Poem

Weather is getting warm!! Not that I'm able to enjoy it, I'm always at work.

Sorry I didn't put up that short story. It never turned out like I wanted it to. In the meantime, here is a short, rather weird poem. I never edited the thing, so it is what it is.

A Hero’s stroll down 1st Avenue

Confidence oozing out of Him with rapidity. Confidence in the confidence itself. Smells offend the others, too. Shower-less nights once a hassle are now welcome regularities. Chain mail to guard his knighthood. Is there any different mousse than grease? On the face, hair, torso- sheen for the hero.

Strut is crucial. A defined swagger defines a man. Not that He is desperate for definition. Self-affirmed in His position at the top. The others searching for acceptance coalesce into the stew which repels Him, although the tiniest piece, the weak in Him, dreams of being an ingredient in the broth. Depress these sophomoric yearnings, hide behind the mask and odor and grease. The strides separate Him, keeping Him apart from the broth, allowing Him to continue along the path with His nose pointed towards the clouds.

Down 1st Avenue He floats heavy, like a damp mist. All in his wake are stranded, drenched. Ignore the mindless. The mindless aren’t privy to the quest. Lost on them is the great; the goal. If His demeanor falters, even for a moment, Rome will fall. Such setbacks are inevitable, even at the pinnacle of success, but must be avoided at all costs.

Caligula of the new era. The pure recognition of this fact elates Him. Scoff at the others, leer at the others. No pity, no glee. Fellow man, Hah! They understand nothing, Him even less. One difference is clear, He accepts the bleakness. He knows nothing, but understanding this iota alone sets him apart. Absence of thought is the blessing. Everything else is nothing.

Well, the goal is something, but only in terms of the minutia between the inevitable. Scorn the 1st Avenue occupiers, scorn with all your might. The farther down He cascades, the closer the destination.

On 1st and 3rd shoulders collide with vigor. His-fierce and biting like a linebackers against theirs-flimsy and misshapen, like medieval minarets. He chooses retribution carefully and swiftly:

Fuckin-A Faggot- Watch Yourself!

Sorry

The minion scurries off to his hovel. He swaggers harder, stenches longer. Another notch in His belt. He reflects with the people around him, His head on a swivel. Compassion, emotion, the people praise his name, grandeur restrained, He utters a fierce warning directed to no one in particular.

Next time it’s your ass, fool.

Earth revolves around the sun, ice cubes melt, and babies born. He is sure He stands alone. Guard mustn’t fall, though, evil successors hide behind corners and cars, waiting to pounce and extinguish His rule. E tu, Brutus, E tu? Never will His mouth utter these words. Keep enemies and dispel friends. Push the aching piece to conform and acquiesce into ignorant society down deeper into the soul.

Turn starboard. His pace quickens as the end nears. Trot, not run, but haste steps. Composure is key. Gait progresses intact, mind wild like a coyote. The door is here.

He steals a last glance at the other’s world before entering the downtown doorway. Pigeons. Pigeons pecking and clucking and lice infested scour the floor for food. Pigeons with no end, no goals, no quest, no being. Noble men have a plan. Pigeons don’t recognize the truth- nothing is all there must be. After eating up those tiny crumbs, they will only search longer, tougher. Pigeons must be despised, disdained, exterminated at random, but tolerated for now because they are pigeons, they don’t recognize their purpose. Tolerate then teach. They are pigeons, He is a coyote.

He laughs, pushes open the door, and ends his tour.