Free Writing, (spring '10)

Cardaloom ran along the side of the canal, testing his balance and coordination- the patches of spring snow providing just enough of a challenge without making it a bad bet. The sidewalk curved away from the water and he followed the path, deciding it was a good time to stop the game anyways. He was ahead, so he had won, and he wondered if anyone had seen his display of agility.

After his cellphone had fallen out of his pocket and broke a week ago, Cardaloom was enjoying this newfound freedom and detachment from the pace of 'plugged-in society'...

Bennet couldn't sleep. He stared at his wall, playing that afternoon's scene in the flower shop over and over in his mind. He cursed the flowers and their colors, he cursed his anniversary, and he cursed himself. Maybe, he hopefully thought, if it was under different circumstances, he would've hit that guy. Toughts of saving the day, beating up the bad guy, being the hero, were met with memories of reality. His fists clenched underneath the covers.

A few years ago, one of Bennet's friends was drunk at a bar and called Bennet on the phone. He called Bennet a pussy and asked him how he ever managed to score such a hot wife. Anger washed over him, but it didn't manage to work its way to his mouth, allowing only stuttering and nervous laughter. That night, after making love to his wife, Bennet cried.

Carl T. Pasen was working a double into the the night shift. Again. Second time in two weeks. A horrible way to get by, he thought. Needing the extra hours for a bit of his own money after paying child-support, this heavy schedule left him tired and withdrawn whenever he was allowed to see his son...

Sometime in the near future...

I'm a blues musician,

I drive stunt cars.

I'm a forest-fire skydiver,

I've written award winning books

on media, technology,

and their effects on culture and society.

I have a marble kitchen

and make fancy dishes that

have more furnishings than food.

I'm an ad slogan fucking genius-

agencies pay me G's by the hour.

How to Fight a Ghost, (poem)

How to fight a ghost?

Try to forgive those in his path

through prayer and love.

Stay strong

in body, mind, and heart

through faith.

So that when it comes time to fight,

the skills and grace that Jesus has given us in conquering evil

are not taken for granted.

Lift with the frustration of not understanding God's plan,

leaving only the peace to accept it

with a full heart and clear mind.

Love your brothers and sisters in Christ,

as Brothers and Sisters in Christ,

no matter how much they catch your eye.

Do not allow yourself to drink in excess,

for the ghost smiles when you wake up with regrets.

Even a Misspelled Word Is Never Learned, (poem)

Another night not remembered

fills a whole week of poor decisions.

I started to read a book called 'Distraction',

but put it down for a quick fix of rich media.

Woke up next to her this morning

and said to myself,

'Fuck it, and fuck me, baby',

I've already gone this deep anyways.

A million things flying and recieved,

a million unsorted and lost.

-Even a misspelled word is never learned.

If it's not heavy metal these days,

I'd prefer silence.

Who has time to pray when there's Facebook?

God, I'll get to you, just let me get just one quick look.

Religion seems like an old hobby.

I miss Him. I miss her.

Birth of 'The Ant', (poem), 7/08

Smoldering doggies on the grills

smokes and into these lungs fill

an ease to become easy.

Offering salad, wings, and shots

the girls are international,

curious.

But so soon after my resolve

to enter the fight in the arena,

how quickly a hurdle is hit.

Came clean today,

kneeling behind a screen,

hours later a tiny temptation

is a tiny scream.

-Forcing off the autopilot

into the disciplined motivation

of an ant.

I can't go back to that standstill,

I will make moves with You.

I will fight through each lie.

and looking for a rut

to run smoothly in after hours, days,

weeks, and tears.

Sweet Tooth, (poem), 6/08

The devil whispers sugary silk.

So easily undetected,

blended into everyday life,

persistant as hell.

But we never feel him nagging.

God, on the other hand, is seen as more of a present nuisance,

piping up when we're about to knowledgeably sin,

creating a cognitive dissonance,

a civil war.

He is not seen as a savior, but a burden.

Shallow Pan, (poem), 5/08

You go this way,

you do that,

while I sit here

and dream a sincere questionable loss

to acknowledge what's edging a glacier

from its natural habitat.

My solid ice melts

with your sun of understanding,

quieting a once powerful, furious force,

stumping the branches of a blossoming bush,

leaving a king without a horse,

wondering what they have

that lags you behind.

Watching them rush forward.

Can't collect on a pan too shallow.

Try to drop in some sense,

they turn to marshmallows,

and puff out the depository until it suffocates.

It's campfires and woodland words to express a man's dumb, honest struggle

to give up himself knowledgeably in something he finds True.

Lunch, (poem), 10/05

A short slumber's dream
Still lingers and fingers intrigue,
Confusing perceived reality past
With idealistic
And productive situations,
Yet pertaining to my original regret.

Although scattered and rushed,
Preparation seemed sufficient
For that test that made me sweat.

A quest for knowledge. Wisdom.
A deep desire to understand the mind and self
Is compromised by a surface-level lust.

'Organization' and 'control'
can calm and persuade
that we don't live on a planet spinning like a top,
throwing promises and ideas around like wedding's rice.
Questioning reality and 'where is the Truth that I should trust?'

A cloth hood that hides society,
The wrong pair of glasses nearsightedness,
And a conscience that struggles to find and focus on a core sentence
That will bring me to Enlightenment.

An all-you-can-eat trade of Aderol for painkillers,
A bagel sandwich, green tea exchange of worries, remedies, and lessons learned,
And a reheated quesadilla session on the love of Jesus Christ
As lunch is revealing itself as the meal
To fill up on life.

The metaphor of an airplane's swaying autopilot
Somewhat explains the feeling of progress minus relapse,
But it infers that I've shut off my consciousness and will
To rely on the structure of the world.

Funny- how the light of the day
And smell of the wind
Helps open the mind to
The flowing and natural, outside Earth,
From the emotional, erratic, and unknown universe inside my head.

Holy Imperfections, (poem), 11/06

People make such a big deal
when priests get caught in some scandal.
They believe it's a bigger deal if a pastor buys crystal meth
than anyone else.
They see holy people as perfect humans,
unable to have flaws
and make mistakes.
Everyone forgets,
no human is perfect.
Everyone is flawed.
Only God is perfect.
Even the Cardinal,
on his deathbed,
might father a child.
Even the Pope goes to confession.
The misunderstanding comes from our perception
of holiness, I think.
That just because he can forgive
and preach goodness of God,
that he is unable to fall into sin.
We forget that some of the most high-held saints
were once the most low-life sinners.
But for the faithful and strong,
we must not forget-
we are all brothers and sisters of God,
All struggling to fully face the shine of His light.

None perfect.
None better than another.
A unity of imperfections

lifting each other up.