So…yeah. Political blog. but not really. more like peace advocating.

Listen, we aren’t Republicans and Democrats, we are Americans and we are humans before Americans, and so are the people in the other political party. Please don’t treat the other half like an enemy because we are all the same and we must understand that. This country is sick. It isn’t dead. You can blame the government but it is an institution by the people so, in all reality, it is our fault when the country falters if it is anybody’s fault at all so for God’s sake, come out of your fortresses and listen to each other. All of us have put a thorn in Lady Liberty’s side and 1/2 of the group isn’t going to be strong enough to pull it out.

But we are scared. We watch the news and we watch Michael Moore and we are too trusting to remember that one must filter through all the “facts” and pick out which ones truly make sense in context. We think the other side is evil but it isn’t. We all have the same problems and by listening to each other, we can understand that but the fact remains, we don’t. The people in charge of our thinking have decided that a radical division must be imminent.

And Lady Liberty cries and she tears of her clothes and she screams, “look at my body, look at the cuts and scars where the chains of the two sides pulling back and forth have rubbed the raw skin!”

And blood flows from the open wound inflicted by the thorn with an American flag flapping on the end of the stake.

And in the corner, a movie star scribbles politically incorrect on the back of the Constitution.

But it is ok, the doctrine isn’t missed.

And everybody talks about how horrible this country is and how they are going to move away but this is our country. It was a struggle for everybody here to get this country and it seems that the bloody struggle to reach the political ideal of the Land of the Free has been forgotten. What about the Indians who fought for their right to live here? What about the “vagabond army of ragamuffins” that defeated the greatest military force in the world to win their independence? What about the homosexuals who have been killed, the communists who have been killed, the African Americans who were shot simply for marching for their rights?

This was a country of fighters that believed through sheer tenacity the stars could be reached. Nay, a country that reached the stars through sheer tenacity. A country that has walked on the moon and planted a flag.

But it wasn’t easy.

It was damn hard.

We are still the people who did it. We still have what it takes.

But America the country reached these heights. Not Republicans or Democrats but people who thew away differences to work toward a common enemy because they were all Americans.

And now the country is sick and we do not know why.

It is, dearest reader, because we have forgotten the American Ideals. Equality, pursuit of happiness through hard work, freedom, and a government by the people.

Why than, does it feel that we are a people by the government? Why does it seem that we are told what to believe by the news stations and the political parties? Why are we forced into this mold?

It is because we have stopped fighting and we have come to accept whatever we have been fed. What is politically correct has become more important than what is constitutional. Patriotism for the Party has become more important than patriotism for the country.

So, how do we solve this problem?

Get off your ass, study the issues, develop your own opinions and for the love of all that is holy and good, listen to people when they talk to you. actually listen. because they are your brother or sister American.

 

This is Basic Interpretation, signing out.

P.S. please comment with your thoughts.

 

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Rambling Nonsense

Man, I hit writers block like a kitten shot at high velocity into a brick wall yesterday.

Visualize it, a flying blur of  furry grey cuteness soaring faster than the speed of sound and then a giant smack  into a giant wall and all you can think of when the meow catches up with the cloud of fur is Who put that brick wall there?

Am I demented?

Most Probably.

If a kid launched in a flying saucer that soars forty miles per hour 10,000 feet in the air isn’t really there at all but the Day Time news launch fourteen hours of video and than the kid goes on two forty two minute talk shows the next day and throws up approximately a pint of yesterdays green bean casserole weighing about a pound, figure for y if x is the percentage of Americans who believe the world is going to end in 2012.

Y is a tiny number. It is the average IQ in the country.

So, it is trigometrically geometric to the parallel algebraic expression of anger and genuine confusion that we, being the accepted ever changing control group for our own sick experiment, aka society, pretend that we don’t feel.

Am I making sense?

I sure hope not.

Anyway, I am pretty much spurting out anything, Rambling Nonsense (ding ding reference to the title) if you will but other than that it has been a good day. And nobody reads this blog so I have pretty much given up on the validity of clarifying the turbid misconceptions that you simpletons cling to in your circadian pathetic-ness where you wake up just to watch live footage of a balloon (that holds no little boy by the way) just to voice grievances to your apathetic friends about your job that you loathe and than you go to sleep after auto-erotic escapades  into the lead basement you assembled so your ancestors and aliens  can’t see you in your most ecstatically nasty state.

And then you get angry the next day when there was no little boy in the balloon but you tune into the talk shows anyway given that they are not at the same time as American Idol so you can see those two blonde twins act sexy while singing worse than a walrus with a cold.

Hey, if nothing makes sense. Just go with it. You might find that the universe is just a much more enjoyable place that way. Anyway, I am through rambling nonsense (ding ding)

This is Basic Interpretation, signing out.

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The newly typed beginning to Sweet Phantom

Jake had watched from the bushes while she was killed, powerless to stop it, clutching the replica Blade sword in his hand and squeezing the hilt until his knuckles turned pale white. Now, when he lit the candles and whispered the chants into the awaiting darkness, he would remember the look in his secret lover’s eyes while her husband Fred beat her to death and how he had stood rooted to the spot crying like a little pansy.

“I hope this works Cuddles,” he said to the stuffed bunny in the corner, “I hope this works.”

Cuddles didn’t answer. He just sat in his little red chair and stared blankly ahead. In fact, that had been all Cuddles had done since Jake’s mom had given him to Jake twenty years ago.

“I can’t stand to lose her Cuddles. She is the love of my life and nothing will get in the way of us. Nothing, you hear me, nothing!” he shouted at Cuddles and then laughed maniacally, his eyes and teeth shining in the darkness. If cuddles had been more than cotten stuffed into a dingy off white cover that was cut to resemble a cartoon bunny, he would have been scared out of his mind. Fortunately, he wasn’t.

Finally, the preparations were complete. A pentagram drawn with chalk used in sodomy seemed to shine with an unholy lunimance from the cold concrete and the candles placed on each point held flames that flickered in the darknesss as if a wind was blowing. The black  of the basement below his occult shop pressed in on him like it was trying to crush him or find its way into the crevices of his body and force its way inside of him.

“Oh my Gosh, I think it is working,” Jake said to no one in particular.

“Yeah, I think it is. Congratulations kiddo, no one ever gets these to work,” a deep rumbling voice erupted from the silence after Jake had finished speaking.

“Cuddles…is that you?” Jake asked, his voice getting high and whiny, his hands unconciously moving up to push his glasses up on his nose.

“No, it isn’t Cuddles you idiot. When have you ever heard Cuddles speak to you?”

“He speaks telpathically usually,” replied Jake, his voice trailing off.

“No he doesn’t and you know it as well as I do.”

There were a few minutes of silence as Jake stood fumbling with the bottom of his blue shirt with Pink Floyd written across the chest (he had never heard a song from them by the way) or running his fingers through the greasy mass of brown hair that lived on the top of his head. Finally, he just crossed his hands and started  tapping his foot making  a soft tap tap tap sound on the concrete.

“I’m still here kid,” the voice said, “just tell me what you want and we will…uh…barter or something.”

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Poetry Blog number 2: Different Styles

Along with failed blog entries, my poetry is pretty well known with my acquaintences but usually they only know only one specific poem or one type of poem.

Here is a simple poem I have been working on.

Person

You are a Person

You are a special individual person

Just like everybody else

You cry

You hurt

Just like everybody else

But you are a person

You deserve to be happy

So you can be beautiful to me

Inside and Outside

And when you are inside-out

So I insist

Take my happiness

Because I love you

___________________________________________________________________________________________________

As you can see, the poem is a really straight forward with the only trick being the punch line at the end. here is another one that might show another style of poetry. Here is the poem Fallen Angels.

Questions, volatile volcanic vehemence, innocent in childish interrogation, bubbled and boiled

from cramped basement dungeons where my sharp mind whittled against her holiness.

She once said that I would resemble a fallen angel if only I shaved and then there was silence and then I replied that we were both fallen angels who are salvation-less and still had hopes higher than heaven.

Innocent in life.

She was a shelter for dreams that cannot be reached.

And each of us, hardened into cocoons that will crack and shatter never crack and open,

Butterfly angels dead before they are sprung, with beautiful malformed wings that crinkle up like autumn leaves.

And somehow, she was like that, but it was different now, as my hand became a spider

crawling over her pale Lilith skin in the dark Garden, each point of contact electric.

She says “Stop” but she does not mean it and the spider legs tickle the bare stomach

And go lower.

As I touch, robotic and contained, I wonder

Did Angels fall from heaven or were they thrown by some divine creed?

Their wings torn and disconnected thinking while they plummeted through beautiful blue;

If only I could fly.

I could fly yesterday.

Where is the hope?

The youth hurts.

The youth dies.

Her body slithers up against me in anticipation but spiders are not quick to kill.

No, pleasure drips sweet and slow like honey, and just as sticky.

Lips touch, wet, and the taste lingers, a honey of its own. Somebody says I love you.

What is love? And the warm, almost alcoholic butterfly-buzz bubbles like lava out of the stomach and the electric spider hands now creep. A second, all things pause, and time stretches, but passion, pent up, stresses against white washed walls.

She hesitates.

Does she remember Sunday school and the plain table and hardwood with old King James Bibles. Does she hate me? Does she hate herself?

Can she fell the ligaments of her white white wings begin to tear.

She looks up, maybe at God, and my lips wrapped around the soft flesh like she was prey.

Was she? She shivered like something poisoned, and melted into my arms in contentment or death, and body wrapped around body slithering together like snakes, shedding clothes, or skin killing Gilgamesh’s youth, her youth, and mine. Her long brown hair fell on my chest as she lay on me, breasts pressed into my chest, and body fitted with mine.

“Stop,” she said, weaker, but I had tasted what I had wanted. Somebody said I love you.

What is love?

But there was no more contemplation for her. First the dexterous creepy crawly electric fingers remove the last shreds of dignity and, with them, the chastity and with it, the virtue and love. Would she scream? Sometimes they screamed. Her body fell limp up to my venomous finger tips. Yes, she would definitely scream.

Her wings torn and disconnected oozing blood, dripping red viscous blood, blood everywhere, more blood than you have ever seen

A beautiful brown eyed butterfly angel, dead before she was sprung, with malformed wings crumpled up like autumn leaves plummeting, crying questions never answered.

_________________________________________________________________________________________________

Besides the fact that the blog engine screwed up the form of the poem (it was written in stanzas), one can see the differences in style here. There is alliteration much more frequently and metaphors that are both graphic and stretched out. Also, there are many references to religion and mythology. This next poem has alusions but it is much much different.

2:43 AM

Mumbled thoughts across the darkness swaying to Coltrane,

seeing Water Lilies , contemplating the universe at night.

Dangerous stuff.

Sleep grasps the fringes of consciousness and the universe is dismantled.

Help.

SOS.

I am fading

Never mind, I am just a water lily.

Floating along.

Nonchalantly meandering across water, suspended like divinity,

painted by a revolutionary who has retired to Walden Pond

freezing water lilies in brushstrokes.

Monet Monet Monet

Dearest Monet

We will all float away one faithful day

Like how Coltrane fades into Thelonius Monk’s soft piano.

He is playing Reflections, is it a popular song wherever you are?

Reflections, swirls of music, like brushstrokes of green trees reflected

between water lilies that,

like you when you close your eyes for the last time,

drift ever so slowly away.

________________________________________________________________________________________________

Yeah, if you think the poem is random, it kinda is. It is a tribute to the painter Claude Monet and instead of actually just being presented, it is spoken to a dead Claude Monet. However, the poem still tries to represent a floating on by referencing to the smoothness of a mellow Coltrane or Thelonious Monk’s song Reflections. Also, the title represents a cheesy parallel between the actual title of the song and the reflections Monet sees in the ponds that he paints. Hence, the colors. It was one of those late night things.

Well, more poems are coming. This is Basic Interpretation, signing out.

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Honesty and a Dive into Pretentiousness

“I think he is just getting crazier everyday!” exclaimed Itamar with a twinkle in his eyes as he sat back in his chair and laughed. His voice, smooth against the cacaophony of cafeteria chatter, rose with exclamation and then died as he looked back down at what he was he was shoveling into his mouth. coloful mushy stuff and meat (I would be more specific but I don’t have all the facts on the identity of this cartiledge) that sprawled out on an orange plate unethusiastically as if it had tried to escape and then just given up and flopped over. He lifted the glass of Pepsi to his mouth and drank, washing it all down, the food and my behaviour.

Robby shrugged, his blonde hair falling to the sides of his head, and he habitually launched into a non sequitur about Martial Arts, politics, or something that we definitely were not going to cover in our normal dining conversation.

And I lay in wait and then, finally somebody says something and I become illuminated, waving my arms and talking off the top of my head.

And it is all levels of crazy.

Even crazier than usual. Striving for smiles, I am the epitome of method acting willfully indulging in a wicked schizophrenia causing people to be surprised, giddy, and a little creeped out. Yep, that’s me.

And how is the weather in my head?

Cartoony two ton weights fall from the sky with the consistency of hail execept this time they are nuclear bombs and the band members of Pink Floyd, who are for some reason in my imagination, are building a bomb shelter while strumming guitars and singing, “Goodbye blue sky!”

“Let me in, save me!” I cry pounding on another brick in the wall, “I have money.”

“Money, get away,” they exclaim shaking voodoo staffs at the evilness.

“Money, it’s a gas,” I exclaim but then they reply , “money, get back.”

“But money, it’s a hit”, I cry out once again desperate for shelter, but they put a nail in the coffin by scoffing and finalizing my argument by whispering through the cracks, “Money, it’s a crime. Money, so they say, is the root of all evil today.” So they beat me in the knee with the voodoo staff they stole from Led Zepplin who in turn stole it from Allister Crowley. I know this because Led Zepplin and the Rolling Stones showed up and flashed the british flag and screamed, “Gimme Shelter or atleast give us the staff we stole from Allister Crowley back.” And they let them in (along with the Beatles and a whole bunch of super models.) They all look me in the eye as the final brick is put in place and each one says, “I wish you were here,” and they slip out enough money to buy a stairway to heaven.

Well, I do buy the stairway to heaven and I run up the steps, beating back the hailing bombs with my Hulk size fists now green with envy at not being allowed in with the cool people. (of course as soon as they were alone together they killed eachother because rock stars never  get along for too long except for John Lennon who camly asks, “Give peace a chance” but they kill him first and giving him an underwater burial in a Yellow Submarine.)

And thenI reach the top of the staircase, out of breath, prespiration showing through the prison stripes I am suddenly wearing and then I encounter God.

But first back to the real world for news.

The meal is over and the sun has went down like it has faithfully for millions of years.

And, inbetween the delusion of nuclear cartoony bombs and Pink Floyd, I am lonelyand think about rain.

Or that is;

Rain on my parades even when it is sunny, the rejection by society of me is thrown like pink gooey bubblegum into my gears. Or maybe I am the bubble gum, chewed up by society and spit out when I have lost my flavor. When they grow bored of me, after the clown make up has been removed and everything I say loses a punch line.

Now I am at the computer, ruining my eyes by staring at the glowing screen laying on my bed in my jail cell dorm room after Sidd has went to sleep while I IM people on Facebook desperate for companionship in the wee hours of morning when people are generally the most lonely and the most honest.

And Itamar sends me a message and we start an IM discussion about how the reason I can’t get a girl is because I come across as a little crazy.

That makes me laugh.

Anyway, I approach God and blame him for everything. He looks at me, sad, with tears in the eyes because the Greatest Being in the Universe wanted love from me but I am too dumb to change just because I love him. Do I love him?

I try to

I want to

But his love is a great green expansive meadow where each blade brushes my skin feather soft while calling my name out in intimate whispers. That love is more than anybody could ask for but still it is nothing to hold onto when it is dark and you want to cuddle and, despite the sincerity of my desires to love just Him, I am a human and even weak for a human.

I still want to though

“Just leave me”, I tell the Great Old Man with the great big beard that is white like clouds from caring, “”I will never be good enough”.

“I want to.”

Back to the real world where i am chatting with Ittymar,

i answer his semi-joking messages with the message that I don’t think he is right but what I mean to say is that I could care less. I am inbetween on the stairway heaven (and no I am not high you literalists) on a self imposed exile from heaven and having been walled out of the real world. Crazy is how i re-enter. it is how I cope. It has become me. I have role played so long and method acted so long I  left the old me on the stairway waiting for change to hit while this guy climbed back down and joined the normal people, communicating with the rock stars by sticking my head to the wall that seperates us and listening. Haha, and I am getting worse.

Do I even make sense?

This is Basic Interpretation, signing out.

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Poetry Blog 1- Rough Draft to final Draft

Hey Guys, I decided to post some poetry for you to read and show you how much a poem actually changes by the time I start it and when I finish it;

OK, well here is the original write up of It is then I love you

It is then I love you

Standing alone with the hotel at my back the world seems to go on forever, ocean meeting sky in a haze and speaking with the voice of a thousand rivers.

It is late evening now.

Lights resonate to my left and to my right and it is as quiet as beaches get with eighteen story hotels protruding like fantasy and seashells along with beer cans in the cool sand cutting my feet in Asceticism.

We are beaches, oceans, worlds apart but I will watch the fuzzy ends of my vision and the never-ending beach meeting ocean. The Rumble. The Thousand Rivers. The Lights.

All joined into one set of being.

It is than I love you.

I have become the old mountains, once benevolent, warning of utter omnipotence before the sun came up when there is a weak luminance and you could swear that you could see pieces of magic but it was A-OK because you saw God because everything fit perfectly together even me and you and

it is than I love you.

Seas, no worlds, of amber or flower and isolated places where you can see yourself clearer. Convenience stores at night when we’re glad to see a human behind the counter and we’re tired but excited because of a trip and everything is just so Gosh Darn Poetic.

It is than I love you.

Sometimes we are together alone and the world melts into nothing but us laying hugged up together in my room just to lay there and be with each other and nothing else except God who acts as duck tape to join things together but we don’t think about that. We think about nothing. We are nothing except a loose electrical collection of feeling conjoined with God Glue.

It is than I love you.

Ok, that was the original. Check out the final copy that won Pfeiffer’s poetry contest.

It is then I love you

We stand here in my room each alone but touching and I wondered what to say if anything at all and how cheesy I would sound describing how much I missed you while I was on vacation

Bare feet on green carpet and legs and bodies twisted together (how did we ever manage to stay standing that way) covered all existence until finally I speak in whispers about something completely unromantic like how the beer cans and seashells in the cool sand cut my feet while I looked out at the great big ocean. Anyway, I said that I  thought about you the whole time but what I meant to say was that I was something small staring at something big and, noticing God, was lonely and

It is then I loved you.

Were we both seeing the same thing while I spoke? Were we both staring across the bed, past the blue chips ahoy comforter covered in stars and galaxies and a purple ink stain (from your pen) through the window and out into the old all encompassing mountains? Did we both see magic hidden in the weak light under the shade of trees? Either way, we saw God and, for once, everything fit perfectly together especially me and you and

It is then I loved you.

Sometimes we are apart and alone and mountains and oceans make us feel small.

And sometimes we are together and alone and the world melts into nothing but us laying hugged up together in my room just to lay there and be with each other and nothing else except God who acts as duct tape to join things together but we don’t think about that. We think about nothing. We are nothing except loose electrical emotion conjoined with God Glue.

It is then I love you.

As you can see, they are almost two completely different poems and, indeed, the main theme did change a little as I changed and my opinion of the issue changed. What you see is how a poem changed over several re-writings over about a year’s time. Not that I worked on it the whole time, but there was a lot of time spent staring at it and moving words around feeling frustrated. Literally, hours of work to complete the poem that many have labeled their favorite.

Is it my favorite? god no. hahaha. but it seems to happen this way.

Oh, and I know you guys have probably seen this poem or have heard me read it to you. This was only to show you the change. More elusive poems will be posted in later Poetry Blogs.

Well, thanks for reading. This is Basic Intepretation, signing out.

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Not Again.

Another cliché metaphor to start things off. Life used to be about staying afloat, trying to motivate myself when I was my own worse enemy. You know, treading water when all of a sudden You’re not good enough is breathed onto the back of my neck and it hits me like a cartoony two ton weight dragging me to the bottom of the great blue ocean where I laugh maniacally at the joke that has become me. It is a bad joke. There is no story line. There is no point where the good guy wins and gets the girl.

No, it is magical realism which is, for all intensive purposes, fairy tales without the magic and love that you believe in for a long time after you grow up. If you don’t believe in them, you want to anyway. I laugh until You’re never going to be good enough is breathed onto the back of my neck in tiny gurgled bubbles and it hits me like a cartoony ten ton weight and, now, I am not just drowning but I am crushed into a mushy two dimensional putty like substance in the dark floor of silent seas while T.S. Eliot wanders by on a pair of ragged claws. “I have known them all, I have known them all,” he mumbles. “I would like to know just one for more then a superficial relationship and I’d be happier then e e cummings before he wrote She Being Brand.” And then we laugh at all the naive readers who think that he wasn’t talking about intercourse. Well, T.S. Eliot laughs. I am a puddle of stuff so I just kinda make a gurgling noise.

Anyway, a passing merman who happens to be Hart Crane passes by and before him and the old crabby T.S. Eliot could argue about the true poem and ridicule my hopeless free verse, he notices me and decides to revive me and give me depth. And then we, like all writers who are born in the United States, finds ourselves washed up on the shorelines of France. Well, Hart Crane and T.S. Eliot jumps back into the ocean and leaves me alone with Nostradamus. “Hey, Nostradamus, what is going to happen to me?” I ask, humbly, expecting to dislike the answer from this tired old man. He answers, “Ce sera bon.”

And then I curse at him and then say, “Excuse my french, but how I am supposed to know what you are saying if I don’t speak the same language.” And then angels came down from heaven and beat Nostradamus to death while shouting, “You idiot. You told everybody the ending. Now, no one is going to want to finish the book!” And then Marilyn Monroe killed herself and suicide rates for teenage girls increased.

Atleast the angels spoke English, I thought.

And that is where my mind is after I finish attempting a cardio vascular work out at the soccer field. Sprinting back and forth across the Pfeiffer pitch, my mind two years in the past back when I was fit and smart and had not developed the deathly shadow that whispered You are never going to be good enough on the back of my neck that made me sink into the depths of the dark ocean. And I, the impeccable funny man, trying to swim upwards but instead laughing and then going into crazy tangents of thoughts. (Ha, my writing does make sense after all). Suddenly, I see in-shape high school Dalton full of confidence sprinting, slidetackling those pansies from Highlands and my heart thumps into my lungs that are now out of breath and I take all my strength into this one shot, a beautiful curled shot, into the top corner. Sweat is dripping on the LG Dare that I hold in my hand, pumping angry music into headphones that travel upwards into my ears and Time is slow motion as the ball sails through the air, bending and spinning through the late evening twilight.

And then I miss.

See, what did I tell you? You will never ever ever be good enough is whispered on the back of my neck. I turn around and, instead of a shadow I see in-shape Dalton with the girlfriend and oppurtunity smirking at me.

Thanks for reading, this is Basic Interpretation, signing out.

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