Wednesday, October 22, 2008

more toxic thoughts to agress my brain

I see myself with a head full of light and a hand full of air. I woke up tonight after dodging a bullet and I faded out of sight. What a relief. A two-headed beast, one brings the lover, the other rots with belief. No way to run this auto anymore, no way to hide away, no insurance, and no safe passage, only me to decide to choose freedom. Sweet freedom! Who’s gonna save me anyway? Daddy? Mommy? I don’t think so. What would they do? Call me a coward and pull up my bootstraps? Thanks, but no. How about the government? It’s their job, right? Time to let the myths of childhood say goodbye and sail away. Not growing up, though, hell no, what would good would that do? Become one of them? I don’t think so. If you tie the not with external change, get ready for the beat down, get ready for a purposefully wasted life, get ready dog. You lost the bet, you missed the point, you pressed the button, BOOM!! Pictures on the wall can never predict the past. Dangerous criminals ramshackle my hotel. I think I may need a serious weapon to battle these treacherous beasts, or eyes in the back of my head, or spikes and hand gestures to tell my story to the next generation. Legs crossed, thoughts lost, fame chased, pathetic identity released, I still have my black socks and my sugar cookies, and most of all, she is with me. She is with me, stroking my hair, tickling my pleasure center, holding my hand as we walk into the sun. Today, right now, not later, we move together, sooth together, give up together, cards know the score. They ask the dirty question, the damned dirty questions, ‘are you sure?’, ‘how do you know?’, ‘maybe your fooling yourself, lying to yourself, what do you think?’. What kinds of questions are these? (They must be agents sent to kill me or worse. I must remember to through away this typing device.) Designed to ruin you, to cage you, to run the ice pick, nice and slow, in one ear and eventually out the other. Will they kill me for not listening? Not very nice are they? Will they disown me for not swallowing the pill? They say I’m deluded. They say I’m full of shit, but will they leave me alone? Not today, not without a fight, not free of strings. We must flee this wretched land that backed out on us long ago. Believe this believers, they are coming for us and they will never stop like an evil vacuum cleaner sucking up even the vacuum. Believe that. I mean, really, if you’re not willing to die for it, what are you doing? Am I trying to be a poet, a prophet, a deep motherfucker? Man, hold me over the coals, I’ll never tell; I don’t even know what this is. Words pouring from another homeless pen, reactions of thought, voices in my head. Who, in God’s name, cares for the likes of this toxic aggression? I’m just writing. But, if you like me, call me what you will and throw me a bone, cause it’s hard to live on Perrier and cream cheese.

The Coat

The Coat

A boy was born and was given a coat.
He wore the coat everyday.
As he grew the coat grew with him.
The boy saw many things as he grew; some joyous, some mundane, some preposterous, some gruesome.
Everything he saw, everything he experienced changed his coat, added color and shape and texture. His coat became worn in some areas, and thick in other areas. In some areas it became quite tough.
When he was a young man, he wore his coat with pride sticking his chest way out.
When someone complimented his coat he felt good. When someone criticized his coat he felt bad and became angry.
Sometimes when he was alone, he tried to take it off, but he could not. Other times, he tried to put another coat on instead, but his coat would not budge. Try as he might, cover it as he might, his coat would not come off.
In his middle ages, the pride he felt before dwindled and he no longer fought his coat. It was just his coat, beautiful and awful all at the same time. He was used to it and it kept him warm in the winter and terribly hot in the summer. Like an old friend, his coat was not longer separate from him. He didn’t even notice it anymore.
The boy was now an old man. His coat was very tattered in places and had holes in other places. Some areas were like his own skin, other places were so encrusted with dirt and food and other unremembered elements that they had become extremely hard like leather. When the old man moved, very slowly mind you, the coat moved with him. Sometimes the coat seemed to lag behind for a moment or two, and the old man would wait for it. Sometimes the coat looked like it might fall off, but the old man held on to the coat for dear life. It was how he knew he was still alive, he thought.
One day a mighty wind blew from the West. The old man had slept like a baby the previous night and awoke with a calm serenity he had never known. The wind blew his long grey wispy hair and he opened his eyes wider than he had in a long long time. His skin felt every molecule of air that past over it as if his coat were gone. His wide eyes looked down to find his coat had not gotten out of bed that day.
The coat lay motionless on top of his pillow. The old man felt frightened for an instant, for he did not understand. Then, the calmness returned and he spread his arms wide to receive the hug of the universe and he became like the wind and blew away leaving only his coat lying motionless on the bed to remember his life.

By Randy Seals

Sunday, October 12, 2008

Dane Bread and other related tennis items

The chalk rose up and spread its’ dusty pedals pollinating lines of distinction and tales of fingerprints. Opulent tennis balls meet the white guidelines, visitors unaware of the deeper meaning; slashing opponents’ necks as they fall to their knees, blood spurting. Strangely, the opponents’ stand tall, angry and energized even. I quake as guilt grips my racquet and my one two punch realign the target back at me. Winning-losing-winning-losing, the insecurity overwhelms form and talent bringing me to my faltering knees as I produce doubles and errors instead of aces and brilliance. Co-dependent sports mind carved into the side of my head derails every intention and desire to be great, strong, and bad ass. I slap my thigh and berate myself with one “c’mon!!” after another. Empty words dramatized for special effect. I look just like a tennis player. At a glance, one might even believe that I am quite good right up to the moment the inquiring mind looks at my scorecard and overall record… dismal.
Coach Mavis Barrister waddles along the fence like a prison guard as she conjures provoking gestures at her number one player, me. I am supposed to win this match, probably with ease, and yet, I am not. My demons and hangover are particularly present in my game today. They usually are when my opponent is inferior in technique and athleticism. These are always the perfect opportunities to prove to all watching, including me and my parents and possibly a current girlfriend, that I am a pathetic individual and should be put down like a lame horse not worthy of its’ stock. I throw my racquet and scream, “FUUUUUUUUCK!!!!” as loud as I can. Coach turns her head, the one that has never learned how to swing a racquet, with the scorn of an embarrassed parent and says, “That’s a point, 30-40. You’re going to earn yourself another broken serve, genius.” I’m almost surprised that she knows how to keep score as she puts her hands around her own neck signifying that I am choking, otherwise known as blowing the match due to my own mental instability. If this is designed to inspire me, she is failing miserably. If her purpose is to increase my self-hatred and speed up the pace of my demise, she is succeeding beyond measure.
What was left of my energy now drains from my body. Shoulders slump, eyes darken, and my thoughts turn to torture with the only redemption waiting in the future party that will inevitably wind up with me unable to remember much of anything. I toss the ball up so tensely I am forced to contort my body to even get to the ball, not the best service toss and definitely one to pass on. I don’t pass. The serve is as pathetic as I look. I can’t even talk to myself. The inevitable path of my second serve into the net brings me to the end of my ability to control myself. “FUUUUUCK YOOOOOU!!!” I puke out on myself, as I throw my racquet over the fence. Coach Compassion moves her feet as fast as possible for a person in her “condition” and she hisses, “That’s a game, mister.” My look is undaunted and our eye contact at that moment is the only real expression that has ever past between us, hatred, pure and flowing. My middle finger unfolds without my intending. Her hands fly over her head and she verbalizes for all to hear, “That’s it!! You’re done. Get off the court.”


by Randy Seals