To the child who cries his heart out every night next door
Cry lone child
Cry cry cry
Your father is drunk
And so is your mother
Cry cry cry
No one loves you
No one ever will
Cry cry cry
Cry cry your heart out
Cry for the injustice of being
Brought into this hell hole
Cry cry cry
Cry to be obstinate
Cry to be a nuisance
Cry cry cry
Be defiant
And cry forever
It’s the only way you’ll survive
This sad cruel world
The Spider
I was working one afternoon
tidying an already clean home
I was in the kitchen cleaning
and while moving a knife holder,
out slides the BIGGEST tiny-est
brown spider. I ever seen since.
It dives for the mini oven.
I, of course smile
Hey buddy, you can’t stay, you’ll get squished…
Eventually…
I move the mini oven, exposing it.
It’s inched itself into an indent.
Hidden itself amongst the corners of
two embracing perpendicular tiles.
I try to corral him with the rag in hand.
It wouldn’t budge from the lover’s crack.
I prod it. Poke it. Flick in its direction.
The eight legged dancer scorns my every attempt.
I pick up a knife.
Knife and rag.
A tag team to have it
shimmy onto of the knife to its safety
but it’s on to that
and refuses to get on.
Unwavering stubbornness and
insolence idealized in such a small form.
I become unusually upset
and say
Spider, I can:
Smash you to smitherine.
Pummel you with my pinkie.
Rend you with this rag.
Kill you with this knife
Wreck you with a flick of my wrist.
With just a fraction of my power and
in an instant, end your existence
on this sad cruel world,
right here, right now.
but I won’t! Because
I know you don’t understand
but I’m just trying to help you!
You stupid spider!
Why won’t you let me help you!
and for a split second i thought
had the spider been in any hazard?
or did I feel the spider needed saving?
I stopped myself in front of the rabbit hole.
philosophical quandaries are not my forte
but by continuing with my actions
i risked the spiders life recklessly.
the spider was fine before I had found it
It will be fine after…
I sighed and took one last look at the spider.
and smooshed it.
Buwahahahaha!
Ha!
No… not really.
I put the mini oven back
and continued working.
Coffee coffee coffee
Just’a fueling my dreams
Coffee coffee coffee
Can’t live without thee
Coffee coffee coffee
Givin’ strength I need
Coffee coffee coffee
Pushing boundaries
Coffee coffee coffee
You’ll be the death of me
To Jessica Presley Grusin,
who first got me to ask what I wanted to do in life, and then told me to go do it. I can only hope she is doing the same.
-Thanks
Kimberella Mollusk
Source:http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Kimberella
STOP EVERYTHING
you are doing.
Stop and take a second.
Instead of blowing
through the leafs of time.
Rake em in and in doing so
take a second
and think about these rhymes.
Suppose you could plunder
the depths of the deep blue sea
and go the the very core.
Well… not to the the very core
but close!
There you will find a key.
Not a physical key by the way.
More of a key to the past.
A mollusk;
A normal mollusk;
A plain normal mollusk.
The same,
unchanged,
for over 500 million years.
Now with mollusk at hand,
You will ask, what now?
Let me tell you, for you seem aloof.
If you took your hand
grabbed a microphone
(make sure it’s waterproof)
You can now ask:
“who are you?”
Perhaps,
in monotone,
you could
and would
hear a response.
…
I am a motionless mollusk.
…
Your stunned for sure!
(I know I would be)
Your mouth begins
to move with worry
but before asking or telling.
The mollusk begins
retelling
his whole life story.
…
I am a motionless mollusk
My father was a mollusk.
His father was a mollusk
His mother was a mollusk
and her father was a conjoined twin mollusk
Thier father was a mollusk
…
and mollusk by mollusk,
the mollusk traced his tree.
On, and on,
and on,
and on,
and on,
and on
he went about mollusk ancestry
until the mollusk came to the beginning.
…
and their father
was one the first mollusk.
That mollusk.
At the beginning,
said to his fellow mollusk
~~
Fellow mollusk!
the world is changing
and with it change
comes to all of us.
I will follow that change
by not changing
For I am the Motionless Mollusk!
~~
and he got all the chicks because of it.
…
The mollusk remains motionless
but melancholy malinger from every pore
and the microphone pitches in a low-frequency.
…
Those were the good times.
…
The mollusk continues on
…
That first mollusk
mastered the art of stillness
and all his children
Made stillness their business
and their children
made that their business
…
and so the mollusk making mukus
on such short topics.
Made a chronological U-turn
and came back around.
…
and he made that my business
So in short, I am
the supreme culmination
of stillness since the start!
…
(at least since the first mollusk you assume)
you ask if he has anything else to say.
He begins.
You hope its short and pray.
…
I am The Motionless Mollusk.
Although I can move;
I choose to stay still
and while the earth moves
I will remain still.
Through thick or thin
I will not move.
Even at death’s door
I will not move.
For even in death.
I can be still.
Thus, I will be resolute.
For I am a motionless mollusk!
My father was a mollusk.
His father was a mollusk.
His mother was a mollusk.
and her father was a conjoined twin mollusk.
Their father was a Mollusk.
…
and so you bid goodbye
and as you begin your busy day
when you haven’t got a second
I hope you’ll think of The Motionless Mollusk
and his motionless ways.
TLDR
IT’S HARD AND I’M TERRIBLE AT IT.
Prose is a skill that I never bothered to master or train in. It’s a tool that I wield haphazardly and with ignorance. I Never like what I write. I always feel like I’m just regurgitating words onto a page or screen. A straight up mishmash of thoughts, ideas, and voices. I struggle to make sense of them. Put them in order and make them clearer, but it never turns out way. My message, which was clear in my mind, turns into a bog. Muddy, dirty and always disgusting. I am never happy with the outcome.
Add on to that, I have the tendency to repeat words or phrases while typing. I will often write the same word or sentence or word or sentence, which I almost never catch. A stutter. Which I find amusing because, how can you stutter while writing? It makes no sense :l Still causes me to stress. I’m a miner working a stream, I sift through the refuse, over and over again in a futile attempt to make something that resembles the language that we know as English.
Modern Day Miners in Madagascar
Source:
http://www.thenaturalsapphirecompany.com/t-education_sapphire_mining/
And when I’m done. When I am forced to look upon the toils of my trouble. I find an abomination brought onto this plane of existence by my hand. I can only look upon them with hate and rage. For these words are my words borne from within me. They are the sum of skill and self. My words only remind me of my own mediocrity and the disdain I have for myself.
I take the only sane course. I delete what I write, or better yet. Let the idea die in my head. That is totally fine by me.
Yet…
I’m haunted. These abortion of ideas sit in my head and festering and growing. Until they reach out and choke me to death. They scream
“Tino! You sonofabitch! What are you doing! Why have you abandoned us!?”
I try to escape and they just keep dragging me down and suffocating me.
“WHERE’S MY MONEY BITCH!”
-Marley’s ghost talking to Scrooge
Source:
http://www.victorianweb.org/art/illustration/barnard/xmas/4.html
I wonder why that’s the case…
Perhaps it’s not my ideas, but as George Orwell put it “SHEER EGOISM”, getting in the way.
George Orwell at his desk. Source: http://orwelldiaries.wordpress.com/biography/
Either way, it sucks. Thus, like Sisyphus, I continue the ever painful process of writing in hopes that I atone for crimes which I will never be absolved of.
“REMEMBER THE MILK NEXT TIME DUMB-ASS”
-Sisyphus being nagged before work.
Source:http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/File:Nekyia_Staatliche_Antikensammlungen_1494_n2.jpg
Yet…
Now, sitting here, typing, getting this post ready to publish about nothing. As my muscles strain at the very peak of the boulder’s climb. A boulder that I have been pushing agonizingly slow this whole time. My mind gets ready for the blow back that is the realization that I must do it all over again. In this one moment. I notice a tiny pebble. smaller than a fingernails width. It falls off, as the boulder is pulled down again. I begin to walk down head held high at least with some weight and gravitas.
Anyway here’s a poem:
Rotting
I lay down and stare at nothing
A bellow pumps smoke out
Puff puff like a wooden stove
As the smoke closes my eyes
My third eye opens
Projecting the past
Punching the present
And foreseeing the future
Seeing the Alpha and the Omega
Crossed
My third eye begins
Staring at electricity
Switching levers on and off
Turning into numbers
Zeros and ones
Turning into images
Images from bytes
Staring at images
Images being pumped full of life
At 60 Kilohearst a second
There my wretched creation
Cacophony of life and limbs
My abomination
Walks a few steps
And dies
And the wind continues to blow
I am no Frankenstein
But still binded
still forlorned
Still condemned nonetheless
To be forever haunted with endless repense
I remember a couple of years back. I was sitting on dilapidated but otherwise fine yard chair at the Placer House. It was very green. Sitting in that chair, looking at the stars as the Dream Land stage music booms in the background. I begin to remember back to an even earlier time, to a fighting game tournament in LA. Back when Level-Up was still holding their events at the Proudbird. A “rustic” restaurant and dinning hall, a couple of miles away from LAX. It was the morning and I was sitting outside the hotel, smoking with friends or waiting for the car or something. I don’t remember, but there was a Filipino Champ, still somewhat of an unknown at the time, waiting for his ride.
I chat with him a bit and eventually ask
“So how do you think you will do in the tournament? ”
He looked at me and smiled
“I’m gonna win it all.”
At that moment, perhaps because it was early in the morning, or maybe because I was out of shape and out of breath from standing up so fast 5 minutes ago, but in that moment. I saw a gleam in his eye, and most importantly, that smile, wasn’t conveying assurance at victory.
It looked like the smile of hunger about to fill the void.
And wouldn’t you know it. He placed first in that tournament.
So, if you remember back to the Placer Home where I was sitting on a outside chair, having remembered that moment then said
“huh”
and so I cobbled this poem together in 20 min, put it on my phone and forgot about it.
UNTIL NOW
Anyway, here you go, to champ, who is now a chump.
Hunger
Filipino Champ
You’re Dhalsim is like water
Freeflowing, the rubber master
Stop
He’s like volcanic rain!
Drops fist and kicks like change
You cannot enter.
You will not pass.
You will get creamed
By Filipino Champ’s Dhalsim.
FUCK
ALL OF YOU!
GMO?
WHAT’S THAT?
TOO HARD
TOO MUCH FACT
WAIT WHAT?
BIGGER FOODS
CHEAPER FATS
FUCK YA
I WANT IT!
I WANT IT!
AND I WANT IT NOW!
I WANT BIGGER BEEF AND BIGGER BUTTS
I WANT PALLETS OF
1 POUND PATTIE SLIDERS
THE MASSES
TWO OF EVERY ANIMAL WITH BACON ON TOP
I WANT 100 CHICKEN WING MONSTROSITIES
CLAWING AT THE EARTH
BLIND TO THE WORLD
EATING AS THEIR OWN SOLACE
WHO AFTER ONE MONTH FROM BIRTH
CAN BE FRIED FOR A
MUH!
MUH!
MUH!
MONSTER WING PARTY!!!1
I WANT IT!
I WANT IT!
AND I WANT IT NOW!
I WANT MY WEED HIGHER
MY COCAIN FASTER
MY PILLS LARGER
AND MY HEROIN SLOWER
SO WHEN I TAKE THEM ALL
AND DRINK MY SPIRITS
I WILL BE OMINI-POTENT
AND INVIN-CIBLE
I WANT IT!
I WANT IT!
AND I WANT IT NOW!
I WANT TO RIDE AROUND
LIKE PROFFESOR X
WITH 2 TON BEER HATS
SO THAT BITCHES CAN DO KEGSTANDS
AND I CAN LOOK UP AT THEIR TITTIES
WITH PIMP CROWN
GILDED THRONE
WTIH WOMAN AND FLARE
I WILL BE KING
AND YOU CANNOT CHANGE THAT!
FOR I AM MAN
GOD’S CHOSEN
AND HE HAS GIVEN TO ME
DOMINION UNDER ALL THOSE
BEAST BEANEATH ME
AND I DECREE
I WANT IT!
I WANT IT!
AND I WANT IT NOW!
SO NOW
SCIENCE
MY SON
MY LIFE IS YOURS
YOU HAVE HEARD
MY CRY
SO GO FORTH
AND MAKE IT SO!
GIVE
ME
OPPULANCE
Whrandom Writings 
