Fishers' Tourniquet

Of all the tales told and stories passed and whispered by word of mouth, the unholy things and hollow paths hidden in my haunted heart tear apart the simple minds and safe places to whom love conveys and hope imparts. Stuck, sunken deep in distant dark, resides the body I've kept so secret. Buried beneath sun's reach and warm embrace dwells the tantalizing taint of soul's collusion with learned hate, and here I stand corroded and irate, kind words and cool breath withering steadily like wilting petals drifting off a worn and jagged tongue. Harbinger I become.

Harrower and happy reaper of ignorant bliss, corrupted and clothed in a butterfly kiss, I roam the world aimless in futile search for heart's remiss. The key to the heart is forged in one's own soul, and life entails the inner plight to unite capacity and compassion in our mortal hours and dreamless nights of fractioned whole and portioned ration amidst our quest for the ascertained divine.

So what if for one moment I catch myself in a solar flare, and in a bright blighted instant my body tears from the sickness sewn in marrow and bone? The shadow erupts from its volcano home but stays readily sealed in luminous heights? Tucked in neatly just under the epidermis, deep-seeded dark-service tourniquets, a shadow personifies in the mind of man: savage, sentient, all the dark particles solidified as violent waters sooth uncertain sands. Semi-conscious partitioner and sanguine parishioner of ideas detained and duly guarded within the handcuffed hells of arrested thought, the shadow cackles as I ask my shadow-self, "What fish hath the fisher caught?"

With little nuance he quickly replies, "Who plays the fish, you or I?"

The Kaleidoscope

A man peeks out of a hole in the mountain. The snow rains like ash salting from some forlorn fire hidden behind the cloud-soaked sky. It's nowhere to be seen. He tries his cold, blistered foot in the crinkly blanket snow and immediately recoils. I have to leave, he tells himself. If I don't leave, I will die. He steps again into the snow. Then he steps again, and on he trudges for twenty more steps. The wind cuts into his eardrums sans mercy. He peers back to the cave. I could still go back. No, I can't.

But what if I get lost? No. I'll follow my footprints home.

So he stamped his feet into the vast bleak empty. The trees all appear the same and seem like strong, thin columns holding the sky a god's breath over the frozen wasteland. Like two magnet mirrors, the ground and sky tugged on the snow from both ends, and what remained was the illusion of frozen rope stilled over the tundra, like marionette strings tugged in a dark ballet. Still, on he trudged, stumbling through the haunting corridors of the colorblind kaleidoscope. Spinning, spinning, spinning, and the dark night colluding with the dark light.

But there were still the footprints, and he had faith in the past. Never lost, truly, he would cock his neck round, and there were his steps, still stamped deep in the lifeless ground. Like old friends, he'd dance back to them, and they'd remind him of where he was and from where he'd come.

And night. Night never falls. It slowly permeates and overwhelms the day until there's nothing left, nothing but the ever-distant lights of a thousand suns. And so he traveled by black sunlight, and they each a one shed a single tear to guide him home.

But he stepped forward instead, and he stepped forward because it hurt. It hurts to be alive, and that's how we know.

He walked until his fingers grew faint and numb. Icicles teetered from his nose, from his ears, from his heart, and from his skin . The quiet sounds kept his ears, and the timid tinge of timber tilted his nose twitch ever so slightly. Some time later, his mind began to freeze. With each passing step he felt the jilting pang of memories slowly crystallizing until, one by precious one, they shed from his body, forever lost in white dusty oblivion. But the man walked, and he never stopped.

Old thoughts soaked like charcoal in the thick leaves. Melodies sang in harmonious verse, peddling backwards over the mind and the earth. So the leaves grew moist in the sanctuary of thought and saturated in the dying memories of a distant life. They would decay.

Years shrunk into weeks; weeks shriveled into days. And so time traveled, equally sliding up and down the hourglass, destined to meet in the holy middle. Two beads flying to a converging point. Two hollow stones reckless in fated course. And soon lives became mystery; names became myth. The trees ended in wake of color and green. Green, he said. Under my feet. The soft, cushioned, needles pricks were anesthetic under his skin. Numb, and nothing. Beams of light shattered, broke through crystal heaven and warmed his head. His lips smiled, and everything emptied. It was beautiful.

He looked round for footprints. There were none.

...and then there'd be a photo montage.

Today I opened my fridge in a snack hunt. I saw lettuce, baby carrots, and 2% milk. Disappointed, I closed the fridge and turned around real quick, and then I stared at it for a couple seconds before whipping the door open again. Lettuce, baby carrots, and 2% milk. I'm not really sure what I was expecting, but I definitely didn't get it.

Sometimes I fantasize about myself being stuck in a wheelchair. Like after a life-altering injury. Sometimes I'll push a child out of the way of an oncoming Mack truck, but most of the time it's nothing so grandiose. Usually I'm just another victim of a drunk-driving accident. Actually, in my fantasies I'm fairly certain I've been in more car accidents than all the characters on One Tree Hill combined (see eps 13, 41, 67, and 126).

But anyway, yeah, peeps would be all visiting my crippled ass, and they would leave downright inspired by how I stayed so upbeat. There's still so much to live for! Sure, I can't walk anymore, but it's not the end of the world. I'm in the best shape of my life, halfway through my second novel, and I've never been closer to God to be quite frank.

Also, hospital beds. Classic fantasy. Woman's a victim of a Harlem mugging. She's stabbed, and I rush onto the scene ready to perform emergency first aid, but she starts crying and tells me not to touch her. She has AIDS. I look her in the eye, give her a quivering smile, and tell her it's going to be OK.

So then I become a hero with AIDS, and health complications leave me bedridden in Manhattan Medical. I drift in and out of consciousness, and the dream girl I've loved for years never leaves my side for a moment. I confess my love to her amidst a morphine-induced stupor, and her tears fall like sun showers on my hospital gown. I die soon after, and she happily marries a compassionate man somewhat later in life. Names her firstborn son after me, and he grows up to invent a working HIV vaccine, which is also named after me. Young James wins a Nobel Prize, but, bless his soul, he instead reassigns the award to me for being his inspiration.

I guess you could say I'm a sick freak.

Most people envision themselves becoming famous surgeons being flown in to Kosovo for a complex operation or war heroes vaulting insurmountable odds in the face of certain death. Personally, I dream of becoming a terminal cancer patient imparting his dying words to the faint tune of a string quartet floating in a tear-riddled photo montage. I think I'd be really good at that.

On that note, I think I'm just disgustingly enchanted with having an honorable death. For someone as lazy as me, I think it would be a fabulous end to a nonexistent career. So yeah, that's what I believe in, and then my tombstone would be inscribed, "Jim Wallace was a great man. He died for his beliefs."

Just awesome.

The Decisions and the Damage Done

It's winter 1999. Sam and I build a snow fort out of a picnic table in my backyard. We crawl inside of it and lay next to each other for an hour. I can feel her warm exhale on my cheek. I want to kiss her, but I'm afraid.

It's September 2006. Rachel and I sit under the World War I memorial in front of Stroud Hall. Her hand trembles when I grab it, and our lips graze for a second. She's just told me that she likes me, but she's terrified. That was her first kiss.

January 2005. Kara and I are parked outside a movie theater in Roxbury. I've had my license for two weeks. We've been talking in the car for hours. Motion City Soundtrack whispered from the stereo. The windows were fogged with words when our lips met.

2001. Sam moves away. I don't notice.

It's December 17, 2002. I take Lauren out for a walk after the Christmas pageant. She shivers, and I offer her my jacket. I'm shaking with cold and nervousness as I compare her to the stars. She's my girlfriend now. I get back into my friend's car without her phone number. We never touched, but I don't care.

July 14, 2006. Allyson and I celebrate our 1 year anniversary. I take her to the Deer Head Inn, and we listen to jazz the whole night. Jessie Green's on the piano. Under the table, her heel brushes my ankle. She radiates in the dimming light, and I love her.

October 2006. I miss Rachel's birthday party. I tell her I have homework, but she doesn't believe me. She's right.

September 2008. I surprise Amanda at Eastern. We watch Roman Holiday and go for a walk in the rain. The water falls in heavy sheets, and we seek shelter under a tree canopy. I know I'm supposed to kiss her, but I refuse to look her in the eye. She's my best friend's ex.

November 2007. It's an Indian summer night. Kate and I walk in the nature preserve by my house. We lay next to each other in the tall reeds and make up our own constellations. I remember to hold her, and I pull her close and kiss her like I mean it. I do.

February 2003. I'm snowboarding in New Hampshire when I tell Lauren's best friend I like her. Lauren hates me, and they're not friends anymore.

December 2008. I cry after dropping Amanda off at the airport.

January 2003. Lauren and I watch Two Weeks Notice in Hackettstown. I ask permission before I kiss her. She tastes like rose petals.

January 1, 2006. Allyson doesn't kiss me on New Years. I walk outside and sit by myself on the front porch. I'm upset and begin to doubt our relationship.

March 2009. Amy and I swim in the Gulf of Mexico. She never gets to see the ocean, and I watch her watch the waves.

August 2007. I stumble upon prom pictures of me and Kara. My jean jacket draped across her shoulders. She was beautiful, and I looked happy. I wonder if I was.

October 2008. Amanda and I road trip across Pennsylvania. Secondhand Serenade plays on the ride back. I pretend to fall asleep so I can stare at her as she drives. She's really special.

February 2008. I break up with Kate. She doesn't see it coming, and I leave without a word. I'm just not ready.

July 14, 2007. Allyson and I celebrate our second anniversary. We know it's our last.

May 2009. I go to Amy's house after work, and she has a fish dinner ready for me. She's a fantastic girlfriend, and I don't know how I got so lucky.

February 2009. Amanda thinks I'm hiding something. I'm not.

January 2007. Sarah and I are both lonely and depressed when she invites me in. We hold each other's body for warmth. We hold each other's heart for safekeeping.

January 2007. I break up with Allyson. My hands shake in cold sweat. We both cry on the phone for hours. She tells me I ruined her. I don't tell her I cheated, and I know I'll never forgive myself. I hung up and vomited on the sidewalk.

June 2, 2009. I tell Amy I'm moving home. She understands this is the end. She's the only girl who never got angry at me, and because of this I know I'll miss her.

March 2009. Amanda begins to see me as a monster. I break up with her before the cement dries.

July 2008. I confess everything to Allyson in Rhode Island. She forgave me in her next breath and had never been more beautiful.

October 17, 2009. I ask myself if I have a heart. I try writing to find an answer.

Creepy Jesus

Once upon a time an invincible being hailing from an uncharted dimension spontaneously decided to create. His behemoth hand tore into space and planted planets. Hung them like planes and colors dangling off a mobile and bid them turn. He amassed an eternal fire and called it sun. Then, in the days to follow, He singled out a particular planet and molded life. With his magic wand he led the orchestra in pregnant symphony, giving birth to the grass and trees, the animals and the air, and, finally, stenciled man in the very dirt His hand wove wistfully in the vast black nothing. He breathed live into him, and time stood still, frozen in the flawless life of all things conjured and hewn.

But then a venomous snake demon fooled creation and diverted the earth into evil and chaos, death, dismay, and eternal damnation. Thus man evolved in his sickness, and countless generations were judiciously abandoned to cope with the cantankerous pain and anxiety accompanied with heavenly separation from their king and creator.

Most shed hope like layers of clothing, until at last all were naked in their fear and malice. But not all hope was lost. There were whispers, hushed utterances of a messiah bearing salvation from the fog and mire.

He arrived thousands of years later, shot like a skyrocket into the womb of a fated virgin, who in turn gave birth to the child of the sovereign but long forgotten universal magistrate. The child would be ill-fated to a human life, which would lead to convicted charges of religious treason and finally terminate in bloody execution.

But, as the prophesies had long ago foretold, the son resurrected in a spiritual body and had had, in death, soared down to the pits of Hades and righteously thieved the keys of hell to save us all. He walked the earth for some time before ascending into his father's dimension, but not before mandating a decree: all those who desire eternal life must surrender their hearts to the will of him and his father, who would in exchange proffer and prepare kingly seats in heaven forever.

Millenia have passed since, and his followers still blindly anticipate his triumphant return. To this day his believers still travel the earth and spread his story. They eat his bones and drink his blood in holy memoriam. They baptize their children in the name of him, his father, and the ghost whom which his followers have been spiritually imparted.

Right, there's only one God, but he actually has three distinct personalities. He's his own father, his own son, and he has an accompanying apparition. And you have to invite him to dwell in your heart. Oh yeah and there's special gifts you get when your relationship grows stronger. Oh and P.S. you should give him 10% of your income.

I can't believe I have faith in all this stuff.

The Gravediggers

People insist accumulating knowledge breeds growth. The smarter we become, the further our hands venture into that big open sky, and the taller we sprout, how much tinier and tinier the world seems. Like a cup of coffee, two sugars and a creamer - we've got that shit figured out.

But I do wonder, why is it that the more I learn about this world, the more disconnected I feel from it? Riddle me that, Planet! Why is it, exactly, that the more I understand, comprehend, and anticipate emotions, the less I fare to feel them? Sometimes I feel like every book I've ever read is stacked atop my heart, which is interesting, considering that if you read a lot of books, you read a lot of people. Sometimes it seems that an expansive vocabulary imposes the ability to mark and identify each tension, lesion, and fair weather smile in social strata with a single word.

For example, I know when an empathetic smile trumps a consolatory hug, and I find myself fairly accurate in choosing battles, but there's something about all this "knowledge" that's really got me flipped around.

We're not growing. Not a little bit. Not at all.

They say everything that rises must converge. If that were true, then we would all have met by now, and we would all be intimately connected at all sorts of relational levels. However, I find it increasingly accurate that, as I grow older, fewer and fewer people really "get me." I'm floating further and further, spirited away in the winds whirled at the flip of the page, and I don't see anyone.

And I know I'm not alone here, so that only leaves one explanation: we're not growing; we're sinking.

I guess digging would be more accurate, and logically it makes sense. We dig to learn about the earth; we fly to escape it. So we shovel, and we tunnel. We travel deeper and deeper in search for meaning and the core of all things, and the deeper we travel, the fiercer the darkness, and so it will continue until all light is absent.

Oh but we have our knowledge, yes we do, and we learn about this earth. Just keep digging. I know I should see you guys. Sometimes I feel echoes in the holes surrounding, and occasionally distant songs drift down from that faraway surface.

God I miss you guys, but I'm too deep now, and I can't climb out. Maybe I'll see you in China.

Stand Against Geppetto Justice!

Being a puppet's a shit life. You just lie around waiting to be used, and when you finally, finally get the chance to talk, you're left with no choice but to navigate your patiently saved words with someone's hand clawed up your ass so far you feel it violating your brain.

So what do you say then? Whatever your user damn well pleases if you know what's good for you. His hand's up your ass! You'll say anything you have to to stop that public probing.

Consequently, the puppeteers' guild emerges as both the world's largest rape convent and proponent of sex trafficking. Zero discretion - their crimes perennially pass unanswered. However, I can't say we're much better. Who's truly worse: the entertainer or the entertained? Countless audiences commit plentiful monies to cathedral sized puppet shows, and we laugh, oh how we laugh, at the ventriloquist funnyman.

We permit the rapists babysit our children from behind their curtains and laugh as they indoctrinate our young with their message of hate, discriminate and otherwise, via their hand-handled slaves of sock, feather, and paper bag. We allot them tax-funded, televised blocks of public broadcasting and name it quality infant education. Where is the law? Where is the law in the wake of these mortal sins? It's buckled, buckled and sulking under the blood-spattered, crushing foot of Geppetto Justice - a quiet, de facto continuance of international oppression caging those too weak to speak for themselves.

And they're seemingly untouchable. Not only protected and sanctioned by silent federal governments, the criminals hide behind shielded corporate colossi profiting bankroll off of puppet exploitation. Disney, PBS, TLC, McDonalds Company, the public school system: these iconic, cigar-smoking business tycoons mastered what I like to call, if you would, a cotton-coated tactic of operation. All behind the scenes and all strings attached, the puppeteers find themselves free to express their cloak-and-jabber puppet coercion, completely ignored by the unblinking public eye, which itself is absent beyond all opposition.

So what say you? How long can America keep quiet the decrepit streets on southside Sesame? The dirty dealings of the conductors working the tank engine train yards? How long will you ignore the puppet prison Old Man Rogers kept hidden behind the hollow walls of his haunted home?

And what say you in the face of all that? That you'll actually stop what you're doing? Join me and affect real change in this world?

Sadly, I think your nose is growing.