Flag of Halls

I'm feeling a bit sick today, though better from yesterday, and to cheer myself up I've decided to do something I haven't done in a long time...blog in the hall of flags. I generally like to perch myself under the Irish Flag (for those of you who don't know, there is a hall at UVU with flags that span the globe; hence the name).

However, the Irish Flag is missing...and I promise I didn't take it...pinky swear. I'm actually quite sad that it was stolen. There doesn't appear to be any other flags missing. Perhaps there is an Orangeman in our midst. If that is the case, I must keep my guard up, even as I write this because he will likely riot against anyone sitting beneath the spot where the Irish flag is supposed to be. Luckily Orangemen are easy to spot with their bowler hats, their orange sashes, and their large bass drums they like to beat as they parade around.

I'll put up a good fight though. And I'll win...because I'm a ninja.

Anyway, usually when I blog in the hall of flags, I like to make fun observations about people as they walk by. This seems to be a quiet time of the day as there are few people here to observe.

A girl just walked by wearing a shirt with zebra stripes on it. She looked like she was falling asleep as she was walking. That can't be good. Oh good, she sat down. I was worried she'd stumble into some on-coming student and then we'd all have to help pick up the scattered books and broken dreams.

I just farted. It was silent but holy enchilada, it smells. I wonder if the smell will make it across the hall.

*a minute passes*

Nope, apparently not. The group of students across the hall didn't even twitch their noses.

Damn.

Before I started writing this blog I was writing a response paper on the elections and how I believe elections should be. After four pages I realized that I was just ranting. I'm actually surprised I didn't resort to profanity...maybe I should. hmmm. Please do not misunderstand me, it is not a rant about Obama getting elected. I have nothing against Obama. I just have issues with the way people vote. It is a rant about the process of elections. I was getting myself so worked up, I had to step away and do something different. Its so infuriating.

Nothing interesting is happening, except that I'm listening to In Flames, which is always interesting.

I farted again.
*a mintue passes*
Nothing.

What I need is a fan or a breeze or something. The air here is too stagnant. I suspect that the fart just wants to hover around me...which is not what I intended.

Here comes another one:

Nothing.

Some kid just sped by on a long board. I had to fight the urge to stick out my foot to send him flying face first into the carpet, likely giving him the mother of all rug-burns.

HOLY BEARD! I just saw the most awesome beard ever. The man must be a professor. His beard was dark brown and grey and it was perfectly round like an afro. His head was shaved close to the scalp to emphazize the afro-like awesomenicity of his beard. In spirit of Scrubs, I am going to give him the nickname of Beardface.

"Beardface'!"

Okay, it is now obvious that I must go duke.

Crying in Plain View

Tear's are strolling down my otherwise dry face and I imagine that the students that are walking past me are probably wondering what the hell is wrong with me.

Its not everyday that you see someone as rough looking as my self tear up...

...but I actually tear up fairly easily. AND I'm not ashamed of my rather sensitive side either. In fact, a recent study showed that men who listen to Heavy Metal are quite sensitive. The report states that "one of the most surprising things is the similarities between fans of classical music and heavy metal. They're both creative and at ease but not outgoing. The general public has held a stereotype of heavy metal fans being suicidally depressed and of being a danger to themselves and society in general. But they are quite delicate things."(http://news.bbc.co.uk/2/hi/uk_news/scotland/7598549.stm).

Heavy metal is not the only thing I listen to so I'm not sure I could be labeled as a metal head BUT it is probably what I listen to about 85% of the time.

Anyway, I digress. So here I am, sitting in the hall, with tears wetting my cheeks because of a damn song...actually two songs. Neither are metal but thats beside the point(not that metal songs don't tear me up...In Flames' Take This Life and Delight and Anger) I've been spending the last hour thinking of songs I want at the reception. I've been fans of these two bands for a long time and everytime I hear these songs, I cry.

This first song by Say Anything might seem innocent when watching the video but when you pay close attention to the lyrics, you'll find that it is about a couple who are alive with the glory of love despite being jewish during the Nazi era in germany. They're caught and sent to concentration camps. The video potrays this innocently by having a summer camp motif but still, it is very powerful(and suggestive). Here are the lyrics:

When I watch you, I wanna do you right where you're standing (yeah)
Right on the foyer, on this dark day, right in plain view (oh yeah)
Of the whole ghetto. The boots stomp meadows, but we ignore that (yeah)
You're lovely, baby. This war is crazy. I won't let you down (Oh no no)

No, I won't let them take you, won't let them take you
Hell no no, oh no, I won't let them take you, won't let them take you
Hell no no.

No, oh no no no!

And when our city, vast and shitty, falls to the axis (yeah)
They'll search the buildings, collect gold fillings, wallets and rings (oh yeah)
But Ms. Black Eyeliner, you'd look finer with each day in hiding (oh yeah)
Beneath the wormwood, oooh, love me so good.
They won't hear us screw away the day. I'll make you say:

(Alive! Alive!
Alive with love, alive with love tonight)

No, I won't let them take you, won't let them take you
Hell no no, oh no, I won't let them take you, won't let them take you
Hell no no.

Our Treblinka is alive with the glory of love!
Treblinka, alive, with the glory of love, yeah!

(Treblinka is a Death Camp in poland where over 850,000 people were killed between 1942 and 1943)

Should they catch us and dispatch us to those separate work camps,
I'll dream about you. I will not doubt you with the passing of time (oh yeah)
Should they kill me, your love will fill me, as warm as the bullets (yeah)
I'll know my purpose. This war was worth this. I won't let you down.
No, I won't
No, I won't
No, I won't

(Alive! Alive!)
(Alive with love, alive with love tonight)
Hell no no, oh no (Alive! Alive!)
I won't let them take you, won't let them take you (Alive with love, alive with love tonight)
Hell no, no
No, no

This second song is by Yellowcard. If you listen to the lyrics, it's about an old couple who has been married for a long time. I was listening to this song a lot a year ago when my Grandfather was close to dying. It reminds me so much of my Grandparents. I have to bite my lip to keep myself from completely loosing it right now. My Papa died a year ago yesterday. I still cry when I think about him, I miss him so much. I couldn't have asked for a better Grandfather, especially since my other Grandfather died when I was only a few months old.

BUT out of great sadness is born great happiness.

It was also a year ago yesterday that Hannah came into my life. I can't help but think that my Grandfather played a role in pushing her towards me shortly after his passing. He wanted to see me get married so bad. He would always talk about how good looking I was and how I was someday going to conquer the world. I listened to this song on repeat during the week after his death.

I miss you Papa. I know you'll be at the wedding. I'm sure I'll hear you singing one of your songs.

I love you Hannah.



Enough of this crying in public, here's a video to clear the eyes. Happy Halloween:

Samhain

(This is the first draft of my first attempt at Neo-pomo-esque fiction. It goes with a previous poem of mine "Soon You Will Be on Top of the World". I simply made each section into a story. I am NOT a post-modern writer so this is a little bit out of my comfort zone. I know that its not quite as neo-pomo as a lot of stuff. I'll continue to try to push it more towards neo-pomo as I revise it...even though I'm not fond of neo-pomo BUT it's an assignment.

Samhain

PART ONE: THE ALARM
“Mmmmmmm…donuts, is there anything they can’t do?”
“Mmmmmmm…donuts, is there anything they can’t do?”
“Mmmmmmm…donuts, is there anything they can’t do?”
“Mmmmmmm…donuts, is there anything they can’t do?”
“Mmmmmmm…donuts, is there anything they can’t do?”
“Mmmmmmm…donuts, is there anything they can’t do?”
“Mmmmmmm…donuts, is there anything they can’t do?”

I’m not sure why I let my Homer Simpson novelty alarm clock repeat itself so many times before hitting the snooze button, I’ve been awake for about an hour. I bought the damn thing because I hate mornings and I thought that waking up to Homer Simpson might make the act of getting out of bed a bit easier.

It hasn’t.

In fact, the alarm clock is pretty useless. I came to a unpleasant realization shortly after buying the short statue of Homer holding a donut that my cursed mind won’t allow me to sleep to the designated wake-up time. Without fail, I wake up before it goes off. Sometimes I wake up five minutes before it goes off; sometimes I wake up an hour before it goes off. Any which way, it hasn’t changed the fact that I hate mornings. Now that I think about it, I think that I let it repeat itself so that I don’t feel bad about spending $27.99 on the damn thing. No offense to Homer, it’s not his fault that my mind already had a built in alarm clock.

My feet are cold and its probably because the blankets aren’t even on the bed. I’m not sure what I do when I sleep but holy hell, if I could sleep one night without kicking my blankets off my bed, maybe I’d actually be able to get some use from Homer. Oh well.

Bzzzzzzzzzzzzz Bzzzzzzzzzzzzz Bzzzzzzzzzzzzzz Bzzzzzzzzzzzzzz Bzzzzzzzzzzzzzz

It’s six in the morning. Who would be calling me this early? Should I answer it? I probably should, I haven’t received a call for weeks unless you count Luke; Luke is a bill collector.

Bzzzzzzzzzzzzz Bzzzzzzzzzzzzz Bzzzzzzzzzzzzzz Bzzzzzzzzzzzzzz Bzzzzzzzzzzzzzz

The number is showing up as ‘Unavailable’ on my caller ID. It’s probably Luke. His number is always unavailable. Sometimes I can’t wait until I’m in hell and I get to call Luke, collect his soul; I suspect though, it’s already been collected.

I haven’t even looked outside but I can already tell that it’s colder than yesterday. It’s getting to be that time of year. She’s coming, Cailleach Bheur, that old bitch. I have a sense for these sorts of things. Most people don’t, but I do. That’s why I sleep in a windowless room. She can’t get me in here. I can’t risk waking up with her crooked face peering at me through my bedroom window, not again. Unfortunately, I also know that I can’t hide in this windowless room forever. I know I’ll have to face her again. It happens every year at this time. That BITCH! She’s probably on her way as I sit here.

Where’s my med’s?

They’re probably in the corner of my closet with my dirty laundry. Everything seems to end up there anyways. DAMN, the bottle is empty!

“Hello, yeah…can I get a refill on this prescription? What? ...no refills! You’ve got to be feckin' with me. I have to call my therapist?! Shit! Okay bye.”

I run my hands through my hair frantically, sitting on the edge of my bed in nothing but boxer briefs with empty medication bottles at my feet.

It begins.

PART TWO: The Store

I don’t mind a good walk in the middle of the day. Perhaps some fresh air will help keep my mind off her, Cailleach Bheur. I can sense her clawing at the horizon though and this is messing with my head. She’s definitely coming. It’s too early! I’m not ready! I'm never ready.

It’s only a mile to the store so I put my headphones on and search for some band, any band, to take my mind off her. I’m in the mood for something aggressive. With a 30 gig IPOD, I should have plenty of choices to look at. Lagwagon?…no, they’re too melodic. NOFX?…no, too political. A Wilhelm Scream?…no, not quite aggressive enough.

Perhaps some metal, some Scandinavian death metal. They really know how to make some good music over there.

Amon Amarth?...Mmmmmm, close but too Viking-ish. They’ll probably remind me too much of her.

Carnal Forge?...maybe later. They might be too aggressive. Listening to them too much might cause me to start flailing my fists around and I really don’t want another Cop to pull over and ask me if I’m okay, again. It always ends with the subsequent sobriety test, which is humiliating to do when it’s obvious you weren’t driving. I’d like to avoid that today.

In Flames?...perfect.

Their guitars have just the right amount of warmth to carry me to the store. I once listened to nothing but In Flames for six months straight, right through winter. Everymorning, I’d wake up and begin listening to Clayman and by the time I made it through all of their albums, I’d start over again. I couldn’t get enough of those Swedes. I still can’t. If I’m honest, I knew I was going to listen to them, I just felt I owed a look to the other bands that live in my IPOD.

Is today the beginning of another six months In Flames? I didn’t get sick of them then; I doubt I’d get sick of them now.

Pushing play is like pushing the morphine button at the hospital; sudden relief. Hearing Ander’s voice scream melodically the lyrics of Pinball Map allows me to take a deep breath of relief. I sing along under my breath:

Sometimes I don't belong
Release me from your world
Pacified by the small things in life
I wait for earthquakes to rearrange.

Never been able to use the force
I only have it read to me
Despite all the misguided faith
(Maybe) I'll find a place in this mess

With every step I take, my voice gets louder until I’m screaming the chorus just like Anders:

Wish I could rape the day,
just something radical
Lost the sense of sweet things
Who's gonna take me widely?

Guided by the pinball map
The driver, still unknown to me
Who was sent to glorify?
Before we injected this common pride!!!

As I reach the parking lot of the grocery store, I quiet down and act normal so nobody calls the cops on me. My therapist would be proud of me for acting so mature. Perhaps this is what growing up is supposed to feel like. I don’t like it.

As I approach the automatic doors of the store, I suddenly had a vision or perhaps an epiphany; I’m not sure what to call it. I just know that I suddenly realized that I could feel how Moses felt when he parted the sea, or I could at least think I was feeling it.

I raise my hand and motion for the doors to part. They do and I thank God for my temporary exodus into the store. I throw both of my hands high into the air, triumphant, but no one notices. They just go about their day, shopping for their families or their lovers. I wouldn’t know.

The epiphany left me with the desire to search for some manna and water of life. I’m tempted to ask an employee but I don’t want to take my headphones off. Besides, I’m not in a social mood. I'm never in a social mood. I walk down each aisle, slowly looking for manna but unfortunately for me, there isn’t a section for Ancient Old Testament food made by the hand of God. A box of Fortune cookies seems appropriate enough. The water aisle doesn’t have anything remotely close to the Water of Life so I turn to the liquor aisle. Again, I can’t find it, but I figure a good bottle of Jameson’s Irish whiskey would make a good substitute.

The lady at the checkout counter seems too happy. She obviously doesn’t realize that Cailleach Bheur, that blue faced bitch, is out there waiting. She might even be hiding somewhere in the parking lot, behind one of the many oversized trucks that smaller men use as compensation.

The lady runs my fortune cookies and my whiskey over the scanner. She is saying things to me with a wide grin of obviously bleached white teeth but I can’t hear a thing she’s saying. In Flames is playing ‘Clayman’, the title track, and I have no intention of pushing pause. I hand her my I.D., she stares intently at it.

I’m not sure why it’s taking her so long. Even though I’m only 25, I haven’t shaved in six years and have consequently grown a mountain man-ish type beard. I think it’s pretty obvious that I’m old enough to purchase a bottle of whiskey. But it's her job, I guess. Maturity, however, is a different thing altogether. Perhaps she has a photographic memory and she’s trying to memorize all of my information: my age, my birth date, my weight, my address, my donor status. Perhaps its protocol for this grocery store to take down all the information of any male purchasing whiskey and fortune cookies while refusing to pause Scandinavian death metal. I don’t care.

She hands me my I.D. and I give her a fifty and she gives me my change. It’s time to go. This place was getting old anyway.


PART THREE: The Cemetery

“Hello Mr. O’Neill, how is the missus?” I say after taking another swig from my bottle. “Still naggin’ you eh? That’s too bad.” The bottle is already half-empty…or half-full! Damn it, which one is it? Oh well. Mr. O’Neill is my favorite headstone because his has his picture on it so I know what he looks like. He looks like your typical Irishman: angry lip’s, wrinkled crooked nose, shallow mischievous eyes, wearing a wool sweater, and a wool skally cap. Right now, those features are quietly resting beneath the soil. I suppose I shouldn’t wake him; not yet at least.

She’s here. I can see her in the mist. Her grey cloak moves with the wind as she moves closer to me, engulfing me. I wish I could kill her with the blunt side of ambition but everyone knows that I haven’t known how to use that tool since I was eighteen. I guess you could say I was too competitive, too ambitious, too invested back then. When my competitiveness died, my ambition died with it. I guess the two were married together.

“Dear God,” I stumble to my knees in prayer, my head swimming in the whiskey, “tell me please, before she takes me in her chill filled lust; before she covers us all in the wake of her snowflake world…DEAR GOD, PLEASE, TELL ME WHAT I AM MEANT TO BE!” I finish the prayer by take a long swallow from the 'water of life' while making the sign of the cross with my right hand. My family is devout Catholic but I haven't been devout since my first confession. I told the Priest that I had never sinned. How could I? I was so young, I didn't even know what sin was. He got angry and told my father who beat me that night until I admited some sort of sin.

I haven't been religious since, except when Cailleach Bheur comes around.

By now, the whiskey tastes less and less like paint thinner. My vision is becoming more and more confused with the mist that surrounds me. It dances like some sort of dream I’m sure I’ve had before. The mist dances like the ghosts of those sleeping below the soil. It’s comforting to see even though my head is swimming, these ghosts prancing together in the foggy mist. Besides, my therapist says I shouldn’t drink alone anyway.

The Epic battle begins.

I feel a sudden slap across my face; over and over again she slaps me in the face, freezing my nose and ears, almost knocking me down to the now frozen grass. I quickly recover and open up my first fortune cookie. I’m not sure why I’m opening my fortune cookie except that it seems like the only thing I can do. Besides, I don’t want to waste the $3.50 I spent on them. As I un-wrap the cookie, I remember being told, or seem to remember being told, or maybe dreamt that the fortune of the cookie will not come to fruition unless you eat the cookie before you read the fortune. If I had been sober, I’m sure I would have realized the fallacious reasoning behind that belief. However, sobriety is far too often the obstacle between humans and God. Perhaps he wants me to read these fortunes, my only line of defense against that bitch.

So here I am, stuffing the cooking into my mouth and before I have even finished chewing the damn wafer, I see Cailleach Bheur hiding behind a large oak tree. She must be plotting her next move because she just seems to be hovering there, peeking at me around the trunk of the tree, laughing like a crazy hag. As she comes running out from behind the tree, I start reading my first fortune:

“Today is a lucky day for those who remain cheerful and optimistic,” I yell at her, spitting crumbs with every syllable. It does nothing so I throw the little piece of paper at her. She swoops in like a witch, knocking me against Mr. O’Brien’s headstone. I turn around and watch her swing behind another tree. She hit me so hard, I was left shivering uncontrollably. I take a long gulp from the whiskey to warm up, immediately putting another cookie into my mouth.

“ROUGH TIMES ARE BEHIND YOU!” My throat feels like it is in flames now as I stuff another cookie into my mouth, chewing furiously and swigging whiskey.

“YOUR PAST SUCCESS WILL BE OVERSHADOWED BY YOUR FUTURE SUCCESS!”
I continue to eat the cookies, gulp the whiskey, and scream each fortune I have at her. I have become a warrior, armored with words written on thinly cut pieces of paper. I throw each piece of thin paper at her after I read the fortune, each fortune disappearing into the mist with the crumbs showering from my mouth as I yell.

“GRAND ADVENTURES AWAIT THOSE WHO ARE WILLING TO TURN A CORNER!”

“PREPARE FOR THE UNEXPECTED!”

“DO NOT MISTAKE TEMPTATION FOR OPPORTUNITY!!”

“A SECRET ADMIRER WILL SOON SEND YOU A SIGN OF AFFECTION!!!”

“IF YOU CONTINUALLY GIVE YOU WILL CONTINUALLY HAVE!!!!”

“THE TIME IS RIGHT TO MAKE NEW FRIENDS!!!!!”

“A THRILLING TIME IS IN YOUR IMMEDIATE FUTURE!!!!!!”

As I read the last fortune, Cailleach Bheur blasts towards me with a shriek so piercing that I fell to the frozen grass with my hands over my hears. In Flames were still blaring in my headphones, I think it was 'Delight and Angers', but her scream cut through their heavy guitars and thick drums. As I am lying on the ground, I notice that I only have three fortunes left and I’m only now realizing that Cailleach Bheur is far too strong for me and my fortunes. Like every year, I’ll give in, let her win; return to my windowless room defeated.

I crush the last three cookies in my hands and stuff the broken shards of vanilla wafer into my mouth; the other fortunes are clenched in my other fist. She is coming at me from the far end of the cemetery like a witch on a broom stick. Even with a mouth full of cookies, I gulp down the last of the whiskey and read the first of the last fortunes:

“YOUR EVERLASTING PATIENCE WILL BE REWARDED SOONER OR LATER!!!!!!!”

Sooner or later? What the feck, I need it rewarded right now, this second, this minute, this moment. I throw the paper and read the next one:

“SOON YOU WILL BE ON TOP OF THE WORLD!!!!!!!!”

On top of the world? What is that supposed to me? Those last two fortunes didn’t even slow her down. I am certainly doomed. I slump down against Mrs. O’ Brien’s headstone. I’m sure Mr. O’Brien wouldn’t mind. “God, save me,” I pray with a whisper, pulling the last thin strip of paper out. My head is drowning so much now that I have to hold the paper a few inches from my face in order to read it.

“BE MISCHEIVIOUS AND YOU WON’T BE LONELY!” I scream my last fortune as Cailleach Bheur sweeps over me.

B - L - A - C - K - N - E - S - S!

C - O - L - D - N - E - S - S!

“S-s-s-sir,” a man is prodding me in the ribs, “sir, are y-you o-o-o-kay?”

“Oh hey Roger,” I say as I open my eyes and witness an old mentally challenged employee of the Cemetery. He’s been the janitor of the grounds here longer than I can remember. The younger kids like to tease him when he goes into town because he isn’t normal and he has a terrible stutter but he’s always been nice to me. No matter what I tell him though, he always calls me sir. “How are you doing Roger?” I politely say even though it feels like someone is pounding on metal inside my skull. The sun appears to have just peaked over the horizon.

“I am d-d-d-doing g-g-good Sir,” he nervously grabs my hand and helps me up, “We h-h-had a m-m-mighty cold f-f-f-frost last n-n-ight didn’t w-we.”

“Aye, we did,” I say, spitting up blood from my throat. At my feet is a pile of paper fortunes, an empty whiskey bottle, and cookie crumbs. “Forgive the rubbish, Roger, I had a bit of a party last night with Mr. and Mrs. O’Brien here.”

As Roger stared at the headstone of the O’Brien’s and back at the pile of rubbish, confused by what I said, I push play on my IPOD and walk home.

My Head Exploded

It happened today, sometime around noon. I was reading first hand accounts of what happened on January 30, 1972 in Derry, Ireland; the event known as Bloody Sunday. I read about how British Paratroopers opened fire on a peaceful Civil Rights march. I read about how the march was patterned after Martin Luther King, Jr's marches in America, about how people from all demoninations and nations gathered to march in Derry to bring attention to the terrible injustices brought against the Irish Catholics by English Protestants. I read about how, even though the march was deemed illegal by the government, the people decided to march anyway because they thought the cause was worth marching for. I read about how, despite the fact that there is not a single shred of evidence to suggest anyone in the Civil Rights March was armed, the British Paratroopers still opened fire on the peaceful marchers. I read about how they shot 28 people, killing 14. I read about how Bernard McGuigan was shot and killed, despite the fact that he was waving a white hankerchief and was trying to help Patrick Doherty(also killed).

I read about how all of the British Paratroopers, their commanders, and the Prime Minister were exonerated, despite the fact that none of the people killed were armed and forensic tests showed that none of them had gun powder on their hands. I read about how one British Paratrooper went up to a man he already shot and wounded, and proceeded to shoot him several more times in the back as the man was already dying on the ground.

Since I've been to Derry and I've seen where this all happened, my head exploded and fragments of my skull went flying through the UVU english departments window, sprinkling shards of glass over the students who like to sleep underneath the window. Pieces of my brain were flung all over the place. A rather large chunk landed in the hair of some girl who just happened to be walking to her next class. She was texting someone at the time so she didn't a piece of brain was now lodged into her hair. My boss walked in just after my head exploded because she heard me say "I can't believe this, I can't believe this," followed by a large bang and a crash. It was obvious she was upset at me by the way she grabbed me by my arm and pulled me into her office. I don't know what she was saying because my ears were somewhere in the hall of the L.A. building. I don't blame her for being upset though because this isn't the first time my head has exploded from reading Bloody Sunday stuff.

Now I have to wait for my head to grow back, which is painfully slow. It usually takes a day or two. So if you see a headless person stumbling into walls and falling down stairs, help a fella out.

At least I don't have to live with the injuries and the nightmares that have effected the 14 survivors of Bloody Sunday and all the families involved, God bless them.

The Freedom of Sleep

Yesterday morning I woke up to darkness. For ten minutes or so I snuggled in my blankets hoping that the darkness meant that I had somehow awaken at 3 in the morning. I thought about checking my phone to make sure it was still in the dead of night but I think my intuition was betraying me. I knew that it wasn't. I'm not exactly sure how I knew but I did. Its this damn internal clock of mine, always waking me up ten minutes before I'm supposed.

I checked my phone...it was 6:30 a.m.

I throw my phone into a pile of dirty laundry.

I think it should be a law that no person should have to wake up while its still dark. I'll leave room in the law for people who WANT to wake up before its dark but rest assured you will be prejudiced against as being some sort of freak if you do.

It will be a new ammendment to the constitution: The Freedom of Sleep.

The Freedom of Sleep states that all men, being created equal, have the freedom to sleep until they see fit.

HELL YEAH! I should run for President.
My slogan would be "I promise more sleep for the American People!" and my stickers would read "Get your Zzzzzzzzzz's 08." AND my VP running mate will be a sheep.

When I go into a debate with the other candidates and they ask me questions that are too tough for me to answer, I'll just say "You look tired Sen. Obama. Are you sure you getting enough sleep." Then I'll look into the camera and tell the world, "Get your Zzzzzzzzzzz's Vote for meeeeeeeeeee."

People will vote in droves. The tired and exhausted of America will sluggishly make their way to the voting booths, the crusties still clinging to the corners of their eyes, some still in their pajamas, to vote for me.

My political party will be called Caer-Ibormeitheocracy after the Irish god of Sleep Caer Ibormeith. This new political party will sweep the nation.

My first order of business upon being elected President and getting the aforementioned ammendment passed(which, bytheway, will likely require the help of the mob because of the dysfunctionality of our congress), I will institute a new law stating that Viking Folk metal is indeed more awesome than you think and every morning, everyone will be required to watch music videos from Viking Folk Metal bands, painting our faces with red streaks and swinging swords.

Oh yeah, I think I will require the military to wear animals skins, grow long braided beards, and leather body armor. I'm also going to replace our guns and tanks with swords, axes, and catapults.

oh, and every battle will feature a live Viking Metal band playing on a stage behind our men fighting. The other side will be so into it, rocking out and pretending to shred on guitar, that they'll be too distracted to use their guns and their tanks so we'll be able to sweep in and wipe them out.

It'll be awesome. No one would protest war anymore because it would be so awesome. We'd be fighting over tickets to the next battle. Men and Women would be lining up around the corner at your nearest Military recruit office, eager to add their names to the ranks of warriors.

Oh, we'll also institute the old bardic tradition of poetic storytelling and recounting of heroic warriors.

But most of all, we'll get enough sleep AND we won't have to wake up before the sun does.
If this video doesn't get me votes with both the metal crowd and the Tolkien crowd, I don't know what will.

Ensiferum will be my Secretary of Awesome.



Turisas will be my Secretary of Battles.



I just want to add that Glen Hansard, featured in the video below, has a striking resemblence to my good friend, Brenden. They're not identical but very similar, especially in how they look when they sing and play the guitar. Keep in mind that this new institution of Viking Folk Metal will not eliminate other music. People will still be free to listen to stuff as awesome as this.

I think I might be square.

Every morning I wake up at aproximately 7:40(and 6:40 on tuesday and thursday), five minutes before my alarm goes off. I'm not exactly sure why I was born with such an internal alarm clock, but I was. This "internal clock" is quite nice because I absolutely hate it when the alarm on my phone wakes me up, despite the fact that "It's Time to Party" by Andrew W.K. is the tone set to wake me up. Life is so much better when I'm able to wake up under my own power.

This morning, my phone woke me up.

Since I am a dude, it doesn't take long for me to get ready for school. I slow on some deoderant, some clothing, and I grab my IPOD and my backpack and I head for the bus stop.

Despite what Hannah might think, I do enjoy riding the bus. It's an experience to say the least and for some reason it makes me feel a little bit more like a student, even if its not exactly the type of student I want to feel like. The last time I rode the bus to school on a regular basis was in Junior High school...well over 10 years.

Since the bus stop is like a mile away, and by "a mile away" I mean a half-mile away. And when I say "half-mile away" I really mean closer to a quarter-mile. I've never actually measured the distance, I don't see the purpose in that. For the sake of storytelling, I'm going to say that it was miles away. In any case, I have realized that I have to leave at 8 a.m. in order to make the 8:22 bus. This is largely because the 8:22 can show up, I've learned, anywhere between 8:15 and 8:30.

Today I was about half-way on my journey to the old WordPerfect business park when I had a thought pop into my head, "Do I have my wallet?" I threw my right hand into my back pocket to find that my black leather "In Flames" wallet was not resting against my right cheek. I can't get on the bus without my wallet, it has my bus card. I immediatley turned around and sprinted towards home. My house is up a hill, which this morning felt like a mountain. I got there, found my wallet, and sprinted to the bus stop. When I got to the soccer fields, I remember thinking to myself that these fields are unusually ginormous this morning. I swear I thought I was going to pass out, where I'd likely be found laying in the grass by the old asian couple that are always circling the soccer fields that early in the morning.

I imagine that I looked pretty awkward. I did, however, feel a little bit like myself in junior high, desperately trying to move my legs as fast as I can while trying to keep my backpack from bouncing off my back in order to catch the bus to school. I would change between running while holding onto my straps tightly, pulling hard enought to try and keep the backpack from boucning off my shoulders and running sort of straight armed and awkward.

Sometimes the most unexpected things can remind you of your youth...

...and coincidentally remind you of your age.

By the time I made it to the bus stop, I was dizzy, my mouth had that sort of watery feeling you get right before you puke. I must have been running pretty fast because I still had a couple minutes before the bus showed up. Even with those minutes to rest, my lungs felt engulfed in flames. I seem to remember tasting an irony substance in my throat which made me think perhaps my lungs were bleeding even though I wasn't spitting up any blood.

I'm out of shape.

I think I might be square.

Politics is a Sport

I want to write a poem called Politics is a sport, but I just can't get past ranting and too the poetic part of language.

I keep deleting what I've been ranting about because I fear that it might get too wordy. Most people who know me have heard it before so I won't repeat myself simply because I'm frustrated at our government, the media, and politics.

BUT here's the gyst:

Basically, Politics is a sport...

...and a sport is the LAST thing politics should ever be. We should be ashamed of ourselves.

A-Wake

(This is my third draft of the Shankill Butchers monologue. As you can tell, it's quite a bit longer and it now has a scene. I'm not yet sold on 'A-Wake' as the title, although I love the symbolic nature of it.)



“You haven’t lived ‘til you’ve lost a limb,” the Irish cripple tells me with a devious grin as he stuffs his pipe with tobacco, his one good hand nimbly doing the job of two. “At least, that’s what I tell all them feckin’ eejits, carryin’ about with practiced pity…a worthless emotion if you ask me.”

A sudden sense of guilt sweeps over me. My Grandfather died just a week earlier and his wake started this morning. My family has never been to a wake, let alone done one before. We’re used to the typical American funeral at a church. A wake was the only request of my Grandfather before he died. I have been staring at this old crippled man since he first showed up. This man fascinates me.
My Grandfather was a cripple, always had a limp. My Grandfather was also Irish, though I knew nothing of his life there. He never spoke of it and I wonder why. Only now, at his wake, am I interested. Being the awkward fool that I am, I end up embarrassing myself in front of the only Irishman at the wake that knew my Grandfather when he lived in Ireland.

My cheeks turn as red as my hair.

“Forgive me sir,” I manage to squeak out. “I didn’t mean to pity you.”

“I know,” he says as he grabs me by the arm and pulls me close to him. “You have no pity in you. I can tell by da way you’ve been starin’ at me all morning.”
My eyes fall to my feet. I didn’t realize I was making such a fool of myself.

“I’m very sorry,” I whisper, desperately thinking about ways to get out of this situation. If there is ever a time when my mother could yell for me to finish some chore, any chore, I would thank her forever for the chance to escape. However, when I look around for her, I realize she must be inside tending the guests as they enter the house and make their way to the back-yard. My parents researched what a wake was and traditionally the body of the deceased would be placed in the living room, surrounded by beer, whiskey, and tobacco. Since we live in San Diego, we decided to move the wake into the back-yard because our house is too small to hold so many people. My Grandfather knew a lot of people. I’ll admit that it is a bit awkward for me, especially now that I’ve been caught staring at a crippled Irishman.

“Tis nothin’ to be sorry about good lad. Tis those who refuse to look, that pretend I don’t exist…that pity.”

I manage to lift my eyes from my feet and look the old cripple in the face. His face is carved with deep lines running from the corner of his green eyes and down his cheeks. It looks like he’s been crying his entire life, a very sorrowful face. His mouth looks like it has never smiled before but when he does smile, it seems like the most natural thing in the world.

“If only they knew, they wouldn’t have use for pity,” the Irish cripple smiles, patting the area in his right shoulder where his arm should have been. “They’d grab me by da shoulda and offer up da next shout; a hero’s welcome they’d call it. But aye, ‘tis been a long while since these lips have graced the craythur on another’s punt.”

I have no idea what a ‘craythur’ is or what a ‘punt’ is but I don’t care. He sounds like my Grandfather and that is reassuring, comforting. I loved my Grandfather. He would always use words I didn’t understand.

“Instead, I pity them for livin’ like cowards, carryin’ about their days hopin’ for change but not willin’ to shake a limb for it. They will never appreciate life until their eyes witness a piece of their own flesh…” he pauses, taking a deep drag off his pipe, blowing three circular smoke rings into the air. I watch intently as each smoke-ring floats into the solemn air until dissipating into nothing.

“…dead.”

“Dead?” I repeat, perhaps a bit too loudly. My father looks at me with disapproving eyes. He must have heard me. I quickly forget my blunder and my eyes attach to the old crippled man. He is old enough to be my Grandfather but at this moment, his eyes are as young as mine.

“A sacrifice,” he tells me, making the sign of the cross on his chest with the only arm he has left.

“For freedom.”

Freedom? What is this old cripple talking about, freedom from what?

“I’m not sure I know what you’re talking about sir,” I politely say, loosening the tie around my neck. The old cripple’s tie is loose around his neck too. My mom would probably snap at me for looking so casual at a wake, but I don’t care. I like this old man. Something about his nature makes me want to be like him.

“Well, Ireland of course,” he laughs, puffing on his pipe. “Did ol’ Mick here not tell ya?” He motions towards my dead Grandfathers corpse with another circle of smoke, his body surrounded by tobacco, whiskey, and beer. “That’d be ol’ Mick. A mystery he was.”

“How do you know my Grandfather anyway?” I ask. He stares down at his old leather penny loafers and shuffles his feet for a moment.

“We were mates,” he says slowly, “his family lived in da flat next to mine. I don’t remember a time when I didn’t know his cheeky grin.” He looks away, trying to hide the tears. “Aye, but we wouldn’t have freedom would we?” His voice perks up, changing the subject, “not yet at least. Not the type of freedom we hoped for, prayed for. The old steel walls back home still cast dark shadows between us Taigs and them Proddies, a reminder of exclusion.” He stares blankly into the sky, puffing away. “Your Grandfather and I grew up near the heart of it all you know, just off Falls Road.”

“The heart of what?”

“The troubles! Haven’t you ever heard of the troubles?” His eyes are anxious with worry.

“I’ve never heard of the troubles. I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I say, shrugging my shoulders shyly. I wonder what my Grandfather would say at my ignorance. Would he be upset? Probably not. After all, he never spoke of Ireland. Perhaps it was too difficult for him to talk about. I remember he would always tell me to be proud I was American, that I had freedom. It’s all starting to make sense.

“Aye, ‘the troubles’ is what we call the war in Northern Ireland,” he says, leaning back in his chair. “We were raised to be Fenians you know. Me Da’ was one himself, his Da’ too. It’s in our blood,” he grins, poking me with his pipe, “and it’s in your blood.”

“What’s a fenian?” I ask, watching his eyes dart back and forth.

“A Fenian is a sworn protector of Ireland much like Finn Mac Cool and his band of Fianna protected Ireland in the old stories,” he says with a whisper.

“Finn Mac Cool?”

“You really are quite daft aren’t you?” He teases me, poking me in the ribs again with his pipe. I quickly dust off my shirt, hoping that he didn’t allow any ashes from his pipe to burn my only dress shirt.

“My Grandfather never spoke of Ireland,” I say, embarrassingly looking away from the old crippled man. He shrugs as if to let me know that it’s okay.

“Your Grandfather probably wanted it that way, but he’s dead now. Let me tell you about freedom,” he says, his eyes lighting up like fire. He stands up and begins speaking very loudly, demanding the attention of everyone at the wake. His voice echoes through our backyard and down our southern California Street. “For 900 years the feckin’ English have been treatin’ us like gobshites. Illegal occupiers I tell you!” He wags his finger high in the air, “Illegal! They hate us, always have. They tried killin’ us all with Cromwell. Then they let us starve to death durin’ the famine. I joined the Provo’s, eager to add my name among the ranks of I.R.A. folklore, to have mates cheers me up and down ol’ Falls road. AND I’ve NEVER been ashamed of it,” he pounds his chest, ashes splash out of his pipe with each pounce. “I signed up the day after da Bloody Sunday incident in Derry! Bloody mess that was! Thousands of lads like meself, barely able to swallow a pint, signed up after that day.”

The wake is silent, everyone’s eyes now watching the old crippled man.
“We didn’t hate da prods for their religion like da way they hated us. We hated ‘em for da oppression, for da fact they control everythin’: da police, da government, where we live, where we work…where we don’t work. We hated ‘em most for parading through our neighborhoods every July with their orange sashes and their blaring drums shaking our windows to rubble.
“That’s why for ten years, ol’ Mick here and I fought da Shankill Road prods. We hijacked buses and taxis and drove ‘em past da great steel gates to use as roadblocks. It became our obsession, our sport. We had no shame,” he yells, “We had no pity.”

His voice grows louder, almost taking on a life of its own. He grabs me by the arm and walks me over to where my Grandfather’s body is lying. My Grandfather’s body seems to almost smile, his spirit somehow peaking through to his old friends words.

“I lost me arm in ’81, the same time Ol’ Mick here found his limp, a bloody horrible week to be Irish. Twas a week after Bobby Sands died in da H-block prison of a hunger strike,” he laughs, “Ya’ll know who Bobby Sands was, don’t ye?!” I could tell by the tone in his voice that he was mocking us. He knew we didn’t know. “He was a man just like Mick! Just like me! A man who thought it worthwhile to die so his children could laugh and play without fear. He was the first of ten whom the Queen let shrivel to their graves!”

Everyone at the wake slowly moves closer to the old cripple, listening to what this old Irishman has to say to me. Ten minutes ago I would have been embarrassed if he had grabbed me by the shoulder and started speaking loudly, but now I am proud. I feel like he chose me even though his words are for everyone else. I am the one here without pity.

“That same week, a notorious gang of feckin’ UVF members known as da Shankill butchers…” His voice was full of nothing but the darkest type of hate. He continues, sobbing confidently, “…kidnapped and killed me brothers; hung ‘em by their heels, slit their throats, carved ‘papist devil’ on their chests,” he makes a carving motion into his chest and across his neck, “…let ‘em bleed to death. Mick and I planted a bomb in their local pub on Shankill road, succeeded in killin’ two of ‘em in the blast. Sacrificed me arm in da process,” he kneels beside my Grandfathers body, holding his cold hand. “I left it lying in pieces along with the rubble as I walked away, the pain screaming towards freedom…or some aspect of it, whatever that means. I’m not sure I know anymore.”

Tears are streaming down his cheeks and I understand why those lines are so deep. After all these years, there still isn’t freedom. At least not the type of freedom he hoped for. It’s quiet as everyone stares at each other and then back at the old crippled man holding my Grandfathers lifeless hand.

“So pity,” he says, staring at everyone at the wake, “pity is a worthless emotion.”

Amon Amarth

Does the fact that I love melodic death metal make me a geek, especially when it's melodic viking death metal? and yes, there is such thing as melodic death metal.

Amon Amarth is a great. They pump me up(and fill in the many areas of my personality that are lacking masculinity). If you can get over the fact that he's growling(quite melodic I might add), you'll actually hear that the music is quite melodic and catchy...I think.

I like to think that my love of melodic viking death metal makes me a badass...

...I mean, come on, what is more bad-ass than this:



If this video doesn't make you want to grow a blond beard, dust off your chainmail armor, sharpen your sword, and pillage various villages in the name of Oden, the thunder God...

...than I don't know what will.

Shankill Butcher (1st draft) Peer Review

I'm sitting in class right now, listening to the class of 20 students tear apart my flash fiction story. I didn't expect anyone to like it because nobody in any of my English writing class have had any interest in my Irish influenced stuff...

...but so far I've had three people tell me they really like it. I'm surprised, considering I use a lot of slang and terms that aren't exactly common knowledge to Western Americans.

So here's what people are saying:

"It would make for a good dramatic monologue"

"I like the way it starts with pity, ends with pity"

"What does Craythur mean? and what is a punt?"

"We don't need as much 'da' for 'the' "

"This says A LOT in a short few paragraphs"

"Cut out the dialect, I don't get it."

"I really like how the story is told."

"We need one scene to make it flash fiction."

"Each of the events could be dramatized out into a book"

"It doesn't have a current story."

"It feels like just a memory, or recruiting"

"Whose he talking to?"

"There are some really nice things going on in the story, just needs some more exposition."

"Write more! Forget about 550 word limit and expound on each part."


This was pretty much the synopsis of what the class was saying. Pretty positive overall. I'm actually pretty shocked. The changes people wanted seemed mostly to expound more on what I've already written.

Wild Country (Ist draft of Part 2)

So here I am in Donegal.

After all these trips, I’ve never been to Donegal. For some reason the encounter with the old singing man left me weary of Donegal. But there’s nowhere else to search in Ireland. There are thirty-two counties and I’ve searched thirty-one. Donegal is located in the north western county of Ireland, a bizarre place…a wild place. It feels isolated here, lost in a different century.

The locals speak Irish Gaelic to each other. It’s a very musical language and I enjoy listening to it. They speak English to tourists but their accent is unlike the accents of the rest of Ireland. Their accents are of people who speak English only when they have to. Some of the people here are uncomfortably nice to me. I don’t know what to do. I’m not accustomed to kindness since after the incident that caused me to stop writing, ruined my marriage, and sent me spiraling towards Ireland. The people here probably don’t read the news.

The hotel is old, built a hundred years before the potato famine that sent millions of people either into the soil or over the water. The hotel overlooks the town square with its little park of cement and benches. It’s a small town with only a few hotels and shops circling the square. Donegal Castle looms just to the east of the square along with an old Presbyterian church. I parked my motorcycle on the street near the castle and was greeted by an impressive amount of black ravens flying over the Castle like something you’d see in an old Dracula movie. It gave me chills.

I checked into the hotel and was surprised that they gave me a key with a piece of wood that said “Room 313” rather than the more widely used electronic card that resembles a credit card. I didn’t think hotels used keys anymore. The key itself wasn’t even modern. It was long, made of thick steel. It looked more like a prop in an old British play. For some reason I was reminded of Sherlock Holmes. I smiled. Sherlock Holmes was the first novel I ever read. I was nine years old.
I noticed a window on the north end of the room that overlooked the little town square. I walked over to the window to open it up so air could circulate. The Irish don’t believe in air conditioning and it can get quite hot and humid during July. The window well was unusually deep. It made the outside wall appear to be unusually thick. I opened the window outward towards the town circle to allow some circulation and then I headed down to the pub.

When I got down to the lobby of the hotel, I heard a beautiful sound flowing from the pub. It was a remarkable melody, something familiar. I picked up the day’s newspaper from the lady at the front and headed towards the music. I was shocked to find that the melody was emanating from the old singing man. Only this time he was sitting on a stool on a dark stage playing what sounded like a more melodic version of the highland bagpipes.

The instrument he was playing was much quieter than the blaring highland pipes and he seemed to have the ability to bend and melt notes together. It was beautiful. The instrument was held in his lap. He had a bellow under his right arm that would pump air into a black leather bag that was placed under his left arm. He’d squeeze the bag and air would pass through an ivory chanter. The motions he made with the chanter reminded me of a snake charmer. Every move he made would shape the note into whatever he pleased. There were some other parts of the instrument that looked like the drones on bagpipes, only these drones faced the ground between his legs.

He sang as he played. It reminded me of those one man bands you’d see at a county fair. These drones made a single low note that harmonized with the melody from the chanter. There wasn’t a part of his body that didn’t seem involved, a part of the melody. It was magical.

It had been four years since my first experience with the old singing man. I wasn’t surprised to see him doing something musical. In fact, I was quite relieved because he had been appearing in my dreams whenever I would come to Ireland, always singing about Donegal. Perhaps that’s all he does. During these four years, I was convinced that he didn’t exist and that my experience with him in the pub was either a drunken hallucination or a schizophrenic episode. I talked to therapists, argued with most of them. I was diagnosed with all sorts of disorders, given medications and placebos. Everything just got worse. Then the incident happened during the last trip to Ireland and I stopped talking to everyone altogether. That was a year ago. I promised myself that I was never going to come back. But here I am.
I don’t feel disordered though. Perhaps a bit lost, that’s all.
After self-medicating the night away, listening to the old singing man’s music, I stumbled up to my room.

So here I am…

…sitting on the edge of my bed at 5:30 in the morning. People always say that it’s always the darkest before dawn. Tonight is no exception. A fog has covered the town square. Because I left the window open, my room is full of a thick mist, thicker than I’ve ever seen. I awoke only moments earlier to whispering. When I sat up in my bed, I saw a girl sitting in the window well, hiding behind the curtain. She is still there, whispering to someone and giggling. I think I might still be a little bit “medicated”. Perhaps I’m still dreaming.

After staring at the girl and trying my best to convince myself that she doesn’t exist, I decide that she must be a prankster who climbed up through my window.
Right before I went to bed, the town square was full of loud young college girls. I suppose that it could be possible that one of them could have climbed up here on a dare. She’s probably stuck in my window well, too scared to climb back down and too shy to ask for help. I get up and walk over to the window in nothing but my black boxer briefs, annoyed at whoever is waking me up. I think briefly about putting on a robe but decide not to. I don’t care if she see’s me in nothing but my skeevies. Maybe seeing the naked body of someone who has spent four years in a self-destructive mood will teach her not to climb through hotel windows.
I open the curtain quickly, hoping to startle the girl.

Empty.

I fall back onto my bed with shock. “What the fuck? I can’t still be drunk…hung-over maybe but not drunk. Maybe I’m just sleep-walking.” I have been known to sleep-walk but I haven’t done that since my early twenties. I close the curtains and turn towards my bed. As I lay back down, feeling a bit foolish, I hear the whispers again. She’s back. I study her face in the dark, hiding behind the curtain, for a solid ten minutes. The mind can often play tricks on your eyes when it is early and dark. I want to make sure of what I’m seeing.

She occasionally turns and giggles something to someone hidden behind the curtain. I must be imagining her, somehow awake in a dream. When I can’t convince myself of her non-existence any longer, I stand up and repeat my earlier action.
Empty.

“For the _____ love of Patrick!” I scream out the window, “Where are you?!” I quickly climb into the window well and poke my head outside, thinking that she must have climbed out onto the edge. I’m sure I’ve caught her but the fog is so thick, I can’t see more than three feet outside the window. The ledge is only about six inches wide. How could she have gotten away? I must be asleep, dreaming. I reluctantly climb back into my room, close and lock the window and climb under the sheets of my bed.

Before I could even close my eyes, I heard the whispering again. This time I tried to ignore it. The relief of seeing the old singing man the previous night is supplanted with a certainty that I am having a schizophrenic episode. This girl is all in my head. I doubt whether the old singing man last night was even real. I sit up in bed, trying desperately to ignore the whispering girl. I start weeping, wishing I had some whiskey nearby to help me wash this night into oblivion. The loneliness and humiliation is unbearable.

“Who are you?” I manage to blurt out through the sobs.

No answer.

“WHO ______ ARE YOU?!” I scream, throwing Gideon’s Bible at the window.
I don’t care if people in the other rooms hear me. I don’t care if people think I’m crazy. I don’t care if people have to break into the room to find me yelling at nothing. God could be standing in that window well for all I care. I just want to know. The worst part of being broken is not knowing if you are.

I close my eyes so tightly that my entire body is shaking in the silence that echoes through the room. My is beating so hard, my chest hurts. After an eternity of silence, I open my eyes.

“Sìve…my name is Sìve,” a young lady says as she emerges from the window. Her accent is strong. I can tell that English is not her first language. Every part of me that tried to keep my eyes shut is now trying to keep my eyes open.

“Why are you here Sìve, tormenting my brain?”

“You don’t know?” She put her hands over her mouth, excited, smiling. I find myself smiling back at her, studying her. Even if she is just a figment of my imagination, she is gorgeous. Her hair is black. Her skin is tan. Her eyes are an emerald green. I don’t realize how short she is until I stand up to look into the window well to see if the person she giggled to is still in there with her. Her eyes reach my chest. I can’t tell her age. She could be anywhere between 16 and 30 years old. I don’t recognize her except that she has the same mischievous eyes of the old singing man.

“I don’t know who you are. Why would I have any clue as to why a girl would be coming into my hotel room through a window? Answer that.”

“I can’t answer that just yet. I’m not actually supposed to be talking to you…not yet. I’m just supposed to give you this.”

She hands me a card and giggles with excitement. I smile back at her, confused, and turn towards the far wall to turn on a lamp so I can read the card. After I flip the switch, I notice the card has Celtic knotting around the border adorned in gold-leaf. In a Celtic script, the card reads “Conor O’Sid. Shoe repair and accessories. Located in the old fallen oak down by the bay.” My eyes light up, suddenly realizing the shoe-repairman shares my last name. Finally, I’ve found someone who might have known my Grandfather. I turn towards Sìve to thank her.
She’s gone. The window is wide open. The mist outside is gone.

“You could have used the door you know,” I yell out the window, not knowing if she hears me.

Wild Country (1st draft of Part One)

(This is the first draft of Part One of my latest short story...I'll post more as I finish them so stay tuned)


Donegal, Ireland.

That old singing man in Dublin called it Wild Country. What does that mean anyway? Wild country? When I say it…wild country…it reminds me of something I’d hear in an old western movie, a warning whispered through a gritty voice by a cowboy dressed with a jagged scar down his cheek. I don’t like westerns though, not anymore I don’t.

When the old singing man sang it, those words didn’t sound like a warning. They sounded like an invitation...like some sort of drunken ghostly sort of invitation. The memory of that old singing man has stuck with me ever since. Perhaps it was because he reminded me of my Grandfather. My Grandfather loved to sing. And he was Irish. I guess they had that much in common. He passed away a few months before that first trip to Ireland. In fact, his death was what triggered this obsession.
I knew nothing about his life. I was a writer back then and I was interested in secrets. He was a secret man and secrets always make good stories.

All I know is that he came to America in 1941 when he was just twenty-five years old. He never told me why he left. He never told my father either. He never spoke of it. The only way you could tell he was Irish was his accent and the songs he’d reel off at any given time. When I was younger, I was more curious. I was persistent. My Grandfather was stubborn. His stubbornness won out and I lost interest. I remember he had a limp, always had a limp. When I asked him about it, he would always look me in the eyes and tell me that he had polio. As I got older I realized that most people look away from you when they lie…the Irish look you in the eye.

That first trip to Ireland was life changing. I knew relatively nothing about
Ireland other than the various clichés: leprechauns, clovers, beer. I came looking for a good story to write, for inspiration, for answers. My publisher was pressing me for something new, something good. My Grandfather's secret childhood had always lingered in the back of my mind as a possibly good story. I was desperate.

My plane arrived shortly after 6:30 in Dublin that morning. I checked into my hotel just a few streets away from Trinity College near St. Stephens Green. I deliberately picked a hotel near that park because of its history as a place for writers like Yeats, Joyce, and Wilde. I admired Yeats the most of those men. He knew rejection intimately.

I crashed onto my bed expecting to sleep from the jet-lag and the long day of traveling but after a few minutes of lying opened-eyed on the bed, I realized I was too restless to sleep. I decided to go exploring. The streets were relatively empty except for the few people going to work. I walked through St. Stephens Green to the east-side of Dublin near the docks. It was daring, dangerous. I wanted to be near the real people, not the tourists. The docks seemed like a perfect place to explore. It was the rough part of town. The buildings were grey and depressing, covered in graffiti. The graffiti was different though. It wasn’t like the graffiti back home. One tag read “get knowledge, then vote no,” another read “up the IRA”. Homeless men and women were huddled in corners and alleys. Windows were broken and I could see into various tenements where the poor of Dublin would find refuge in abandoned apartments and office buildings.

Despite the depressing tenements, the air had a sweet taste to it, a sweetness I had never tasted before. In fact, I don’t ever remember ‘tasting’ air before Ireland. I liked it. It made me feel alive, like I’d been somehow dead my entire life. As I got closer to the docks, I noticed that buildings looked older and more dilapidated. I came upon an old pub that seemed to be open. I thought it was bizarre that a pub would be open so early in the morning. It was known as an Early-license pub. They are allowed to stay open until 7 or 8 a.m. to allow those who worked the night shifts at the dock to grab a pint before going home. That made me chuckle. They really do love the drink, don’t they? I casually walked in and ordered a pint of Guinness from the barman. Before this trip I was generally a Corona and Lime type of guy. Things change.

I grabbed the pilsner glass full of black Guinness with a tan frothy head. I took my first gulp of Guinness and caught a bit of the frothy tan on the tip of my nose. My eyes opened with wonder. The taste was thick and full. I remember feeling a bit guilty for drinking so early in the morning but I justified grabbing a pint because of the time difference. It was only midnight in Boulder, Colorado where I live back in the states.

After I took my first gulp of Guinness, I examined the pub with a writer’s eye. The pub was dark like the popular drink with low lights hanging above various tables. The walls and tables were made of dark oak that had been stained even darker from years and years of cigar smoke seeping into the pores of the wood. The air didn’t smell like smoke however and I found that to be odd. Pubs are notorious for being full of cigarette smoke and the Irish are notorious for loving tobacco. I pulled out a cigarette and started to light up but the barman stopped me.

“Ya’ll have to do that outside mate.”

“Why?” I replied.

“You’re a yank then are you? What are ye doing ova ‘ere in da earlies?”

“Just flew in...wanted a pint.”

“Aye, dat you can ‘ave in ‘ere. Da woodbine ‘as to go,” he pointed towards the door. "Tis law dey passed last year…bloody rubbish if ya ask me. Sodding eejits over dere in da big white building, trying to act like dey care.”

I nodded my head in agreement and put the cigarette back in my shirt pocket. Inside were only a handful of people. I can only assume they were dock hands. They didn't seem like the socializing type. Nobody was talking. They all just stared into the darkness of their pints, each with a story they weren’t likely to tell, hidden beneath their worn out eyes. I sat down at the end of the bar and pretended to care about the sports analyst commenting about a Hurling match that was played the night before. I didn’t have any idea what hurling was. It looked like a funny sport to me like a mix of hockey, soccer, and baseball. But then again, they probably think football is a pretty funny sport.

After about twenty minutes, onto my fourth pint of Guinness, an old man seemed to appear from the shadows. He was wearing a dark, thick, wool sweater with a matching wool skally cap. His slacks were an old and worn grey that didn’t seem to match his perfectly polished black leather shoes. His shoes were striking. The soles seem to be a glowing gold with a golden buckle over the top. I had never envied shoes until that moment. His cap was pulled so far forward you could only see his mouth and his long pointy nose peaking from beneath the bill of the hat. He started singing without notice or invitation. I thought it was bizarre. I would later learn that singing without invitation was something the Irish often do. But on that first trip I was taken back, uncomfortable. Thought I was seeing the ghost of my Grandfather at first.

Perhaps it was because he seemed to be singing at me, staring curiously through the darkness beneath his skally cap. He was bent slightly forward like many old people do whose spines are bent with time. He shuffled over to me slowly as he sang. He wasn’t a ghost nor was he my Grandfather. I was reminded about something my Grandfather used to say. When my Grandfather’s spine began to bend with age, he would joke “the wiser you get, the heavier your brain becomes.” I never doubted my Grandfather. Perhaps this old singing man was a relative, a brother maybe.

We never talked or even exchanged greetings. He just sang and shuffled over to the bar for another shout of whiskey. His eyes barely came level with the bar stool. He was awkwardly short. He motioned for the barman’s attention like a soldier in a foxhole, raising his shaking hand as high as he could. He ordered his drink without breaking his song, turning to me so I could see his eyes. His eyes were more than just young, they were mischievous. He winked at me as the barman handed him his shout of warm whiskey and he shuffled back to his corner.

He sang, “Lets go up to Ol’ Donegal, where its wild country…beware for the little folk because they aren’t what they seem.” He sat down in his corner and seemed to disappear into the shadows while his voice continued to carry to my ears. He sang of Donegal, mixing English with what seemed to be gibberish to me then. I didn’t know the Irish had their own language. I turned to look at the other men in the pub to see if they cared about this old singing man. They didn’t seem to care about anything further than their next gulp of Guinness, staring blankly still.

He ended his song by standing up from his corner, his head peaking into the light from the lamp above his table, staring right at me. He sang, “Go up to Donegal, Young Setanta sitting here, there you’ll find God’s country, where your destiny will appear.” He sunk back into the darkness of his corner, quiet. I was shocked. I felt a sudden sense of fear because he knew my given name, Setanta. Perhaps it was just a lucky guess. Setanta was an Irish name, perhaps the only Irish thing my Grandfather gave me. He requested my parents call me Setanta.

It was his name.

I stared into my pint and then looked at the bartender confused. Perhaps I drank more than I thought. How could he have known who I was? Nobody has known my given name since I was twelve. Kids can be mean. I’ve been called Brian ever since.
I got up and walked over to the corner booth where the old singing man was sitting. As I bent over the table to talk to him, he was gone. The old singing man who had been shuffling slowly to the bar moments earlier had somehow left the pub without me noticing. I can’t possibly be THAT drunk? I whispered into my fifth pint. Perhaps the beer here is just stronger. I paid the bartender and went back to my hotel to rest until the afternoon.

That first trip was a failure except for the bizarre old singing man. I came to Ireland to learn about my Grandfather but I soon felt like I was chasing a Ghost and I eventually returned to America empty handed. My publisher was not happy. They sent me back five more times before giving up on me. I came back five more times, ten times in four years. Each time I would rent a motorcycle and ride around various counties to see if I could find anything about my Grandfather. I found nothing about him or our ancestors. I couldn’t even find the origin of our last name. In a country where people were very proud of their surname and where records and origins of surnames were highly regarded, ours seemed to be missing from the records. Our last name, O’Sid, had somehow been lost. I began to wonder if my Grandfather was ever really Irish. My Grandmother dismissed that notion saying that he was more Irish than Ireland herself. I thought maybe she was saying that to humor me.

My Grandma grew up in the quaint little town of Castleknock just outside of Dublin, bordering Phoenix Park. She would often talk about her childhood and about Ireland but she rarely spoke of my Grandfathers life in Ireland. It was as if that world was off limits to everyone but themselves. It was their secret, their world.
On one occasion when we both had too much to drink, she told me how they met. This single morsel of information felt like five Christmases rolled together into one.

She revealed the story for me as she sat in her favorite chair, sipping hot whiskey, never looking at me. I never understood why she liked her whiskey hot. She said thats how it's supposed to be taken and being that the Irish invented whiskey, that was the way it's meant to be taken. I love my Grandmother.

She told me that she met him on a cold November morning in 1932. She was walking her dog during that time in the morning between darkness and light when the air was full of a comfortable mist. She loved to walk Phoenix Park at this time because she felt that it had a certain magical aura about it. The deer would be more willing to be out grazing on the vast grassy fields. As she approached the Wellington Monument, my Grandfather seemed to appear out of the mist to flirt with her, as if materializing out of the moist air just beyond that old reminder of British colonialism. My Grandmother would always scowl when she spoke of that old obelisk. It reminded her of an oppressed people by a colonial society. This is why I don't like westerns anymore.

She was as tight mouthed as my Grandfather was. In frustration, I asked her once if there was a secret about Ireland that they didn’t want anyone to know, a secret about my Grandfather that would ruin the way I viewed him. She would always laugh and say with a wink, “tis no secret my dear.”

The Irish are a slippery bunch of people.

Dreaming In Circles

It’s always dark at 3 a.m. in July,
walking a midnight mile with the moon
as my companion.

I let my mind
wander ahead of me, leashed
with headphones fueling each step with
only the best Scandinavian metal.

I walk
in circles,

dreaming of conquering
this reality once the sun comes
screaming high over the hills.

But will I?
…ever?

Consciously dreaming,
I return home
with heavy eyes
and heavy feet

to ambitiously dream,
until noon or later.

Soon You Will Be On Top of the World (Fall 07)

I: The Alarm
The alarm strikes six but I’m already awake,
have been for ages,
waiting.
She’s coming, Cailleach Bheur, and there is no escape
from that ol’ bitch.

I check my phone every three minutes.
Haven’t gotten a call for weeks,
if you don’t count Luke.
Luke’s not a friend, just a bill collector
and I can’t hide here forever.


II: The Store
It’s only a mile so I walk,
headphones in, to block the sounds of the world.
I can sense the cold fingers of Cailleach Bheur
stretching over the horizon,
that blue faced hag.
She’ll be here soon to torment me again.

The doors open without effort,
(offering a quick escape),
and for just one moment
I feel like Moses when he parted the sea,
but nobody notices.
They go about their routines,
providing for their families
or maybe their lovers.
I wouldn’t know.
I search for manna and the water of life,
but here, they seem to be out.
So I get fortune cookies and whiskey instead.

III: The Cemetery
She’s here cloaked in clouds,
Cailleach Bheur, that dark witch!
I wish I could kill her
with the blunt side of ambition,
but the darkness took that away.
So I ask,
Dear God,
tell me, please, before she takes me
in her chill-filled lust,
before she leaves me in the wake of her snowflake world,
to cover all the friends I’ve never met,
each already beneath the warmest of blankets…
What am I meant to be?

So I scream and I scream
each fortune I read,
as if a simple sentence can fix everything.

Yet she responds to none;
while I’m left shattered,
with a bloody throat,
a warm bottle of whiskey,
a pile of broken cookies at my feet;

at the top of the world.

The Orange Parade (Fall 07)

The air is full of morning fog
and distant voices of beaten drums,
where on streets with cobble-stone paved
here, there comes, the orange parade.

On top of the roof, one month short of proper,
gun in hand and hair of pure copper,
like my father before me
and so on down the tree…
I’m a Fenian to the core.

I can feel the windows quaking,
which will soon be breaking
from rocks of misconception.
And here I sit,
so ill-equipped
above this traditional insurrection.

Our eyes meet, between roof and street,
down the barrel of my gun.
Before I pull…I see…a reflection of me
and strangers there are none.

Your nose is my nose, your hair…my hair.
Your skin is my skin, your stare…my stare.

The only real difference between you and I,
is the bright orange sash you wear at your side.

Where on streets where cobble-stones paved,
here, there comes, the Orange Parade.

Taoide Stiurthe (A Tide Will Guide You if You let it)

This ink engraved across my chest,
above my heart, below my mind,
appears to be a guiding tide
that pulls together life and limb.

A message sent, these ghostly words,
from sailors of the emerald coast,
who cast their prayers from wave-worn boats
while riding swells where mermaids swim.

A lighthouse built to guide my dreams,
the sailors knew I’d need a home
to save, in vein, this drowning soul,
while red drips slowly from black ink.

They died like waves that fade to shore,
a memory now, within my pores.

On Some Nights (Fall 07)

There is nothing like taking a winter mile,
while the city sleeps,
dancing jigs down naked streets
with a pint of the Pogues for my ears.

It’s especially nice when the fog comes in to play
like the breath of God bringing the ancient folk with it;
a reminder of that timeless tradish’
of shared blood and magic.

Some nights, in the middle of 8th and Main,
I’m comfortable enough to lie down
on yellow paint
and stare at the stars for hours.

I wonder if there is anyone like me
staring back, surrounded on both sides
by darkness, avoiding the inability to dream,
eyes wide like road-kill.

Some nights, I’ll wear my kilt,
with my goatskin sporran dangling,
as I trot along my own parade,
with pipes droning for attention.

I imagine they’ll call me the Midnight Piper
after I wake them up with my bellowed face,
fingering my own version of Amazing Grace…
O’ how sweet the sound’
of more wretched hours yet to be found.


On most nights though…
I’ll just sit under a street lamp,
chasing thoughts like impossible moths,
praying to whichever God cares to listen…

Mother Earth is Complaining of a Fever (Winter of 08)

Or so I’ve been told.
To me, it seems she’s got the chills
like a junkie going through withdrawls.

The trees in my backyard are shivering
and I want to help her feel better but what can I do?
I’m no nurse, no doctor. I’m not even a scientist.
I’m just a product of society,
apathetic as the rest.

I woke up this morning thirsty as a desert,
with an albatross decomposing around my neck.
Everywhere I look: the ocean
is knocking at my rocky door.

I think I’m too late.
Mother Earth seems long gone with dying
but I’m no mariner. I’m just a man
floating in an upside down reality.
That’s all; a man
that lives in a simple house,
drives a simple car to a job I hate,
past factories of smoke, cement buildings,
and a million other people just like me.

Still, we go about our lives thirsty,
drowning our sorrows in oil.

With our albatrosses round our necks,
We tell ourselves, it’s only a dream.
But none of us believe it. Not really.

My Crimson Queen

I’m drowning in a sea of disbelief.
Waves crash onto reefs of sharp coral blues
as the moon tap dances off rising swells.
My heart is pulling me to the ocean floor.

You are the waves, the moon, the reef,
the reason I’m falling, barely able to breath.
I almost gave up believing you could exist
but here you are…

In my arms, I can feel your heart.
It’s beating in a rhythm matched to mine
like waves that lap on the dark sandy shore.
And still I’m not sure,
I could be dreaming that you are real.

You crashed into me like a wave on a reef
and saved me from falling like a rock in the sea,
where I would have spent my life
trying to swallow this abyss.
Here you are, my Crimson Queen,
giving me purpose to breathe.

Awash in Ripples

My reflection,
a stranger,
yet familiar,
a trusted friend,
my most intimate enemy.

Here he is again
arms folded left over right
in symbolic ink,
like two snakes entangled.
He stands below staring up,
at the edge of a quiet lake.

What is he doing here, my reflection, ruining my Sunday?

Always watching,
always contemplating,
this figure staring back at me,
like a judge at a pageant?
like God at judgment…

He wants to show me all the reasons I‘ve failed;
all the chips, cracks, and creases,
all along my crumbling foundation
built on selfish silt.

He wants to change me into the ideal,
whatever that is anyways.
I try not to care…

His beard?
It’s not mine
and it’s not Jesus,
just the mask of another lazy man
I suppose.

I certainly don’t feel as old as this reflection
I don’t think I was meant to.
I liked being ten better.
I could sleep then…
except on Christmas Eve.

A pebble skips across shores and disappears into the shallows,
along with my reflection in the ripples that I made.

My Own Movie

I want to be a star.
I want to be a badass
with a scar like a Sparta
falling down my left cheek.
I want a catch-phrase
to say during silences,
words that will make
every person cheer.
I want to save the world
with a stare that faints.
I want a soundtrack to play
every moment of everyday.

I want to be a star.

I want normal people
stuck in absurd situations
and absurd ones trapped
in normal situations.
I want my heart broken
over and over and over
and then to find true love.
She was there all along,
in the least likely character.
I want montages of my day
played back to me before I sleep,
to see what I accomplished.
I want my life to be a tragic romantic comedic mystery thriller:
the few zombies to beat back with a broken broom,
the passionate kiss during pouring rain,
the heart beating faster.
I want to be a Star.

Shankill Butchers

You haven’t lived ‘til you’ve lost a limb. At least, that’s what I tell them feckin’ eejits who stare at me left arm with practiced pity…a worthless emotion if you ask me. If only they knew what happened, they wouldn’t have use for pity. They’d grab me by da shoulder and offer me da next shout; a hero’s welcome they’d call it. But aye, ‘tis been a long while since these lips have graced the craythur on another’s pocket.
Instead, I pity them for livin’ like cowards, carryin’ about their days hopin’ for change but not willin’ to do anythin’ for it. Most people will never understand life until their eyes witness a piece of their own flesh…dead. “A sacrifice,” I call it, making da sign of the cross on me chest with da only arm I have left.
“Freedom.”
Aye, but we wouldn’t have freedom would we? Not yet at least. Not the type of freedom we hoped for…prayed for. That was 25 years ago and still, the old steel walls that loom between us Taigs and them Proddies casts long dark shadows over Falls Road, a reminder of exclusion, as if our Catholicism is somehow contagious and deadly.
I grew up just off of Falls Road in a small apartment with me two brothers and me mother. We were raised on the ol’ heroic Fenian stories of Finn Mac Cool and of Cù Chulainn. Me Da’ was killed by da feckin’ UVF when I was a wee lad of seven but da stories remained. I was haunted by those stories.
Ten years later I joined the Provo’s with my grade school friends, eager to add my name among the ranks of IRA folklore. It was only a day after da Bloody Sunday incident in Derry where British Paramilitary’s opened fire on a civil rights march. Thousands of lads like meself signed up afta day.
We didn’t hate the prods for their religion like da way they hated us. We hated them for da oppression, for da fact that they control everything: da police, da government, where we live, where we work, where we don’t work. We hated them most for keeping us from being a part of da Republic. Ireland was never meant to be cut in two.
For ten years I fought da Shankill Road prods only a few blocks from Falls Road. We hijacked buses and taxis and drove ‘em past da great steel gates to use as roadblocks for shootouts. It became our obsession, our sport. We fought ‘em because they fought us, both sides claiming the side of good.
I lost me arm in ’81, a bloody horrible week to be Irish. ‘Twas a week after Bobby Sands died in da H-block prison of a hunger strike. Emotions were runnin’ high. The Shankill Butchers, a notorious gang of feckin’ UVF members who became famous for butcherin’ people like cattle, kidnapped and killed my brothers. Hung ‘em by their heels, slit their throats, let ‘em bleed out. I planted a bomb in their local on Shankill road, succeeded in killin’ two of ‘em in the blast. Lost me arm in da process. The rest were either killed or arrested shortly after.
I don’t remember much from that day. I don’t even remember how I got away but I did. I just know that after that day, it was a bit safer for da men and women of Falls Road to sleep at night.
So pity…pity is a worthless emotion.

At One With, a Pillow and a Blanket

At One With a Blanket and a Pillow
By Jeph Preece

I slept in on Sunday again.
It’s been about a year or two.
God tells me to rest on the seventh day…
so why do I feel guilty when I do.

I’ll blame it on my blanket.
I’ll blame it on my pillow.
I’ll blame it on my mattress
for being more comfortable
than the pew.
So God, if you’re listening to me now
Just know that I’m on my way.
It may take me longer than Peter or Paul
but I’ll make it back to you someday.

I finally got out of bed around three
to eat some Cheerios and toast.
I didn’t have jam to spread
or fruit to cut,
it’s not the sacrament
but its close.

I went running to the toilet,
barely made it in time,
for my ass to confess
the sins of the prodigal life.

So God, if you’re listening to me now
Just know that I’m on my way.
It may take me longer than Peter or Paul
but I’ll make it back to you someday.

Those Eyes (for Tavia)

You came into this world
like a pasta mama,
cheeks like chipmunks
and eye’s like heaven,
to melt every soul in a
five mile radius.

But I didn’t know you then.
I was alone in a different world,
far away from your dirty diapers,
your impossible smile
your insane laughs.
I had a soul like winter.

You’ve grown into those cheeks
but those eyes…
…those eyes remain the same,
reminders of the life before,
the perfect love of a child,
the innocent mischief
of a three year old
learning a language
for the first time.

You’re not my blood
but I’d still give you
every ounce of mine
if you needed it.

And someday you might…

You’re a daring girl,
without fear of pain.
(God knows, you’ve already had enough).

I’ve seen your face
green from grass stains
after flipping backwards
off Grandma’s swing.
You told me to push you higher,
I told you to hang on tight.

You let go
and I gasped,
ran to catch you…
…missed.
But you didn’t cry,
you never do.

You hugged me instead,
made my eyes tear up,
healed my pain.
Melted my soul.

I can’t say how you do it,
you just do.
It’s who you are.
It’s who you will always be,

those eyes.

It Must Be

Love.
I don’t understand how I got here,
in this boring department store
shopping for what? and lost in thoughts of tomorrow:
diapers, first steps, lips like butter…
instead of wicked guitar licks and driving drums.
I’ve outgrown the shell of being alone, I guess
I’m both broken and complete.
In a foreign world.
With foreign words.
Like anam cara…
…soul friend.
…mate.
I love knowing the face of the moon
from staying up all night,
parching my throat with stories and jokes.
I love to strum on my guitar ‘til my fingertips bleed
that passion.
And I love the sense of purpose,
the sense of existing for the first time.
I love the way I feel complete now
when I climb into bed.

I love being loved by someone I love.

In The Venue, 2006

These lights,
cooking my sweat-drenched face
with colors kaleidoscoping off closed lids.
I don’t dare open my eyes and welcome the sting
of being at the center of this storm.

I can smell the fog machine blanket the stage
as I hold my first love in my arms.
We move together like two birds flying
over the crowd, gathered and energized.

We fly over a floor of ecstatic chaos
and I’m not the only one singing…
a bridge is being built between
these strangers and my songs,

built until we’re closer, intimate,
together in this hurricane of noise.
So when I scream, they scream…
so when I breathe, they breathe…and we all know how it feels to be alive

In My Room, There Are No Windows

Just a cave, a place for my mind to misbehave
among shadows…
cast by flames inside my head.

I can see whatever I want to see
in the flickering wall,
a library instead of a closet,
a place for every word worth committing to memory,
hung up on hangers.

I want to catch these shadows with my clumsy mind
like swinging a net at butterflies.
I caught one once with the melody of the guitar
leaning against the far wall.
Too bad I broke a string with ambition
and it melted away.

I can see everything I’m not,
everything I want to be,
flickering on walls that mock my dreams…
…that mock everything.
so I laugh like an inmate
that hasn’t slept for years.

I WANT to knock my fists through these walls
and let the light shine in on my flaws.

I WANT to knock my fists through the world
and let the light shine in on its flaws.

For years, I’ve wanted
windows of my own to peer through,
but nothing ever seems to be enough.
There is always room for change.

This is my Republic: population one;
maybe two if you count Nietzsche, my cat.
He doesn’t care much for republics though.