No Inspiration

Waiting for epiphany.

And no inspiration.

Melded with life’s boundless colors,
And I’ve got
No inspiration.

Sifting through my barren mind,
But not finding what I need.

There is only disappointment, discontent.

Seconds
Rock
By.

I feel life’s slow ebb.

And I wonder if this is the end
Of my darling inspiration.

"Don't despair," she sickly croaks, "I will be strong again, and my passionate ardor will augment a thousandfold."

"A blessed relief," is my teary reply, "My pen will rest until we are whole.
Now sleep, Inspiration, in peaceful rejuvenation."

My lips upturn, my mind lightens,
And I smile.

A Harrowing Experience

I apply to you, dear reader, for a rational opinion as to my state of mind. My name is Brian Looney, and I am currently facing a very grave crisis. So please, take a few minutes out of your impetuous American schedule to review my case. Your advice could affect my entire life. Now, I have always been a healthy-minded, albeit cynical, person. I am a man of the world, a realist. I never tend toward exaggeration or loss of self-control. My mind-set is steady and, thankfully, I exist in a state of peaceful equilibrium: more so than any of my contemporaries. So I find it difficult to understand the events which have hitherto unfolded. My writing style may not sound factual, but I swear to you that every word I relate in this memoir is true and did indeed occur. I say this because I know I have a tendency to slip into more poetic prose. I can only hope that recounting this staggering event to you will set things right in my brain.

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The date is September 25, 2007. I am a server at Texas Land and Cattle off of Pan American and Jefferson in Albuquerque, New Mexico. I am scheduled at five o’clock and have arrived ten minutes early for my shift. I must admit, I did consume four beers before work. This is the most important fact of my story. Clean shaven, I stroll into work feeling fine. My server uniform is immaculate, I have change, plenty of pens, and am ready for action. I approach the silent computer to clock-in, and there is a new contraption connected to it. Paying it little attention I punch in my identity.

HELLO BRIAN LOONEY. PLEASE BLOW INTO THE BREATHALYZER UNTIL THE GREEN LIGHT COMES ON. THANK YOU.

Startled, baffled, and indignant, I seek out the nearest co-worker. “Hey, what’s wrong with the computers?”

He stands staring at the wall with bloodshot eyes for an uncomfortable length before replying: “Oh it’s just the new state law. Businesses want to keep their workers, completely sober. Alcohol is a sick drug, bro.”

I simply nod my head. “Yeah. And what happens when somebody fails the test?”

The uncomfortable gap reoccurs before he responds in low monotone: “You, like, get fired and then you get a WUI.”

“WUI?”

“Working Under the Influence, man. You know, like a DUI but at work.” he mumbles. My face pales and worry gnaws at my loins.

At this point the manager approaches with puffed chest. His lungs are constantly filled to full capacity to achieve this effect. This is the true mark of managerial authority. His voice is affected by the effort. He breezily orders me to clock-in, shotgun fish eyes gazing through me. My face drains of color. I hate him.

I approach the accusing computer and clasp the predatory breathalyzer. I feel as though I am grasping a venomous snake and that if I make any untoward movements, it will bite and kill. I can feel the manager’s laser eyes beaming my back. Shoving the tasteless contraption into my reluctant mouth, I exhale my soul.

Red light! Alarms sound throughout the restaurant, trap doors slide open, and burly, DEA men issue forth with hefty rifles, their battle-cries resounding.

Adrenaline sours through my veins, twittering my senses. I whirl around and my WUI fist depressurizes the manager’s tense chest. The whoosh of air, as when a car tire is punctured, issues from his crouching form effectively deflating his managerial authority. All that remains is a bottle of Prozac wrapped in a patch of skin.

In the meantime, the DEA men have overturned tables and taken cover behind them. Assembled in two squads with four men in each, they begin firing rubber bullets. Group Alpha is ordered to attack my liver; group Bravo fires at my kidneys. Shooting pain peppers my body, and I blank into merciful unconsciousness.

I regain reality in a hospitable bed. A nurse and a judge sit by my side. The judge has a hammer in one hand and gavel in the other. He is the first to speak.

“Brian Christopher Looney. On behalf of the state of New Mexico, I charge you with aggravated WUI. By working under the influence, you endanger yourself as well as others. This conduct will not be tolerated. Since this is your first charge, you will only be suspended from work for one month. If you receive a second charge, you will go to prison, and you will be suspended from work indefinitely. You were also witnessed assaulting a patch of skin. Luckily for you, he does not wish to press charges. That will be all.”

The judge raps the hammer on the gavel and exits. The nurse is the next to speak. She approaches the bed with my chart in hand. Her plump, sagging face registers bored annoyance. Her nasal, disapproving voice wrenches my ears.

“You’re lucky to be alive, mister. Your liver and kidneys are permanently ruptured. If you ever consume alcohol again, it will kill you outright. Next time, think before you break the law.”

She exits with a pedantic snuffle of her roman nose.

I am left baffled. Pen and paper are my only consolation.

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This then, is my story. I still can’t figure out whether the world has gone mad, or if I am a delusional maniac. When my convalescence ends, I think I’ll check myself into the nearest asylum. Simply summarizing the events has convinced me of my mental instability. Think well of me, my friends. I may be gone a long, long while.

Whispering Eavesdropper

There!
Can you feel him?
The whispering eavesdropper.
He is listening, always listening.
He steals your breath
And away it travels,
Passport in hand,
To all areas of the world.

How many private utterances,
How many secret burdens,
Does he hold in his vaporous chest?
Strain your ears
And he will tell you all.

You may learn
Of nonsense and death,
Of sorrow and hunger,
Of laughter and pain,
Of dignity and regret,
Of vengeance and rage,
Of boredom and tyranny,
Of narrowness and innocence,
Of corruption and self-deceit,
Of independence and weakness.

You may learn
All of humanity’s darkest secrets,
All of humanity’s noblest seconds.

If you but strain your ears,
You may learn
Of a god’s concern,
Thru the whispering eavesdropper.

Nocturnal Deity

Nocturnal deity!
The blind can see your sense!
Oh, nocturnal deity!
What would you have done?
Speak!
Break your vows of silence,
Bring faith the hordes of wisdom
Your heart conceals!

She gazes at my rapture with impassible, acne-scarred face.
Her indifferent widow light beams far through me,
Beaming for time’s surcease.
Aswim within the barren night sky,
Disturbing salt-speck fish in their innumerable sleep.
My soul is alive when her face is in bloom.
I spread my mortal hands and absorb, absorb her sensual mysteries.
I could not ask for a more flattering stalker.
Her purity is unechoed.
No rouge mars her pale beauty.
No frantic scrawlings will ever do her justice.

How barely attainable she is.
I can only possess her aesthetic.
Oh cruel distance, you woeful barrier!
I long to caress her ageless face.
And if she really is the size of a quarter
I will reach up and palm her freezing self.

Dear, nocturnal deity!
Do you care a wit for your poetic adorer?
Your cold emotions!
They chill my breast!
Oh cautious lovely!
Cease your time-honored meditations!
Impart to me your stoic dignity!

Behold her sudden death!
See the immovable faithful awaiting her innocent rebirth!
The throngs stand chanting, chanting:
“Glory, glory to her phosphorescent spirit!”

Guardian, Carve Me Proper

Guardian cuts, cuts,
Whittling away on Savage Club.
The snap of the sap-stained knife
As the steady, burly hand
Motionfully chips structure.
The manly beat of animal gut drum:
A pleasing ritualism.

Savage Club hopes, hopes,
Through nightmare drumbeat.
Hopes that Guardian’s hand is skillful.
Hopes for artistry and legend.
Hopes for truth and purity.
Hopes for victory and glory.
Hopes as Guardian
Exposes barkless baldness
With savage-stained knife.
Savage Club hopes, hopes,
Through nightmare pain-beat,
Under Guardian’s shapeful reign.
Hopes until form fades,
And Guardian’s knife abruptly ceases,
Dulled and fatigued.

Savage Club,
Now Prideful Spear,
Yearns for screaming rivulets.
Guardian’s hand clutches Prideful Spear,
Longing for raging abominations.
Guardian strides with razor eyes,
To Antagonist’s blooded lair,
And enters,
Meaning death,
Bristling Prideful Spear.

Antagonist hisses bloody forked tongue in hostile maggot grimaces
Fear’s glistening transparency stings the nightful air as Prideful Spear’s thirst ignites.
Without a second they plunge hostile and defiant into heated battle.
Prideful Spear is drawn to Antagonist’s steady drumbeats in critical instinct.
Faster, faster they boom; Melding, sensing doom.
Full stop and starlit screech
Moonlight views a rushing river
And a noble leech.
Drinking, drinking his heart’s content

The Saint

A saint’s sorrowful eyes

Lit on his former disciple.

Tear-battered face showing creased age

As he pays the bail

And tucks the broken body to bed,

Trembling with religious withdrawal.

The Saint’s haggard concern

Kneels in sorrowful prayer:

"I’m sorry Father.

For who your son is becoming,

For what your son is becoming.

For his hasty descent.

For his maniacal disregard.

For his self-abuse.

For his internal rupture,

For his loss of control.

For his slippery priorities.

He is worthless and unkempt,

Lonely and depressed.

He is loved but always hating."

The Monstrosity

The doughy dawn enters and it screeches awake,

Jolted into consciousness from serene unconsciousness,

And immediately aware of its own monstrosity.

Rising, rising, to the chagrin of millions,

This knotted jumble of living fictions,

Ventures chortling into the unsmiling world,

Scenting and sighting prey.

Digestion begins.

Later that night,

A billion ideas flowing through its veins,

Fragrant self-expression clouds the lair.

Eyes frozen, fangs elated, body trembles,

In mental orgasm.

The monster’s senses enhanced,

Capable of any mind-harrowing feat.

It traffics with intellectual dinosaurs,

Challenges their monolithic profundity,

Content not to be fossilized

And then studied

Sixty million years after its celebrated death.

Marveling over its physical youth,

It looks forward

To eons of lively mayhem.

To becoming more monstrous

With each consecutive victory.

Nonsense: Volume 1

· I hate myself in the mornings and I love myself in the evenings.

· I feel time’s oppressive tick within the confines of my mind, but not yet in my body.

· I’m young and I fear death, but I fear humiliation more than death. When I walk to the Guillotine, I hope I hold my head high.

· Vicarious entertainment invades the public’s consciousness.

· I’d hate to be dissected by shallow pens.

· When I look into conditioned eyes I see the glazed assurance of a nursing babe.

· The obscure offends our impulsive pride and so we seek the superficial.

· Those who uphold the ideal are mistakably tied to the material.

· Those who uphold the material are mistakably tied to the ideal.

· Morality is like the winds. Felt, but unseen. Sometimes strong, sometimes soft, always changing, always ruffling starched shirts.

· Love and hate exist in the abstract.

· Obligation is transient. Forget-me-not flowers wilt with time.

· Human beings are attracted to disaster. The misfortune of others tingles their need for gossip.

· Gossip is the most judgmental human action. It lasts a second, but stings for ages.

· The dark is what humans fear most. Only the courageous probe its reasonable depths. Who are the courageous?

· The search for truth is futile. A human utterance is often improvable and thus taken as truth. Proof means effort and effort means work. Idleness is always easier.

· Genius does not exist.

· Dependence is fulfilling for the dependent but pitiful for the educated.

· Most humans do not truly grasp the futility of life. These are the mildly religious and the timid.

· Life is not what you make of it; it is what they tell you to make of it.

· Communication is feeble. No one truly knows a person’s innermost thoughts.

· Only the weak embrace a weak reality.

· Nothing makes one more aware of the transience of life more than life itself.

· Those who crouch behind a banner are naked inside.

· My thoughts are my own. A penny will not buy them.

· There is no such thing as loneliness.

· Those who laud their own selves are rotten inside.

· A nutritious addict is not an addict.

· Self-abuse begins with destructive unconcern.

· The most dangerous trait is vanity. Vanity leads to close-minded self-congratulation. Hubris, on the other hand, leads to self-realization. Innovators reek of its colonic stench.

· It is impossible to plumb the depths of the active mind.

· The natural need for self-improvement is hampered by the impulsive desire for instant satisfaction. Who truly expects to age?

Great Machinegunist

The great machinegunist

Blew countless clever holes

In innocent pig-tailed puffs

Which blot the serene night sky

In pathetic remnants.

I sit, head resting, watching its stilled corpse.

The brush of sound invades my ears.

Ah, the urgency of night revelers.

Once one with them, now alien.

No longer brushing as they brush.

Defying the puffed, shot-through canvas.

I wait for tears to erupt,

But serenity persists.

Filled with surreal promises,

I anticipate fulfillment.

The clop of leaden feet

Stumble across the blue-collar cement.

And I ponder Purpose.

Jokingly,

There is none.

[Audience laughs]

Half or Full?

Am I half-awake or half-asleep?

Only an optimist would know.

They say I am half-dead.

Not half-alive.

Just half-dead.

The thoughts running through my head

Are deceptively new,

And I wish I was completely reborn.

My mind’s hymen was ruptured ages ago.

Ages of insomnia have plagued me since.

I hate disparity.

My essence longs for whole-sleep.

Diesal Dragons

Hello, my name is Rodney Marvel, and I am a naturalist specializing in the incredible animal known as the diesel dragon. If you have not heard of them, then I would have to consider you a social recluse [audience laughs]. They are everywhere and, as many of you know, they are a very real threat to human life. Now I’d like to share with you today some interesting facts about this dangerous creature which could help you in the highly likely event of a hostile encounter.

Diesel dragons are fascinating creatures, and I have devoted my entire life to their study. They come in a variety of colors, but are all roughly the same size. As an evolutionist, I am currently searching for a Darwinian explanation for the different pigments covering their impenetrable skin. Since they have no real predators and the colors clash with their environments, camouflage seems out of the question. It seems to me that the only possible explanations for the infinite variety of designs on the skin are (a) to attract mates and/or (b) to denote a tribe. While (a) is possible, no man to this day has actually witnessed the mating process. How they actually reproduce remains a defiant mystery. Now (b) is the most logical explanation because the designs are nearly identical on different dragons. Like colored dragons generally travel in the same area and sleep in the same lairs. This promotes the safety of the tribe as well as dragon solidarity. Of course, the more dominant tribes are more numerous. So it is with a high degree of confidence that I assert explanation (b) to be true and (a) to be partially true, if not completely false. Diesel dragons operate mainly from smell. Oh, they have eyes, but they are sunken and weak, with dirty, potentially jagged corneas. They have no antennae or any other noteworthy feelers, and it is amazing how these dangerous creatures operate from smell alone.

One must be extremely careful not to stand anywhere near their feeding grounds as humans seem to be their only sustenance. Feeding grounds are often marked with a dragon sign. Many selfless souls have been devoured constructing these signs which today ensure the safety of countless innocents. I myself have constructed a number of signs all over the world. If you encounter a dragon sign turn around and walk away at a brisk pace. DO NOT RUN. This may trigger a dragon’s predatory instincts, and you could be sucked into his gaping maws. Lastly, beware of the enticing gray benches located on the feeding grounds. They may offer rest and shade but, like the Siren’s call, they lure you to ignominious death. The shady benches generally attract the larger humans who, fatigued by their bulky weight, succumb to the deadly temptation of immobility. Now that you know how to avoid a dragon, you should spread your knowledge throughout our victimized world.

Next, we move on to the most amazing, terrifying aspect of diesel dragons: hunting and devouring. Hunting is a relatively simple process for one reason. This is the massive availability of food. Humans are being born exponentially faster than they are being consumed. A dragon can literally go anywhere and be surrounded by food. It is similar to a toad prowling a large city for roaches, except our “toad” does not reproduce nearly as quickly and has no other animals outside of its own species to compete with. The result is that there are a very limited number of “toads”: not nearly enough to control the roach population. As a result the human race has spiked, and dragons are constantly feeding. That being said, I’d like to share a recent encounter with a diesel dragon:

The diesel dragon rumbled its clumsy way to and fro, countless dull figures sat paralyzed within its specious belly, slowly being absorbed by subtle digestive juices. Its hot breath surged about me as I watched the feeding process, lingering for moment then riding away on the winds of passage. I froze within my camouflage shelter, terrified, hoping it missed my scent. Luckily the dragon passed me by. Others were not so fortunate. I watched as it stopped 100 feet away, opened its sliding maws, gobbled a helpless crowd, and then grated its way onward with drooping stomach.

Truly a gut-wrenching experience. One I would not wish upon my worst enemy. So for your own sake and for the sake of our noble race, beware of the deadly diesel dragons. Thank you all for your time. Good day and good luck.

Diesel dragons want to eat,

So be quick and move those feet!

Fragrant Expression

The looming nightmare test perches on the morrow, that distant rooftop. My snobbish indifference has not paid off. Pinching through the ink-stained leaflets, I vainly search for notes to study. But all I find is fragrant self-expression. Pages and pages of fragrant self-expression. Stimulating the flared nostrils of my itinerant imagination. I look in the mirror and see how large his nose has grown and I cackle crow-like at the freakish proportions of my misshapen brain. I roll my eyes at the sneering gargoyle perched on tomorrow's shadowy rooftop, and toss my riddled notebook in the eager waste-basket.

The Spectre

I glimpse the spectre in its stride
Beckoning me with his alluring self.
Urgent desire fires my soul
And i rush toward it with slavish impatience.

Its haggard face jagged and frayed
Mouth agape chortling starlight
Eyes obscured by smoky torrents
Dreadlock strands hovering intense.

My bumping tramps a jumbling stampede
Crashing toward the spectre's somnambulent robes
Cowering toward its unmerciful stumps
Begging for a humble penny.

Gregorian Chants

The music of devotion plays across my ears
And I marvel at its utter selflessness.
The singular obsequious motivation
Prompts in me the most open-minded laughter.

Forgotten how to live

Yesterday he discovered how to live. This morning he'd forgotten. The world is gray once again, and his drab mind longs for the brilliance of the misplaced portrait. Alive one day, then dead the next. His only sympathizers are drug addicts, ne'er do wells, and all who pine for past loves. He struggles to recreate that which left him. The void beckons, and he wearily approaches the prejudiced precipice, stepping on the crumbling edge, glaring defiant at beckoning death, determined to re-salvage lost contentment.

The stigmatic waves crash against his fevered self.

His goatish sensibilities lurch in gastric agony.

His sleep-starved, junk-stuffed subconscious fills his head with rot.

As the intrusive sunlight beats down the hospitable doors,

He philosophizes in his flea-ridden bed.

What could be going through his foggy head?

Money, first and foremost.

Lust, second and staggering.

Disgust, third and tailing.

Regret, fourth and final.

His downtrodden body fights his electrical brain for sleep,

And ignominiously loses.

It is aware of the stalking sun perched high overhead,

Waiting patiently for the kill.

Imperfect Character.

Probing his character with the hardest logic, he attempts to root out weakness. The layers of hypocrisy a heaping pile all around, like a peeled onion. The bare bones must be bleached in the sun, for their current colors nauseate and deceive. The marrow of his personality is the final judge of character: the true man behind the conditioned disguises. He gazes at his stripped mentality with hazy discontent. Much improvement is needed.

Militant Onslaught

The galloping statue roars crag-like
Desperately preserving its dead ancients.

Whirling heat lashes out its fired, forked tongue,
Dripping molten saliva,
Singeing the steed's stationary snout.

The crackling, victorious laughter
Silences their voice to ashes.
Onward it marches to flickering drumroll:
A fearsome army driven by the impetuous winds.

The sensation of buckling knees.
The cessation of forward movement.
The slash of mind-wrenching despair
Immediately before savage consumption.
Black boundaries rise from the Roman muck.
Smirking obsidian faces reflect searing bloodlust
And are deaf to inhuman yelps.

From the sodden sidelines
The hoarse firestarter cheers on his creation
Chiseled features lit in the cascading twilight.

The Knows

Self-educate!

On picket signs

Self-educate!

On government buildings.

We are the Knows.

We learn all, we have all.

We need no instruction.

We have no instruction.

The Knows.

Our own libraries,

Our own thoughts.

The Knows.

No indoctrination for

The Knows.

Simple originality for

The Knows.

We need no morality.

The Knows.

Fierce intellectualism

For the Knows.

All else fails.

I want to read.

I want to read until my eyes go numb, until they sink dead deep in their sockets, my vision blurs, and all that remains are the transient words in front of me. I want to read until the clock strikes doom, until fiction and reality meld. I want to read until my mind unhinges itself from its bodily appendage, and its comet soars above concern at impossible speeds. I want to read until life becomes fiction, and my peers recommend asylum, until even a strait jacket cannot pinion my literate wings. I want to read until my brain buckles under the phlegmatic weight of process, until I know all, have seen all, loved all, and hated all. I want to read until every word that has ever been written, that is being written, that will be written inhabits my tireless thoughts. And after I have read I will have lived a god's life, and laughed at generations of weak mortals. And then? Why then, my invulnerable hands will write.