the past lies deep in my consciousness today. like a scar it healed over but will never go away. i awakened from my nightmare by falling to my knees in prayer, after so long living without feeling the need. i was sure i was a goner. i could not awaken without faith. i came to believe. i found a grateful heart. i sought after family and true friends i had left behind. i became willing to rise early and work hard toward some peace of mind. do right over wrong and be honest. be helpful and admit when i am wrong. take what i need and not what i want. only faith can restore me. i came to know the freedom that comes by selflessness and gratitude. and the harmony that comes through fellowship.
you either can get past whatever you did in your past, or you cannot get past the past. today feels sorry for your tomorrows.
once there was a boy named bee
you are done with me and i am done with you and all our messy nonsense of two thousand three hundred forty-five yesterdays. I cannot say what came over me but i remember crying when i knew i was no longer gonna be protected or saved. I was to be blooded and charged with my Appetite For Destruction and to carry all the old Lies again, in rare form; they coulda made a fine killer of me, at the academy…
what I want to say is, losing you, this was one of the saddest of neverending losses, what i wanna say is sorry. and you have no need to forgive me unless it helps you — please — i think i forgave myself but i wonder — when i hurt — thinking of all the times you told me fuck off
before i finally did
by my touch
my checkered past
An eighth day was added to the week and Gregorian calendar, without approval of the Church. This allowed the populace a seventy-two hour yawn, aka ‘seventh day stretch’, before returning to the essential five day work week. And archived the general american angst.
The State Department Store sold the new issue calendar copy out of refurbished former Sears franchises, which offered ample square footage for safe houses and the novel Homeland Security and Exchange Commission.
The HSEC was setup as a critical watchdog to oversee and protect American interest overseas, now that shares of the United States, Incorporated, sold at a slight premium to its initial public offering on the New York Stock Exchange.
The trillion plus dollars raised in this remarkable, unprecedented, scandalous public offering, spearheaded by the now defunct President Trump, Donald
(whose final veto of the critical congressional legislation set to block his party’s ‘Incorporation of the States’ initiative preceded his impeachment)
was now being issued toward the most unfortunate application of architectural mindtrust ever known to man, aka the blueprinting of a male counterpart to miss america herself, the Statue of Liberty.
The giant slab of poured concrete was already spiraling up out of the waters like a Dairy Queen soft ice cream cone, to house the new symbol of grand patriarchy ever alive and well.
Apollo, of course, was the model.
The Trump Tower affiliate, of course, had been jettisoned.
But plans to use the hollow carbon fiber globe situated firmly within Apollo’s head of reinforced steel, for home offices for the New Chairman of the Board and CEO of the United States, Inc.
(and not necessarily the President)
were subpoenaed by the Justice Department, and were now being relentlessly scrutinized by the tired eyes of the Attorney General, with the Supreme Court perched precariously over his shoulder, overlooking the whole sordid affair.
Meanwhile, an Pan-Euro-Middle-Asian Investment Cabinet of whose who, had been vetted atop the tallest edifice in Dubai, and was now casting its first votes under a mirrored ceiling, over pi
nk champagne on ice, to determine what would really happen across the Atlantic.
Sitting at the head of this VIP table of leaded glass with platinum trim of inlaid pearl, was none other than the greatest surprise of the evening, most touching to all… the prime beneficiary of all global casino holdings and friend to all four seasons, fair women and men.
The atmosphere got crushed by populated space. Entities no longer burned to dust across the border.
Writing was impossible under these conditions. How to breathe again trumped the elements of style. How would i survive?
Outer space border patrol job markets grew exponentially. The highest paid among them was space traffic defense.
This matched my abilities perfectly, having troubled my parents for quarters throughout the early eighties, to play the arcade staple: Asteroids.
The GPS of fear would not pinpoint. I tapped my wristwatch laptop glass, thinking the problem was my micro-pentium generic processor. Which was notably degraded from infancy onward. Seiko had stopped outsourcing, and brought computer engineering inhouse to try and cut costs. I made the mistake of buying the low-end previous year’s model wristwatch, non-refundable, at the great Sears liquidation sale of 2016.
What an event. Watching the grandpa of one-stop shop household name catalogue-innovator cookie-cutter corporate entities of 20th century America, finally get sucked up into a big gulp straw from the bottom of a concrete bunker once symbolic of its own institutionalized permanence, by the bottomless pit of American consumer thirst. Essentially cannibalized by the monster it helped create.
I stopped tapping when i remembered the news that was broadcast to my ocular contact sensors via Amazon satellite delivery through a drone intermediary hanging stealth in the sky, not a half-mile from my head.
The Ebola virus had swallowed half of Africa and was now resisting arrest on every continent. More than a quarter million dead, ten times as many estimated infected. Wow. What a nightmare. And still the global response was tepid and decentralized.
Putin kept telling the world how he could not understand why Russia’s task force of scientists, doctors and engineers had not yet participated in the leading nations efforts toward containment. He claimed to have mobilized them one year previous. Another great mystery. The States were meanwhile stretched completely gumbubble thin, fighting the perceived enemy in Iraq.
I realized then and there, that my Seiko low-end theory was miscalculated. My microprocessor was not at fault. Nothing could pinpoint the GPS.
Fear was ubiquitous, gumbubble thin, and this very moment crawling up the back of my spine.
The days of laptops and tablets and cell phones subsided into a sea of fourth world residuals 3d printed out in the dark of light and night of day, via second hand servers globally attuned to pipeline transmissions.
Beneath it all was a bitcoin traffic jam the size of Luxembourg.
The royal family of Amazon decried the undercutting of their undercut. In senseless haste, they waged war on Penguin, which beat a retreat on a mechanical bird straight to Mars.
Cause despite all of modern devolution, everyone reluctantly confessed to their anonymous divinities… in this year of our (insert divinity preference here) 2120, penguins still cannot fly.