Jason Rimbaud
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Posts posted by Jason Rimbaud
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Hey Gabe,
This piece has a whole bunch of things lurking under the surface.
Who is this kid David and why is he turning tricks in the middle of nowhere? Why doesn't anyone care
that this kid is turning tricks? WHat kind of mother lets her kid turn tricks?
Sheesh, and this is just the first four pages.
I like gritty and dirty stories where not everyone is standard black and white and things just might not be
as they seem. I thought of so many directions this story could head into and can't wait to see the path you choose.
Very entertaining, makes me want to read more just to find out why. Good job.
Jason
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Hey Camy,
I'm not a person who usually writes negative things about other poets work. If i don't like a poem I just never read it again and move on. God knows I write some pretty aweful stuff. I'm not saying this poem is bad but something is lacking and I will try and explain what I mean.
I love when poets take chances with taboo subject matter. If done properly they can be very powerful and make bold statements. But as I read this over and over, I find something is lacking. Like the narrators voice is too childlike, I find it hard to believe he's actually thinking about cutting. His words and actions are someone playing at being depressed. Like maybe he's heard about cutting from TV and is trying to harden his image or hang with the cool kids. For example:
""" I hold the blade and we look at each other
I know what I need, and it winks and agrees"""
To me this sounds almost irreverent to a very real problem.
"""?The first time?s the worst? I mutter uncertain
The blade it just sits there glinting with glee"""
But I?m screaming inside ?this isn?t the way?
Though unloved and hurting; cutting?s not what I need"""""
I know a little about cutting and the depression that comsumes you until self abuse seems like a neccessity. I find this piece, though well written, to be somewhat contrived. Especially the moral ending. Unless the narrator has received therapy, those thoughts just do not enter the brain.
I have read the other poems you've written and have enjoyed your tongue-n-cheek humor and view of the world. So you are not a bad poet and I'm not saying this is a bad poem. But this one doesn't work for me. I feel like an ass writing this but I wanted to try and explain my thought process and give you some honest feedback.
Keep up the good work. I could be full of shit and usually I am. Cheers
Jason
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Hey TR,
I have been trying to write an epic poem for years. I can never wrap my mind around a single idea and they always come off as contrived. Right now I'm fucking jealous.
Not only did you weave this enormous story quite beautifully, the voice you channeled damn near broke my heart. The imagery and emotion gently sucked you in and the loss of love pushed you over the edge into the realm of beautiful diaster.
The choice about leaving out names only fueled the piece as it let the reader immerse himself into the characters.
Leaving out sex, probably the best descision you made. You'be shown every author/reader out in internet land that sex is only a tool not a standard. Sex can further a story but almost every time it bogs down the narrative.
As which part I felt was the saddest or made me cry. I can't answer that question. This piece is the sum of its parts. From the opening to the ending, you slowly build until the cresendo. (Probably misspelled)
Stylistically, this is probably the best poem on this site. Brilliant job
Jason
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PAIN INSIDE OF ME
By: Jason R
Everything is closing?closing in on me
I embrace all things?sweet stupidity
When I remember?I think of how it used to be
Your face I see in dreams?in my mind
I invoke the gods to strike?strike me blind
But eluding all these curses?you I always find
Once burning hot?the fire had finally died
Standing each of us?across this great divide
Never giving up on you?even though I?ve tried
You dominate my dreams?even to this day
Haunting me in my sleep?I never get to say
Screaming out for eternity?I just can?t get away
Smiling to your face?believing what you see
As I lay and as I bleed?as I cry and as I need
So you will never see?this pain inside of me
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Hey TR, I actually thought it was funny. I am well known for butchering the English language as well as forgetting the rules. I am not an editor nor will I ever pretend to claim such a title.
But then Graeme and Dude brought up good points as well. Which might be why some of the "joy" was missing as Graeme pointed out earlier. My own sense of my mother is not a joyful one but looked at in the context of "mother's lot" then it seems to be a better piece. Maybe I should leave the title alone.
Reading this piece again, I wrote this piece almost clinically. Detached with zero emotion. Though it could have been worse, I could have written in anger like most of
my pieces.
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*checking my handbook carefully* *walking up to the microphone* *taps it* Check
check. *clears throat* That wasn't funny TR.
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Thanks Graeme.
I've always had trouble writing about my relationship with my parents. Disfunction is
probably the best way to describe it. This piece is what I believe a mother should be. But I don't know,
I can only go by my own mother. Maybe that's why the "joy" is missing.
Looking over it again, I think I should change the title. It really doesn't fit the piece. Thanks again.
Jason
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Speaking of Mother?s
(or simply a dream)
Jason R.
For the most part it?s a thankless job
A job without vacations
No pay increase
No time off for good behavior
It doesn?t even include health insurance
And we all know
With the amount of torture
Kids put they?re parents through
Health insurance
Would sure come in handy at times
It?s long nights worrying about
Situations you can never control
Fighting against time itself
In a never-ending battle to the grave
It?s conversations about possible futures
And the ever-present what-if scenarios
It?s sweat, blood, and loads of dirty diapers
And that?s just until puberty hits
It?s embarrassment at being seen in public
It?s being shut out
When all you really desire is to be let in
It?s having to let something go
That you?ve held onto tighter than life itself
It?s realizing that you really never had control
It?s sadness
It?s heartbreak
It?s tears
And it?s forever
It?s about the joy you feel
When a child takes that first step
It?s about hiding baby teeth underneath pillows
It?s about looking in late at night
Watching the life you?ve created sleeping
It?s about forgetting what kinds of hell
That child put you through that day
It?s about seeing the angel underneath the dirt
It?s about empty vessels
Day by day being filled up
With the tools and knowledge
To face the struggles ahead
It?s about fighting time itself
For just one minute with those you love
It?s conversations about possible futures
And the right steps to take in them
It?s a million what-if scenarios
As you watch that child grow and learn
It?s joy, laughter, and loads of dirty diapers
And that?s just until puberty hits
It?s watching that young adult
Face choices and making the right decision
It?s satisfaction at realizing
That not only did you do something right
You did it better than anyone else in the world
It?s realizing that you never did have any control
Over anything
And that?s okay
It?s happiness
It?s togetherness
It?s heartwarming
It?s laughter
And it?s forever
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Hey Gabe,
Great piece. As I read it, it almost seemed tongue and cheek.
Great opening,
just another suicide
wasn't trying to fly
took a foot off the bridge
and took a dip through the sky
Jason
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Hey everyone,
Thanks for giving me some constructive advice. Since everyone picked up on it right away,
let me say that my lack of white spaces and poor format was a copy and paste problem. I swear,
when I was writing it, it was formatted properly. #-o
Graeme,
Reading this back, on my saved version so it was easy on the eyes, I saw right away how
disjointed this piece looked on paper. I've had this problem since I began writing a few hundred years
ago. My first stories had almost all dialogue and no descriptive narration. After reading millions of books
I am trying to find a balance between the two. It didn't help that I was trying to marry two different pieces
written over two years apart. Another reason why they seemed to be different styles. Opps, got caught
being a lazy writer. Good call though. :-p
As the proper use of blond or blonde. I never knew there was a difference. I have always liked blonde on
paper better than blond. I used this on preference alone. And if I used brunette instead of brunet, that
was an error. I never edit my work until after the forth or sixth re-write.
Thanks again for your thoughts. I have a completed story I am debating on submitting to Awesome Dude
sometime in the future. Have a great weekend everyone.
Jason
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I'm not sure how long a sample is either. So I put up a few pages. Let me know what you think. But be kind, I'm fragile. Though I do taste better with Ketchup, at least Gabe believes.
Thanks
Jason
Untitled
By: Jason Rimbaud
?Have you ever been blown away? Truly and perfectly blown away.? Jesse Stevens asked in a quiet voice while tucking his long brown hair behind his ears.
Greg Taylor studied his friend for a moment, swirling the dark liquid in his cup, trying to puzzle out the motivation behind such a question. As usual, Jesse was being his mysterious self, an enigma wrapped around a riddle. The two years they had been friends, he had yet figured out the inner workings of the brunet?s mind or the logic that seemed to drive it.
At least on the surface, the six-foot tall brunet was easy going, always quick to laugh or pull a prank. And yet, there were times when something dark and disturbing in those blues eyes would scare him. It did not help that Jesse had a keen intellect. A methodical mind that saw through lies humanity projects on a daily basis. Yet despite this logic, he tended towards the melancholy, a dark jumble of emotions that pushed others away.
As he looked at his friend, he saw something new in Jesse?s eyes. Something he had never seen before. A pensive stare, somewhat akin to sadness. Shaking his head, Greg asked, ?Blown away how??
Reaching for his cigarettes, Jesse stuck one end in his mouth and lit the tip. Drawing the blue black smoke deep into his lungs, he said, ?I mean blow away. A feeling so intense it rips you up and draws you away like a rushing river. Lost, out of control. Helpless.?
Waving the smoke from his face, Greg asked, his green eyes filled with confusion, ?You mean like falling in love??
?No.? Jesse blurted, shaking his head. ?More powerful that that.?
?What?s more powerful than love?? Greg asked. Giving Jesse a confused frown.
Ignoring Greg?s question, Jesse spat, ?Have you??
?Can?t say I have.? Greg said, shrugging before refilling his cup with the last of the coffee. More out of nervousness than any real desire for more of the bitter liquid. The last thing he wanted to talk about with Jesse was love.
?Not even with Melissa?? Jesse asked, his eyes intent.
Greg ran his fingers through his blonde curls and sighed. Okay, maybe talking about love with Jesse wasn?t the last thing he wanted to do. Talking about his ex-girlfriend though fit that picture. He said, ?That?s different.?
?You dated her for three years and never felt like you were blown away?? Jesse asked in disbelief. ?She was sexy, intelligent. Had a killer ass with nice tits and she adored you.? He paused, then added, ?Though I never quite understood that part.?
?Ass.?
?Anyway, to top it off, she let you do whatever you wanted to. She was the perfect girlfriend.?
?That? true.? Greg agreed, shaking his head.
?So what happened??
?I got bored.?
?You got bored.? Jesse laughed. ?That?s the whole story. You got bored.?
?Pretty much.?
?And all this time I thought there had to be a more exciting reason. Like she maybe bit your dick off or something.? Jesse said through his laughter.
?I guess that means I answered your question now didn?t I?? Greg stated in a quiet voice.
Jesse knew his friend long enough to know that ended that particular subject. Picking up on Greg?s mood, he asked, ?Do you know the true thrill of life? Not that simplistic feeling you get while riding a roller coaster. Or from driving too fast on the wrong side of the road. I mean the true thrill of life??
?Nope. But I bet you?re about to enlightened me.? Came the sarcastic reply.
Jesse stared at him for a few moments, his gaze intent, before saying, ?It?s not something you can explain. It?s something you have to experience for yourself.?
?You?re hurting my head again Jesse.? Greg complained, moving around in the lumpy seat trying to find a more comfortable position.
?Imagine how my head feels.? He replied, giving the blonde a mysterious grin. Snubbing out his cigarette even as he reached for another one, he said, ?So last night was weird.?
Greg had grown accustom to Jesse?s ramblings. He seldom stayed on the same subject for any length of time. Pushing his coffee cup to the edge of the table, he asked, ?Why??
?I was online chatting with this chick from California.?
?And that?s weird how?? Greg asked, stifling a yawn.
Stretching out his long legs across the booth, Jesse rested his back against the wall. Toying with his pack of cigarettes, he explained, ?She?s a freshman at Berkley.?
?And.?
?We somehow got on the subject of religion.?
?Really.? Greg stated, leaning forward in his seat and resting his elbows on the table. For the most part, Jesse was an open-minded individual. Believing in one?s right to live by whatever rules your conscience dictates. He was tolerant of all races and believed everyone was created equal. But his views on religion were somewhat skewed. ?I bet that was a fun conversation.?
?This chick, her name was Ann, grew up in a strict Catholic home. Her parents along with her entire family are extremely devout. And you know they?re thoughts about birth control, you can only imagine how big her family really is.?
Chuckling, Greg asked, ?Was she trying to convert you??
?No. Quite the opposite really.? Jesse said, tucking his long hair behind his ears. ?Her religious views were ones I?ve never heard before.?
?What do you mean??
?Okay.? Jesse said, righting himself in the booth. ?Get this. She was obsessed with Christ. I mean really obsessed. Fatal attraction obsessed.?
?Twisted. Go on.? Greg urged.
?Like she wanted to fuck Christ.? Jesse stated before taking a deep drag on his cigarette.
?Come on. You can?t be serious.? Greg said, the look on his face showing his disbelief.
?I swear.? Jesse chuckled. ?She got really turned on by the whole crucifixion thing. She kept going on and on about the bondage of humiliation and how the thought of blood streaming into his eyes and the pounding of the hammer. Like the throbbing drone of ecstasy.?
?I was right, twisted.?
?You?re telling me.? Jesse said, a disgusted frown on his face. ?She said she slept with a crucifix so she could be one with her lord.?
?I was only partly right, twisted bitch.?
?Get this, she says Christ acts like a virgin, speaks like a prayer, but fucks like a fist.?
?Kind of makes you wonder what she?s doing with that crucifix at night.? Greg stated with a shudder.
?But that wasn?t the weird part.? Jesse stated, pausing for effect. ?The weird part was when she asked me to cyber.?
?Are you kidding me?? Greg asked in total shock.
?I couldn?t make this shit up.? Jesse declared. ?She called masturbation a divine act that would intimately bring us closer to God.?
?Please tell me you didn?t.? Greg pleaded.
?Don?t be a jackass.? Jesse spat. ?Of course I didn?t. You know my thoughts on masturbation.?
?A stance I don?t believe.? Greg stated, grinning.
?You don?t believe I don?t?? Jesse asked, moving his hand back and forth, his fingers forming a circle.
?Masturbate.? Greg finished his sentence. ?No I don?t believe you.?
?Well I don?t.? Jesse stated.
?How old are you?? Greg asked.
?Seventeen.?
?And you want me to believe that a healthy seventeen-year-old boy doesn?t stroke it every chance he gets.?
?That?s right. Just because you have a rag of dreams under your bed don?t mean I have one under mine.? Jesse stated as he smashed his cigarette in the ashtray.
?I don?t have a rag of dreams under my bed thank you very much.? Greg replied, his cheeks turning red. ?I jerk off in the shower.?
?Remind me never to shower at your house again.? Jesse said, making a face.
?Where I jerk off is none of your business.? Greg stated, louder than he intended in his embarrassment. Realizing the couple in the next booth had turned and looked at him, his face turned a deeper shade of red.
Jesse laughed, saying, ?Be that as it may, I don?t do it anywhere. Including showers.?
?Then you?re a freak.? Greg stated in a much lower voice.
?Why am I a freak?? Jesse asked, leaning forward.
?Because. You can?t tell me you?ve never masturbated before.?
?I never said I hadn?t masturbated before.? Jesse said through laughter. ?I said I don?t anymore.?
Throwing his hands up, Greg declared, ?I give up.?
?Why are you so worried about it anyway?? Jesse asked, his eyes narrowing.
?Worried about what?? Matt Garrison asked, plopping down beside Greg.
?Jesus Christ Matt.? Greg said as he jumped in his seat, bashing his knees into the table. Jesse started laughing. ?You scared the shit out of me.?
Matt looked at Greg then over at Jesse then back to Greg. He asked, ?What?s so funny??
Greg stammered, trying to find something to say. Giving up, he squeaked out a curse, ?Fuck.? All the while rubbing his knee.
?Well.? Jesse began, grinning. ?Our red faced friend over there seems to be preoccupied with masturbation.?
?What?s the big deal.? Matt said. ?I just tossed one off before I came over here.?
Greg and Jesse looked at each other, mirrored looks on their faces. ?What?? Matt asked. ?You?ve gotta release the tension somehow.?
?Can I get you boys anything??
Looking up at Rachel, Greg wondered how much of the conversation the waitress had heard. Realizing it would be better if he never found out, he managed a smile and said, ?I don?t think so.?
?Speak for yourself Curly.? Matt said. ?I?d like a cup of coffee and a western omelet with home fries and sausage."
?How ?bout you boys?? Rachel asked as she picked up the empty coffee warmer.
?I could use another cup of coffee.? Jesse said, flashing a smile at the older lady. ?Your coffee always tastes better than anyone else?s.?
Rachel, now accustom to Jesse?s flirtatious nature, patted him on the cheek and said, ?For you sugar, I?ll even brew a fresh pot.?
?Thank you darling.? Jesse said, grinning. ?And do you think you can give us some real cream instead of this powered stuff??
?Anything for you.? She promised, giving the brunet a wink.
Matt asked, a frown crossing his round face, ?Why do you always do that??
?Do what?? Jesse asked, feigning innocence.
?Flirt with everyone.?
Jesse?s eyes seem to twinkle though he replied with a straight face, ?You gotta release the tension somehow.?
?Now that?s sick.? Matt stated, grabbing the pack of cigarettes from the table. ?She?s old enough to be your mother.?
As the argument went back and forth, Greg let his mind wander. It was no wonder his thoughts drifted to the night he broke it off with Melissa. That was the night everything changed inside him. The night he had admitted he was gay for the first time.
Glancing over at Jesse, he wondered if the longhaired boy had that same sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach. The feeling that had been burning inside him from the first time he had laid eyes on the brunet. At first, it was a natural curiosity. Jesse was the new kid in a rather small town where most of the children had grown up together since pre-school. He looked different, dressed different and acted different. But then long after curiosity should have waned, he would find himself making excuses just to be near him.
During school, he always made sure Jesse sat in front of him. After classes, he would position himself during lunch so he could study the boy from afar without fear of discovery. Keeping the brunet in sight without never really speaking to him.
And then Matt begun bringing Jesse around. He tried to keep his distance but somehow, Jesse always seemed to be around. He began having trouble convincing himself it was only friendship he felt. Then the idea of Jesse started creeping into his mind at the oddest moments. While watching TV he would startle himself, realizing he was wondering what Jesse was doing. Or during his evening meals, Jesse would be there in the back of his head. It had gotten so bad he began ignoring the brunet all together. But the more he tried to ignore the boy the more he thought about him.
He even caught himself comparing Jesse to Melissa. Going as far as making a mental list of pro?s and con?s one day during English class. And then it happened. He was having sex with Melissa one afternoon and during the middle of it, he realized the body he was lusting for was not the one beneath him.
He found himself picturing Jesse naked, what he looked like, how his skin would feel, how his lips would taste. All these things were racing through his mind as he came. The orgasm was the strongest of his life and in that instant he knew the truth. Lying there, still inside her, his body shaking from his release, he knew. He accepted the love he felt for his friend. The very next day he broke it off with Melissa and vowed to find out everything there was to know about the enigma named Jesse.
Copyright©2006 Chaotic Life
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A long time ago, I wrote this poem after reading Ann Rice vampire books. I believe that she used the phrase age of innocence. What I'm asking, is this piece original or have I abused someone else's work?
Age Of Innocence
This is my Age of Innocence
You the children of inconvenience
Now that my demons are finally invisible
All those fears in your head become material
You speak out against that which you don?t know
Condemning me when I stand against the flow
You ask, ?What is this life all about??
I reply, ?It?s not a game but it might be a rout.?
I charge that you take pleasure from senseless killing
While I take mine from simplistic giving
I do not speak with a forked tongue
This is truth I?ll shout till the war I?ve won
Money is your god and he?s feeble and weak
No matter how quiet you are he?ll never speak
You, the human race caught up in useless lives
My eyes are opened and I see through your lies
You claim I am twisted and inherently evil
But claiming truth from a divinity is more than feeble
Your institution is crumbling and almost done
Look to love and blue skies for the sun
You paint me in dark reds like I am a devil
Forgoing your ideas only makes me a rebel
If you would like to understand what you see
Delve into my mind you will find the real me
I am the total evil which there is no defense
Because it?s my Age and it?s my Innocence
Written sometime in 1996
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Des:
I likes. I really likes this one. I love it when a writer begins in an all to predictable way, so much that I skimmed over the narrative the first time around, then in the last moment pulls out something original that leaves me with a shocked look on my face.
I had to read it a second time...then a third. The author conveyed such hopelessness and selflessness. "My love will live and die in silence" Brilliant. Great job. The ending...perfect.
Jason
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I found Awesome Dude a few weeks ago and after reading more than a few of the stories, I found the forum section. Even more than the stories I have enjoyed the variety of topics and all the information the crew at Awesome Dude has made public.
I have no formal schooling behind my name nor did I finish High School. And over the years I have slowly learned from my past mistakes and realized what I should or should not do in regards to how to construct a good story. But I have so much to learn.
In the forum I have found so many answers to some of the questions I have as well as advice that I am already putting to use. After reading so many of the topics and threads, I am grateful for all those writers, editors that offer advice and knowledge in such a laid back and relaxed atmosphere.
So from a beginning writer who has a renewed energy for writing, I say thank you and I hope you continue this informative site that can only help those such as myself.
Jason
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It depends on the venue. If its a place I've been and the audience knows my work, I tend to try out new material. I'd rather try and fail at a place where others know my previous work. The judging is never as harsh.
And if its a new venue, I tend to stick to my tried and true pieces. The ones I'm comfortable performing. Though that might be a lie, I'm never comfortable performing my own work. I think I'm a pussy.
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Bitch of the Day
(and I don?t mean Howard)
As I write this, I can?t help but feel a bit cranky and pretty upset with one of my numerous roommates. Not to mention I might just be dying of hunger. Oh yeah, I almost forgot until I shifted positions, I have this blister on the bottom of my right foot that just might be the size of Texas. How did I get to be cranky, tired and ravenous you ask? *Insert question here*
Fine, those of you not conditioned to the tragedy that is my mind; I?ll explain it to you. As you might guess, July Forth Weekend is usually a slow boring three days for us at Market Street Caf?. Normally the crazy denizens of Harrisburg enjoy the numerous outdoor activities Mayor Reed had planned during ?lets make all the fucking money we can before winter kicks our ass? three day festival we call Fourth of July weekend. With everyone hanging at the festival with the cool peeps and considering my staff had been working overtime with ?little? complaining, I decided to schedule a skeleton crew for the weekend. (Just because I would rather have my nuts torn from my body by a baby elephant than spend time with my parents, doesn?t mean I should make others suffer for my retarded home life, does it?)
Let me tell you, I must have been out of what little mind I have left. Not only were we busy as rabbits in a storefront window, but we did record numbers for the weekend. Probably due to the horrendous downfall of rain we were ?lucky? enough to receive. (Like I watch the fucking weather channel) I have spent the last three days eating, breathing, and sleeping Market Street Caf?. Wearing the same stinky clothes, trying my best to remember why the hell I entered the service industry in the first place.
By four PM on Monday, we were slammed back to the ding dong section. I, in all my wisdom, had only three servers and two cooks working that beautiful rainy day. To say we resembled a famous star losing his mind on a popular daytime show would have been an effort in futility.
Being the great and talented manager I am, I used my talent for multi-tasking. I ran around serving tables, I made drinks at the bar for the other severs, I bussed tables so fast I reminded customers of police upon hearing Crispy Creme gave away donuts. So basically I was the resident insane person. Why didn?t I call in some of my fun loving, grateful I had given them the weekend off, employees you might ask? Let me say this, all efforts to reach them by train, plane, automobile, cell-phone, fax machine, email, text message and pony express proved in vain. Not a single one of those pricks answered my call.
After finally arriving home around 1am Monday night. I poured myself into my soft comfortable bed fully intending on catching up some much-needed sleep. But I was so wired on Monster and nicotine I tossed and turned for about five hours before finally drifting off to a restless slumber. I had clocked just under forty hours in the last three days and Damnit; I deserved some fucking sleep.
But alas dear reader, it was not to be. Fate had other plans for me. After drifting off to sleep around six am, I was awaken rudely at nine am by the doorbell. Ignoring the various doorbell sonatas and the very loud banging on the front door, I rolled over and buried my head in my pillow hoping whoever it was would grow tired of this quest to gain entry into a house filled with five other roommates. But not before I wished some fairly unpleasant things upon whoever this was and their entire family, second cousins and such included.
But the incessant banging finally grew too annoying for me to ignore any longer. So I ran from my first floor bedroom to the front door and threw it open only to find a crazy meter reader person standing there. She informed me in a pleasant voice that she was there to read the meter. So after greeting her with some pretty horrendous morning breath and seventeen yawns, I showed her to the basement. Not more than thirty seconds later she walked back up the stairs and wished me a good day.
I slammed the door shut behind her and crawled back into the safety of my bed. Hoping to quickly fall back asleep and resume the dream I had been having about me and four guys in the middle of a giant arcade surrounded by pink bubble gum. Right about the time I had convinced myself that it had all been a horrible nightmare and while teetering on the edge of oblivion, teetering mind you, the ringing of my front doorbell once again disturbed me.
Exactly twenty-three minutes after I had slammed the door behind the gas meter reader person, a way too cheerful UPS delivery guy began his tortuous attempts to gain entry into my house to deliver a pair of shoes my roommate (and employee that would not answer my desperate cry for help over the weekend) purchased online from this trendy store in New York City.
Tearing myself from my nice warm bed for the second time in under thirty minutes (I must have missed the meeting where the other housemates voted on making me the designated door answerer person. If you think about it, you know logically and stuff, it makes all the sense in the world. I live on the first floor, the other roommates live either on floor two or floor three. I don?t have the pleasure of traversing narrow stairs each time the doorbell rings. It?s only fair that I should answer the door. Isn?t?) I opened the door.
It wasn?t that I rude. Because I wasn?t. I swear. But something about way too cheerful UPS delivery guys makes my blood creep inside my already blocked veins. He had it coming, right? I mean, it was early in the day. And I had a blister.
Anyway, after signing for the package and giving the finger to the way too cheerful UPS delivery guy, I slammed the door shut.
Now there?s something about holding a person?s package in ones hand that does strange things to your mind. Like maybe deep down we all, everyone one of us, has this unfulfilled desire to deliver the mail. Because no matter whom the package is for, we feel like we must give it to the intended party. I hated climbing those narrow rickety stairs but I found myself carefully walking up those stairs heading for my roommate?s door. You know I lost my mind because I wasn?t wearing shoes, and in my house, that?s as good as inviting tetinas.
Banding loudly on the door, I completed the two-day trip for the pair of shoes by personally handing them over to said purchaser. Knowing my good deed for the day had been accomplished, I walked backed down the stairs and climbed into my now cold bed with a promise to the gay god, you know the gym, that I would not rise again until at least one PM. Again, fate decided to royally fuck me. Spitting and laughing on my simple pursuit of a good days sleep.
Before my head hit the pillow, my roommate, now fully awake and ready to face this beautiful sunny day, began blasting his music at what I can only assume is volume eleven.
With what I can only describe is him dancing around the room in his newly purchased sneakers to the horrid sounds of the Broadway musical Urine Town, I stare at the ceiling and plot all the horrible ways I am going to kill him, slowly.
Upstairs, oblivious of my murderous thoughts, he dances and sings not caring about my desire and need by this time, for sleep. Beautiful restful zombie like sleep. In my tired dementia, I envision him dancing and singing in his room, wearing his sponge bob square pants boxers, in some kind of bizarre ritual to the shoe god in the sky.
No amount of burying my head with my pillow can block out the wailing from above. And much to my dismay, God did not strike him dead, unless the banging sound is him in the final throes of death; he is very much alive and happy with his new pair of shoes.
So with a spirit of retaliation, rivaled only by America?s hunger for oil, I rise from my sleep like a vengeful vampire and approach my own stereo. I serenade him back with the thunderous sounds of Orgy?s Fiction (Screaming in Digital), the synthetic sounds blending with crunching guitar?s to battle the happy sounds of Broadway. Like a childish game of truth or dare, we battle back and forth for noise supremacy. The noise emanating from the house not only woke up the remaining roommates, but shattered several laws of the city of Harrisburg.
What is the moral of this tirade you ask? *insert foolish question here* No matter what you plan for your life, no matter how hard you try to anticipant the extraordinary, fate, destiny or maybe even Loki (mischievous god of the Norse) takes an almost perverse pleasure in destroying those plans.
If ever awaken by a crazed meter reader person, promptly make a pot of strong coffee and wait for the inevitable. Sleep is lost for the rest of the day and maybe for the rest of your life.
Oh yeah, on the subject of my hunger. I have yet to buy food this week so I had nothing to eat. In a final attempt at retribution, I eat my roommate?s last donut. And when he inquired about the missing donut, I smiled and wipe the crumbs from my shirt and blamed it on the crazy meter reader person. I?m not surprised he didn?t believe me. I was chewing the last bite at the time.
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I know I am on the right web-site when other members make references to one of my favorite author's, Arthur Rimbaud. In his immortal words...
Et j'ai joue de bons tours a la folie. Thank you.
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Pale green colored eyes
Hide the truth with your lies
Stuck in endless depression
Your gaze altered my perception
Those of you
Those of them
Those of me
Over and over anger together
Surround and confuse, circles forever
Fucking or fighting we waste our time
Inside a burning lust that tends to blind
Blinds you
Blinds them
Blinds me
Can you ever find your sun
A quiet place bright and warm
Fantasy lives inside your head
Numerous strangers dance in your bed
Jealous of you
Jealous of them
Jealous of me
Destiny drives us or maybe fate
Forced in a mold you begin to hate
Inside your head a vision is born
Not able to achieve perfection your torn
Dream of you
Dream of them
Dream of me
If all that we are is you and me
What can we do to finally break free
If them are the lies in time they'll fall
Then nothing really matter at all
Not you
Not them
Not me
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Delving
in Poets' Corner
Posted
Delving
By: Jason R.
I fall
down into a pit
a pit of my own making
and design
though I fall
my eyes are wide and blind
clarity is a concept
I have never found
so I grip to my fear
like a fuck without a noun
my soul is diseased
stained gray and black
if I was Dorian Gray
more than lines would I lack
and when I look into my future
I only see me alone
when I peer into my past
I only see me alone
when I reflect on the present
I only see me alone
yet I am happy
for you are not in my world anymore
If anyone is interested. My website has been redone. Lots a poetry and a few short stories.
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