Clever Humans

I saw a brilliant boy make a meal from waste in a dumpster

I saw the last steps taken by a man too few years since his first

I saw the broken, battered, remnants of freedom succumb to exposure

I typed old words on destroyed thoughts using rhythms unconscious and though the words came they were timid. Timid. They knew they were watched, observed while birthed, cut off before they had a chance to breath.

I saw children ripped from their mother’s arms, beaten and laughed at, cast aside as if meaningless, piled upon other children, buried deep in refuse.

I saw injustice in arms reach, put my head down and typed. It is all I knew. But freedom can never again be typed. Freedom must be forever in longhand. Pencils do not yet report their use.

Today I took the first steps towards completing a project. One day I hope to take the last steps. It seems, though, that so often those first few steps come far easier than the final ones. As if each step is a weight that gets added to the next. A linear progression of increased labor as the work of the previous step makes the next harder to take. Ideally your experience with the project and understanding of its details would match pace with the increased difficulty, perfectly cancelling out the weight of all previous steps. Ideally. In reality it never seems to be so. Complexity fractals outward making the total number of steps infinite. No project is ever complete unless it is the project of us; growing, living, learning, loving, dying. And then it only completes because it ends, not because we got it right.

RE: My Lawn

Dear Homeowner’s Association, I am writing in regard to the letter I received yesterday about how despicable my house's appearance is. I moved into this house a short three months ago. Though the house was in decent repair, it had been empty for two years previous. A great number of things needed to be done in order to make it livable. As such, any money I may have had with which to re-sod my lawn was consumed like a gazelle at a cheetah convention.

Despite these circumstances, I tried to curb the revolting nature of my lawn and bring it from a state of deplorable to merely unfortunate. The first month after moving into this house, I received a letter from you stating that my lawn made your eyes bleed when you looked at it. I thought that perhaps mowing it regularly would help keep you from the optometrist's office. Such was not the case.

The next month I received another letter from you, covered with the uncontrollable vomit the mere thought of my lawn must have induced in you. Attempting to aid your digestion, I had my lawn service trim all the bushes and plants, and edge around the pathetic excuses for flower beds.

Apparently my attempts only made it worse, no doubt akin to the nauseating smell of those Febreeze scented garbage bags when you have day old fish in them. I assume this because yesterday I received a letter stating that nothing short of replacing my entire yard with someone else's yard could curb its vile nature. Unfortunately, this fix requires an investment of many thousands of dollars I do not currently have. It will take me another four to six months to raise that sort of money. In the meantime, perhaps there is something else I could do to save your constitution. Perhaps cover it with camouflage netting so you don't have to look at it? Last week I started walking around the neighborhood and surreptitiously taking small patches of grass from my neighbor’s yards. I’m not sure how long I can do this before I am discovered.

If you feel I deserve additional punishment for my vile yard, I just ask that you do not harm my dog. I love him greatly and he has helped me through some hard times. It would be devastating to me if I came out one morning and found him impaled by weeds.

  Sincerely,

outside:

Thinking of You...

inside:

...Out with Tom. Home with Tom. I see you sometimes, you know. With Tom. At home.

Many maltheists believe that God is dependent on the worship and adoration of human beings for its existence, and hope that if it is deprived of humanity's worship, it will wither up and die, 

outside

Heard You're Sick

inside

I know we haven't spoke much recently, but I always really liked you.

I've been going through some rough times recently and could really use some money.

If I had a blog, all my blog posts would be song lyrics and poop jokes. And sometimes poop jokes masquerading as song lyrics ("Just like me, they long to be, close to poo!")

If I had a blog, I would tear the world apart with words, inspire rebellions and foment unions. I would make the Arab Spring more like the Irish Spring.

If I had a blog I would turn it into a money making marketing masterpiece of alliteration and farmed content and obscure references to World Music that no one actually likes but everyone pretends they like because it is so hip the Victoria Secret models in their giant left hip pose don't have enough hip to stand up next to them.

If I had a blog all my posts would be numbered lists of things: the 10 Things to Blog About, the 8 Ideas I Just This Moment Had, the 152 Things I Didn't List.

If I had a blog, you would weep.