Theory of Degeneration.

For as long as I can remember, I have collected little bits and pieces of people. Not eyeballs and arms, or blood and guts, but their lives, their actions, moments and movements…the way they walk or speak. I watch and listen, collecting fragments and still-frames of lives of which I know nothing. I keep these parts, and then when I am ready I attribute my own perceptions to their actions; I make up stories. I am a thief. And from what I collect, I assemble.

The way a woman, carrying her child on her hip, hesitates while crossing the street. Wrapping her hand protectively around her child’s head, she holds her breath and second guesses the crisp-suited businessman will run the red light because he is distracted talking to his mistress, and he has only five minutes to make plans with her before he meets his wife for lunch. The woman knows this because her husband left her last year for his secretary. He told her over lunch.

The way coffee shop patrons cast questioning glances at the man sitting alone at the back of the room. His eyes are downcast, and he is spinning an empty cup. He rarely moves, and never speaks. Across from him sits an empty chair, a full cup of coffee, and an uneaten pastry. Patrons avoid him, falsely assuming he is homeless or insane, because of his sour body odor and dirty clothes. It is true; he hasn’t changed them in six days, the six days since his wife died, the six days he has returned to the table at the coffee shop where they met. The same table they called “ours” twice a week.

The way a classroom full of students, half paying attention, all consider the quiet kid in the back to be a dolt. They see a girl who rarely looks up and never raises her hand. The kid isn’t ignorant or lazy. On the contrary, she has already correctly answered the question in her head. She simply can’t get past the fear that, once called upon, she will fumble through her speech and answer incorrectly, drawing upon herself the jeers of her classmates. She so fears the embarrassment of being wrong that she sacrifices achievement. She will later beat herself up because she didn’t raise her hand, taking over from where the others have left off.



No Longer Lost.

I don’t have to look for you anymore.
Not in faces that resemble yours
Round and rugged, shadow of a beard
That always seems present, but never more
Than a scruff. Is it you?
I never asked, but wonder.
This time I could not help myself.
Are you?

He told me you drowned yourself,
And that in the end they had made you a beggar
Boxed in pine, without proper notice.
It had been 20 years, but still I looked for you
Because you were kind when I was afraid.
But, I think I don’t need you anymore.



Right now, that is all prosthetic.

A lack of sleep and unending thoughts will either drive me to excuse myself from my obligations or thrust me headlong into achievement. Everything around me spins on, and I remain pushing my way through to the very end.

And that is where I remain, soldered to the front end of a rogue missile.




p.s. that is what makes it rock.