The Contradiction

Time

2012-01-20T22:33:00.000-08:00

Time.... Time is everything. Time is the essence of progress. Each second propels us forward. Sometimes we run away from it, ignorantly denying its ability to both destroy and create. Often, we struggle, chasing it down, pleading for another moment. But time... it waits for no one. And it bows to no one.

The Gods of Fame

2012-01-06T20:18:00.000-08:00

Chanting thunderous mantras, dancing in tune,

worshiping gods whose heavens are stage.

Emulate holiness, transcend to divine.

Nirvana by cadence.

A tempo held sacred.

Paradise awaits in a digital plane,

where followers honor a public rebirth.

Sex for the masses, song for the deaf,

Shallow philosophy in elaborate custom.

A life for the spotlight, devotion to fame.

Heavens whose inhabitants carp of hell.

Follow the dream that twists into dread,

while bowing to idols you yearn to become.

Now sink all your wealth,

devote all your time.

Donations to temples of dazzle and glitz.

Dress like the goddess, revel like the god,

and gather your paintings, stapled to the clouds.

There is no achievement without watchers to awe.

Keep praying for fame, a figment of heaven,

for a life in the spotlight,

the hope of relief,

a dream for the watchers,

a soul in the fire.

A Bitter Morning

2012-01-06T18:09:00.000-08:00

A bitter morning. The chill stung me vengefully. A cruel punishment for the nights spent evading winter's breath.

I drove down the dead abandoned streets of downtown. Decayed buildings balanced on crumbling foundations, and the vestiges of a society that once stood supreme were evident at every corner. Haunting me. Reminding me that this demise is spreading. We are not immune.

And there I saw her. Standing at a crosswalk. Her overstretched clothes barely containing her healthful form. Her short hair frazzled, its unnaturally bright dye in desperate need of repair. She clung to her oversized purse, shuddering against the frost that still battled the rays of a breaking dawn.

I caught her visage. In it I saw an exhausted misery, drenched in a rouge of pain. What had she seen the night before to wash such an expression upon her? What life had carved such calloused features?

I slowed to a stop, obeying the law robotically. She glared at me. What drove those piercing frenzied eyes, I couldn't be sure. But, stopping much longer than necessary, I gazed on. And in those eyes I saw myself, in an alternate future. I saw the endless possibilities that could have shaped my existence. Every speck of taint in my soul burned in that sobering moment, as I saw the endless array of darker ends my life could have taken.

In the vanity mirror of my car, my face changed form. My eyes drooped with worry, my brow creased with rage, and my lips cried from abuse. My body disassociated from my soul, a mere tool for necessary ends. The mirror spun in my head, taunting me.

I slammed it shut. Accelerate. Rewind. Calm.

Inhaling the warmth of the car's heater, I took a deep breath.

I had seen something that never existed. But I knew it could. And I feared it would.

Excerpts From Conversations with My Favorite Libertarian I

2012-01-04T23:04:00.001-08:00

Our Dark Lord, Obama.

You Must accept the Dark Lord Obama as your savior. He sacrifices for your debt. Approval ratings mean nothing to him.

When he was born in Kenya, the wise witch Pah Lin foretold a prophecy, scrolled in the archaic books of CSPAN, that one day, after obtaining the holy grail of U.S. citizenship, they would do battle, and together, Pah Lin and the old Elephant Wizard would imprison the Dark Lord in the caverns of Senate... for eternity.

But... she was wrong. For after banishing the Banshee Wench of Lord Clinton, our Dark Lord defeated the dogmatic duo in heated electoral battle, in the holy month of November, in the glorious era of 2008.

So sayeth the wise law scholar on this day, Dec. 22nd, of our dark lord Obama. May he forever socialize the healers, and protect us from the demon Boehner, ruler of the Elephant Kingdon, speaker for the damned of 2012. May the dead not rise in the holy month of November, and the demons be chained in corporate taxes.

Caucuses and Discontent

2012-01-04T19:29:00.000-08:00

It occurred to me during caucus season, that politics are a field inherently designed for the discontent.

Remember the high school douchebag who ran for class president? The one who made promises of change far beyond his power? The one people voted for based on reasons about as deep as a bowl of fruity pebbles? Yeah, it’s him, all over again. Except this time, the poorly constructed campaign posters are operating on a multi-million dollar scale.

What defines politics more than the actual candidates, however, are the armies that burst into the political battleground, raising their voices, ready to give body and soul for the man (or occasional woman) they place their faith in. They operate under a simple mentality: Something’s wrong, it’s the government’s fault, and this one individual is the savior come to rescue society. These people are quick to tell you that they have all the answers, and that, if only, their candidate was president, the world will change for the better.

But it never does. Indeed, every candidate that has ever won an election had a cabal of devotees fervently touting their ability to bring about “real change.” And while some presidents have historically brought about some drastic changes, for the most part, there is always a gaggle of haters ready to criticize. It’s a fundamental truth: Elections ultimately lead to disappointment, and the discontent are the most politically fervent.

What’s incredibly frightening, however, is when we stop and think we have found the answers. When we hit that point, we have stopped thinking, stopped searching. Why bother? You’ve already found the perfect political system and ideology. From now on, every competing idea, every new concept, will be examined through the presumptive light of the “answer.” If someone tells you they know the answer, definitively, it is safe to assume that person will not progress much further intellectually. Their mind has shut itself in to stew in their singular ideology. Those who bring change around them must also be capable of bringing change within, and a closed mind is impervious to change.

While I don’t know the answers, and my mind remains open to some ultimate truth, I know one thing for certain: I am discontent.

Reason and Emotion.

2012-01-04T19:10:00.000-08:00

Mankind is fascinating in its bipolarity. On one hand they are rational and scientific, capable of altering their world, like demi-gods that work on an extended calendar. On the other hand, they are entirely emotional, capable of creating the most beautiful art, manifesting emotions into expressions on a multitude of mediums. Yet only in God do we see the full manifestation of both those qualities. We need only look around to see that the world is not only heart wrenchingly beautiful, as is the rose, capable on inviting numerous sensations, but also perfectly functional and well ordered, as the ecosystem that spawns the rose and the bees that nourish its sweet nectar. The glory of the world, as a vision of god, is that both those elements come together in wondrous harmony.

Hu-Bots

2012-01-04T19:05:00.000-08:00

The soul doesn't exit the body through one divine yank. There is no floating up to the clouds and waiting in a massive line, as if DisneyLand had a paradise ride.

Instead, the soul is sucked out, vampirically, as one transitions into a boring, payment making, document reading, spreadsheet humping, robotic human adult. I am a functioning piece of software, pre-programmed, and packaged in generic wrapping marketed to the moderate masses. The safe masses, mules who labor in herds.

I'll take my holiday, sir.

I'll take my holiday to the end of the world, where drums beat rhythmically in the night, and people dance between labor. Where culture does not disassociate passion and pleasure from one's livelihood. A place that exists in storybooks, fantasies, and the imagined history of a child. When I visit that place, the smiley faces will congregate, wide eyed, at the red exclamation mark blinking above my head. Their smiles will turn into the predictable little O. That one, it's trying to do what we spend gazillions to imagine! It's bringing our programming to life, and the packaging is home-made!

Strange how devoutly we sit before screens, plug our ears, drown the mind, and cling to the rituals of a society in escape. Dreaming of fantastical realms, yet condemning those who would try and bring such dreams to reality. The sane endorse insanity and condemn the insane. An eternal being of perfection could mold the universe out of nothing, yet a man dare place his mental disks in a home-made plastic case, with the little barcode drawn in shaky blue crayon.

If a perfect being created the universe out of nothingness, then God broke the status quo. It is as if God invented vanilla ice cream, and topped if off with a glorious dusting of sprinkles. Even a child knows that rainbow sprinkles aren't meant to be sorted out by color, nor blended together into an ugly gray paste.

Somehow, we've become the gray paste, slathered on top of a white ball, loathing the little blue and pink ones that retreat to the melting edges of the cone.

Meanwhile, I'm looking around, confused because all I see is strawberry.

Slumber

2012-01-04T19:01:00.000-08:00

I beg her to come to me when insomnia sets in.

Sweet slumber, sister of death.

Conjurer of dreams.

Messenger of souls.

Caress me tonight, in your lavender arms.

Silence the night to a honeyed calm.

Let reason evaporate,

and the whimsical thrive.

Oh, lovely repose.

So vengeful.

So possessive.

Temptress of shadow.

To neglect you is to be haunted, day after day.

To abandon you is death.

You would drag our eyes to your shuttered realm.

You would shroud us in dream,

and silence our world.

Why I love Roses

2012-01-04T18:43:00.000-08:00

Do you know why I love roses?

It is not their beauty, nor their sweet scent. It is simply the feel of each velvety petal as it brushes down my flesh, painting me in sweetness. It is an enrapturing sensation to feel such gentle velvet skimming every curve and crevice of my bare flesh. And to imagine that such a delicate creation of god is sustained on a pedestal of thorns. An exquisite irony! That such tenderness can bloom from such harsh a vine. It's worth every scraping to have just one rose. That the first of man, and generations to follow, would risk their blood to pick just one lovely bud, is a testament to the power of such an enduring work of God's masterful art.

A Lovely Poem About Cubicles

2012-01-04T18:21:00.000-08:00

I have witnessed hell,

with its blazing fires of fluorescent lights,

its jagged caverns of pasty cubicles.

I serve my penance for the crime of life.

Only when I relinquish this primal obsession,

will I ascend into abyss.

Thorns

2012-01-04T18:18:00.000-08:00

It is a bitter pain when one reaches for the tender touch of a rose, but only grasps its thorns.

And not even the warmth of blood that trickles down my shattered ambitions could loosen the frost from your petals.

The Lonely Visionary

2012-01-04T17:15:00.001-08:00

Lonely is the visionary,

a thinker in the dark,

who plots a way to save the world,

and destroys it in the end.

Dirty Moochers and Filthy Pigs

2012-01-04T17:04:00.000-08:00

The noble proletariat met the self-made capitalist.

He asked, "why do you enslave us so, exploiting our labor, getting rich off our hard work?"

The capitalist responded... much the same.

Well Reasoned Idealists

2012-01-04T16:58:00.000-08:00

They say there's a man enlightening the youth,

They say he is charming, unwholesomely couth.

A champion of liberty, paragon for the libertine,

and some say he's soulless, and downright obscene.

Vested with the visions of only a few,

a champion for the many, if only they knew.

he wants to free them, he feeds them hope,

and he'll take off the chains, and tie on a rope.

Is he your savior, my well-reasoned idealists?

When they strike him down, will you raise your fists?

When your ideals are stripped to their brutal core,

will you cling to their dogmas and glorified lore?

Oh, I see you thinking, the cogs always turning,

robotic mechanisms, dysfunctional, burning.

Blast a retort, give me your reason,

and I'll give you my soul, my personal treason.

I am a worshiper of beauty and ideals.

I know not what he thinks, but I know how he feels.

And when his words shake the world, I'll dance along.

I know it's a ruse, but this is my song.