While the World Sleeps

Alive in the morning while the world sleeps. Early risers unite. The chill winds stress, the heavy clouds oppress, despotic priorities impress. Doors are locked, blinds are closed. Bodies repair wear and tear, snoring all the while, as I walk onward. The earth has just taken her morning coffee, birds begin their caffeinated chirps. Lighter, lighter. Alive in the morning while the world sleeps. A yawn reminds me of wakefulness. My belly reminds me of breakfast. Alive in the morning while the world sleeps. The days are not reborn. But they do age.

The Waiting Room

The silence of waiting,
The waiting silence,
A bureaucratic science,
The loaded silence.

Silence filled with When.

We wait, wait, wait,
For our turn in the queue.

A hundred blank faces,
Bored for patience.

Crossed legs,
Coats on pegs,
Tapping feet,
Brains half-asleep.

Finally our name is called.

We slowly stand,
Gaze at the waiters,
Listen to their silence,
Snort with haughty mien,
Strut away in triumph.

Sometimes A Shed is Better Than a Palace

From within the shed gleams golden Christmas ornaments. They hang from a miniature tree, its top bent sideways by the low ceiling. Children laugh, sing ancient holiday songs; Men guzzle beer and arm wrestle. The merry music drifts through the ears of passerby, who can only envy the simple merriment.

Within the palace crystal and golden trees stand, painstakingly polished. A live orchestra plays the finer holiday songs. The best foods, the finest wines for royalty. But the venerable humans are frozen like statues, constricted. Passerby glance at the palace and become daunted.

A Shed is Better Than a Palace

From within the shed gleams golden Christmas ornaments. They hang from a miniature tree, its top bent sideways by the low ceiling. Children laugh, sing ancient holiday songs; Men guzzle beer and arm wrestle. The merry music drifts through the ears of passerby, who can only envy the simple merriment.

Within the palace crystal and golden trees stand, painstakingly polished. A live orchestra plays the finer holiday songs. The best foods, the finest wines for royalty. But the venerable humans are frozen like statues, constricted. Passerby glance at the palace and become daunted.

Sometimes a shed is better than a palace.

Diesel Dragons, Vol 2

Greetings folks, it’s Rodney Marvel again. In our last lecture we covered some of the more basic habits and attributes of the wondrous creature known as the Diesel Dragon. In this lecture, I will be speaking on the digestion process’s damaging effects upon the human mind.

You may recall that when a dragon consumes its prey, it digests certain unknown elements, then regurgitates its victims bodily forth. To an unsuspicious communicant, these victims seem perfectly normal. But, this simply is not true. The victims are abnormal. Their brains function quite differently from a normal, unmolested human. This is invariably due to the Diesel Drug, a drug so addicting and alarming, that it is massively sweeping across the youth of America. The drug is an agent absorbed through the skin once the human is inside a dragon’s belly and is generally used to ease digestion. But in a human, it acts almost identically to alcohol.

Many teens are more than willing to be digested in order to have a ‘wild time.’ Minors across America are growing increasingly hooked to this venomous poison. James Smith, aged fourteen, is a prime example of one such person. “I like the convenience,” he says, “It’s a mind-expanding process. The gas knows all.” James also states, “I’ve often waited over twenty minutes for the Diesel Dragons to give me a gas injection and never regretted a bit of it.” Let me stress that by ‘gas’ and ‘gas injection’ James refers to the Diesel Drug administered by Diesel Dragons.

Though he may sound clear-minded, he is deep down a disturbed and drugged mind. He goes on with conviction: “I even deposit quarters into the dragon slot nowadays.” No expert has ever heard of or seen a ‘dragon slot.’ It is either the delusion of a sick mind or some drug user slang. James’s own mother reacts: “I just thought I raised him better than that. He was always such a good boy. I never would have expected him of using the Diesel Drug. What on earth did I do wrong?!”

Here we have a boy, devoured in the prime of health, addicted and completely under the control of the Diesel Drug. James’ addiction encourages others of his age to follow his path. God alone knows the consequences of such actions on the youth of America. I could only suggest that James be hospitalized in the best rehabilitation clinic in the country.

Another victim, Susie Yohann, is struggling to recover from the Diesel Drug. “It’s like, when I’m on the gas, everything is cool. But I always need more gas.” However Susie, unlike James, does not deify the drug: “I just want my life back,” she exclaimed at the end of the interview…a clear call for help.

The dangers of Diesel Dragons are immense. Insanity for the survivors, sorrow for friends and relatives, victory for the dragons. Children must learn that being in a Diesel Dragon’s stomach is not ‘cool’ or ‘fun.’ It all leads to the same grim end.

Picking out the Cave

The dark cave is moist and filled with whirring winds which occur at regular intervals. A dirty probe excavates it, removing stalactites and stalagmites with its scraping tip. The tip latches onto a resisting structure, loosening its squid-like grip. The probe is then withdrawn, and the load is launched into space. The single-minded probe reenters the obstructed cave. A flood has occurred, glinting red in the sparse light. It flows immeasurably. The probe is forced to discontinue its task and wait for drier days. The stalagmites and stalactites will have grown back by then.

The Man Who Destroyed the Impossible

There was once a man who destroyed the impossible, but none like him will ever exist again. The man who destroyed the impossible boldly stared down the impossible, and with one careless smile he doused its powers. Then the man who destroyed the impossible turned and said, “Do not follow me.”

The Smoking Environmentalist

The smokestack bullets forth its massive volume,

A great fire broils in the industry’s bowels,

Burns acid skies,

Blackens red lungs,

The aftereffect of a process,

Whose affairs endanger,

But maintain the State.

Sated are the fingers that control the smokestack,

Smoke-stained and worn,

Damaged is the structure from which it protrudes.

Mechanical Flight

They fly over humble rooftops,

Staring down at safe streetlights.

Their eyes glare,

Their brains sync,

Circuits active,

Directorates clear.

They watch you walk, drive, laugh, think, eat, breathe.

They save it all in their memory banks,

Flying dead over the world,

Eclipsing the sun.

The smoking gun, the hard face, smooth and chiseled wrinkles. The dusky man means mayhem. Ready for popularity, with his cultured insanity. He is the patriarch. Moses died for him, the man with the smoking gun. How many pictures, mental images, has the disguised mirror taken? It is fogful, with sin. Baggy eyes lament, dark with self-hate, groping toward self-escape, or so the watchers digest. The great end all atrophies in neglect. The influence above all, for all, with all, wastes in drought.

Life is a Gamble

Life is a gamble,

A throw of the dice,

Rattling on the polished roulette.

As it rotates full circle,

We hope against probability,

For the odds are against us.

Unfortunate car wrecks, unlucky speeding tickets, murders next door.

Incurable diseases, sudden heart attacks, mild sicknesses.

Affordable gas prices, harrowing interviews, sleepless nights.

Pregnancy, roaming charges, lightning strikes.

Food poisoning, pimples, traffic.

As we wander through our sensual casino,

Our every action alters outcome.

Our throws may be prudent or reckless,

The odds adjust accordingly,

Our loss is another’s gain.

And the stakes are always rising,

Our gain is another’s loss.

Yet behold the eventual outcome:

An unlucky number.

Skip into the synthetic crevasse,
Feathery, the promise of comfort,
The beckoning crevasse,
Crossing reality,
Destroying hope,
A horrid sort,
Of striped deception,
Of dark graveyards,
Of yielding springs,
Of unsung signs

Anthropologists Discover Primitive Writings

Anthropologists Discover Primitive Writings

The archival internet dig site has been in operation for over a year now. It is a project developed by world-famous anthropologist Emil Suisseou established "to locate, identify, and study homo sapiens writings scattered across the internet in ancient times." The internet was used then by homo sapiens to communicate, express, and interact. To find these writings, the dig team performs a file search, translating a language called HTML to a readable document. "The process is painstaking, but necessary," Suisseou declares. The team mainly searches for items called blogs. Through blogs, the homo sapiens publicized their opinions and their creativity. By studying blogs, experts may be able to judge the clarity and quality of homo sapiens' brains. "The blogs are instrumental in placing homo sapiens on the evolutionary calendar," Suisseou states.

Nevertheless, some eminent archaeologists and anthropologists believe that Suisseou overestimates the importance of the blogs. Dr. Jill Yiffer is among them: "Although the blog is undoubtedly a crucial resource toward learning about homo sapiens, it cannot be used to completely weigh the development of homo sapiens' brains." Yiffer originally criticized Suisseou in her article, The Complexity of the Homo Sapien Brain, which details the cognitive capacity of the primitive intellect. From the article's introduction: "Homo sapiens developed in a time of great complexity. Their minds reflect that. Different parts of the brain were used for different tasks. A blog can only reflect one aspect of the brain."

All this controversy began fairly recently, with Suisseou's discovery of one particular blog entitled The Acerbic Writings of BCL. The writer, known popularly as BCL, has quickly become Suisseou's main study. Suisseou believes that BCL's blog provides evidence that homo sapiens were much farther along the evolutionary scale than was previously established. "His expression, while primitive, retains a sophistication that I have never encountered," Suisseou said in an interview earlier this year. Yiffer was the first to balk at this conclusion stating, "He may have command of his language, but his ideas hardly differ from the rest of his species. Moreover, his logic and reason remain untested."

Whether The Acerbic Writings of BCL holds the keys to our ancestral minds or whether it is merely an interesting, historical hodge podge remains to be seen. As Suisseou continues to resuscitate the prized writings from time's grave, the great debate continues. Suisseou will post the writings for the general public to review in the near future.

The Mad

The musk descends, robed shapes are unmoved. Hunger attacks, but another hunger presses. The lights go out, the world sleeps, the shapes light a candle. Eyes red, unblinking. Frustration, elation, infatuation, mortification, contemplation. The shapes' hearts beat awake, a staggering influence, a breathless intake. An alluring grace, a change of pace, then dash it all away. A monsoon of turmoil, clashing waves, followed by deceptive serenity. The shapes transmit their insanity to print.

Driving in the Night

Driving in the night, passing the symmetrical streetlights, the evenly spaced billboards. Driving in the night, I said, with Ron Bell's made-up face attempting concern. The advertisements enter my line of sight in the most precise manner. Driving in the night, battling with my fellow motorists in rash advancement. The endless asphalt stained with blood, washed by rain, paved and repaved, the Roman road. Driving in the night, my headlights glowing. The city lights expand across the flat distance, informing on life. Driving in the night, bearing the silence. The coyote makes its own music. Driving in the night, obeying a stoplight. Red means stop, white means caution, blue means go. Driving in the night, police cars roaming, rising fear and hate. Dark parking alleys beckon. Driving in the night, past closed shops with electric signs. Dormant buildings waiting for the next business day. Driving at night, morning sneaks from her grudgeful retreat.

The clock said 5:59 AM.

It's now 6:00 AM.

My beard is a minute whiter.

A song moves

A song moves,

Molten in the air.

Such is its presentation,

On the giant ears.

The greatest mind,

Pumping blood,

Harrows the soul,

To real tunes.

Too fine for me,

The moving emotion,

At impossible rates.

Happy Birthday to Me

Happy birthday to me,

December second, nineteen eighty-five.

Happy birthday to me,

Twenty-two years of mayhem.

Happy birthday to me,

Laugh at a happy soul.

Happy birthday to me,

The winds speak sensual.

Happy birthday to me,

I did not blow my candles out.

Happy birthday to me,

I ate my cake with purpose.

Happy birthday to me,

I laughed at love.

Happy birthday to me,

I lied to sobriety.

Happy birthday to me,

Get ready to exit.

Happy birthday to me,

A frayed-but-scared noose,

Swings wildly.

Happy birthday to me,

Let’s look toward death.