of the sky. Reading was easy before; it was like walking, or breathing, or inhaling bacon strips three at a time. I never considered that one day the words would begin to tumble into each other, the sentences breaking off from their punctual anchors and drifting elsewhere on the page. I never once imagined that the words would come to taunt me so, beginning to phase into coherence and fading away just as quickly. I never allowed myself to think that all of it would leave me so quickly. 
I suppose I did know, somewhere in the recesses of my morbid imagination, that I would grow old and lose the comprehension that was once so sharp and simple. That the ideas, the metaphors, would slowly foop away into an apathetic greyness, along with my memory and physical vigor and tenacity. I knew all of that. But I guess I always assumed youth was a gift taken away slowly. Evidently not. 

A LACK OF STAGING

It wasn't what I expected. At the very least, I expected a stage. There wasn't one. Instead of a stage the performers danced and sang on a piece of wood dirtier than the floor around it. The lights are dim as you push a heavy wooden door open. You walk down a musty flight of stairs and you find yourself in a room that may have at one point been called a studio. Now it is half dressing room half performance space, lonely and forgotten with only a cracked vanity mirror, dark and lightless, to watch the theatricalities.

I watch the performers prepare with far too much hope. I want nothing more than to be blown away by power and strength and technique.

"Put that chair there."
"Sure."
"Thanks."
"No problem."

I return to my space to watch. The lights dim as a middle-aged woman takes center stage. She is beautiful, though something about her prevents me from truly believing her to be so. There is something in the high angle of her nose, the proud way she looks at her audience. There is in her eyes a drive to become something better, an intense nostalgia for some top note once hit on the better side of thirty. Her performance is very nearly good.

Next is a younger woman. Singing and dancing are new pursuits to her, and it shows in the way she carries herself. Her movements have none of the sharpness and vigor of the women standing beside her. She casts sidelong glances at the audience when she thinks no one is watching her, and she looks sillier for it. But she is beautiful. Unlike the woman before her, the beauty is there. It is self-evident. There is an honesty to her voice.

Finally, a duet. It is a song I already know, a song I love. I whoop and cheer as the two begin to sing. The first one is, also, very nearly good. She moves with a confidence and fluidity not easily found. But the second. Oh god, the second. My enthusiasm dies with her pitch.

"I need you to strike that chair."
"During intermission?"
"Right after. When the house lights are down."
"Will do."
"Thanks."
"No problem."

I am disappointed. I wanted so much to be in the presence of those far beyond my reach. I wanted to be dwarfed in power and strength and technique and experience. I found none of those things that night in the studio-dressing room beneath the musty stairs.

"It's ten. You ought to get going."
"Is there anything else I can help with?"
"No, we should be okay."
"Are you sure?"
"Yeah."
"Alright. Have a good night."
"Good night. See you on Friday."
"Thanks."
"No problem."

I walk up the musty stairs and push the heavy wooden door in the opposite direction. Cheap music, cheap light; they litter the street. I turn around to see the building I came out of. I am again disappointed: it has not become the Apollo Theatre. A dirty wooden sign with the letters "TMS" painted in black letters hung on a peg above the door, behind which I could still hear voices, proud of their owners' musical progress. I turn around once more. Cars veer across the street, becoming blurs of metal. There is chaos here, larger than me, larger than any life. I close my eyes and step out onto the world, so that it might take me.

BLUE SUIT

They told me evil was the skull.

They told me evil was

The glowing eye,

The smoking mouth.

To be sure,

A caricature.

Evil, they told me,

Is the thing hiding behind black cloaks,

Plotting and scheming. 

Because the plotters

And the schemers

Are always the evil ones.

Always, also, dark. Always so dark. 

I wonder, though, if instead of skulls and snakes and vampires,

If evil is the man in the clean blue suit,

Drinking straight whiskey on the rocks.

If evil,

True evil,

Is just the shadow
Of another person, only too bored to care. 

AIMLESS

I was listening to the Beatles one Sunday morning when the world seemed to upend itself on my cigarette. I had been trying to quit it for a while at that point. The Beatles, that is. What, did you think I meant the cigarettes? No, no. The cigarettes are a necessity. To cut those out would be the metaphorical equivalent of castration. Or seppuku. Only not quite as rational as either of those things. Because when you cut your balls off or slice open your insides, you've inevitably got some pretty good reasons for doing so: either you want to sing notes too high for a normal person or you want to preserve your honor in the face of imminent death. But quitting smoking? That's just a bad idea. There are no high notes or ritualistic self-sacrifices in quitting smoking. I mean, I could understand quitting alcohol. That's just plain expensive. What is it, ten bucks a bottle? And that's for the bad stuff. If you want to be a really good alcoholic you're going to need to be making some serious bank to fund yourself. But  carton of smokes is, like, two bucks. You get to be dirt poor and find evanescent meaning in life at the same time, and all for the price of two(-ish) dollars! Besides, I've found that being rich isn't all that great anyway. Trust me, I know what I'm talking about. I used to be pretty rich, don't cha know. I rolled in the BIG BUCKS. Like, I was student council president and athlete of the year in high school, even though it was the most annoying thing I've ever done. And then, at this other place called Yale, I had to deal with the most pretentious people you've ever met in your life. Dear god, the way they'd go on about being future leaders of the world or whatever. I left that place ASAP, and then I worked for this bank or whatever. But then I quit, even though I made some serious dough. Don't look at me like that. It was SO UNBELIEVABLY BORING.  Seriously, it was like spending the day washing a Prius for some fat tourist that wanted his windows cleaned with rat tears. So now I'm here. And I'm free. Come to think of it, I really only started smoking after I quit that stupid job. So I guess it was a good thing I quit; I wouldn't have found out about these little babies if I hadn't.
Wow. I went on a tangent. Let me get back to what I started with. I remember when the world flipped over 'cause, it was the most I'd thought in a while. The cigs do a pretty good job of covering me up on the "emotions and thoughts" fronts, but once in a while they break through anyway. And so one day I was listening to the Beatles one Sunday afternoon when the world just kind of flipped. Like, just completely turned over. Like, my bedsheets were floating from the ceiling and the lights glared at me from the floor and I just sat there, thinking. I thought about the fact that this was the first time I had thought in a while, and I thought about my mom, and my dad, and those phonies from Yale. I thought about cigarettes. I thought about alcohol. I thought that my tiny little life hadn't turned out the way I had thought it would. But then again, I guess I didn't really know what I expected.

1337

Y teh Interwebz shud b free, by xxeLFwArRioRxx_81.

teh Interwebz nvr was urs to control
n00bz, teh internets r fr33 4all
and wen u try 2 take it dwn
u will b pwned
by teh 1337 skilz
of the pplz.
ANONS will find u
and pwn u so hard,
ur cred will all wash away
Nd ull be left with nuthing

*(@&#^&^!
&#@&#%^!
@#&^%er
%)&#ker
!!%#&*&+))

U ARNT WELCM HERE

BLOOD

I create my own madness.
It swirls about the ether of my wanton imagination, and settles as I drift.

I drift, willing dimming eyes to an invisible light
That shines through wintry windows.

Those windows are frosted now;
God traded the sun for dead ice.

The ice seems colder than usual,
And on my twisted throne, so do I.

I long for war,
The heat of it, the brutal glory.

Blood, though, in all of its humanity,
Is not the spring I seek.

BOSS

Watch the way he lies;
The way he won't look you in the eyes.

Sometimes, I wander about,
Searching, searching and I end up starting to shout.
Because nothing seems to turn up,
And no one seems to care.
I wanted such a little thing
But he says that's not fair.

I one time took a coffee break,
A minute or two long to shake
The cobwebs out my head.
Then he turned up,
Red and fuming ears.
He told me to get back to work,
Because wouldn't stand to watch me shirk
My duties.
My intern duties.

In short, I'd like to say,
Because of all the times in a single day
My boss's soul
Is like a giant a-hole.