a rabbit and a duck were sitting on the side of the road one summer evening. in the middle of said road lay a dead chicken, hit by a car a few moments earlier. they stared in contemplation, confused about the events that had taken place.
the rabbit inched forward, confident that no car was arriving by which he could see. yet, in the very instance that he built confidence that it was safe, he returned, thinking of how the chicken must have also thought it to be safe. for, why else would the chicken have crossed unless it thought it had safe passage. the sun must've played a trick on the road, or there must been a curve or turn that cannot be seen from the side of the road. for surely, surely, the chicken could not have run out into the street had it thought it not to be safe. and if the chicken died under such pretenses, he thought, what was it that made him any different?
the duck, contrary to the rabbit, took a step back, preparing to fly over the road. yet, in the very instance that he built confidence in his flight, he stopped, thinking of how the chicken might have also thought to fly. for surely, the chicken has wings, and as such, thought it much more feasible to fly over the road than to take the risk in walking. yet, with it dead in the road, he thought, there must be some unforeseen reason not to use his gifts. maybe there is a hunter in the trees, or a predator circling higher in the skies than her can see. how else would the chicken have died had he flown, unless something distracted him to the point where had to land and be subject to the forces that dealt him dead.
so, the rabbit and the duck sat on the side of the road. the rabbit continued to inch forward and back, and the duck continued to ruffle his wings. two days passed, then three, then four. a week went by with them at the side of the road, inching forward and ruffling feathers. at no point did either of them communicate to one another. at no point did they take the chance to swallow their fear. crippled by analysis and trepidation, the two animals stayed there, forever wondering how they would ever cross the street.
a month later, a frog hopped up to the side of a road. there, he the carcasses of a rabbit and a duck. he looked on for a moment, and then looked to the road itself. in it, he saw a stain of blood on the pavement, a light brown feather compressed into the concrete. he looked to the dead bodies of the rabbit and duck, and the back to the stain of chicken blood in the road, and then back and forth again. and with a slight croak and quick gaze up the road, he hopped across, anxious about getting to the other side, but fully cognizant of what would happen if he stayed on the side of the road.
Saturday, July 12, 2008
Monday, April 14, 2008
Eroding Night: The Assassin
"I've gotta break outta this poisoned prisoned mentality,
I baffle me, because I know these bitches is after me,
Yet instead of reclusive, I go for anti-afraid,
And get these motha-fuckas back when I come back from my grave..."
Even now, with this government-issued sniper rifle aimed at his neck, I can recall the first time I heard his lyrics. Ralph, my older cousin, let me borrow his mixtape before he even got mainstream. I had to listen to it on the headphones so my parents couldn't hear. But even then, over time, it would be the only thing they'd hear blasting from my bedroom. I tried to rap like him, fall into his shadow in hopes that he'd catch me one day. I dreamed of opening for one of his shows. Don't get me wrong, I had my own style and all, but it was his passion that I aimed to mimic. He believed every word he said. Every line he spit on the mic came directly from the depths of his soul and particle of his being. My dream of following him was short-lived though, as the government started putting tighter wraps on public expression.
"...Fuck a W-2, I gotta pay for this food,
I gotta pay for this heat, and gotta pay when its due,
I gotta a baby and a lady that depend on me too,
I don't depend on them fools, I only get what I'm due..."
My dad told me that artists used to express themselves all the time in his day. Not only expressing themselves for themselves though, but for the people. They took messages for the masses and broadcast them over the airwaves...even performing them live to the masses themselves. People didn't used to have to sneak around to listen to them, or meet privately to enjoy the sounds. According to my dad, there were countless musicians that vied for just the chance to be heard, to make their mark on history. But now, after the ban, there's only Eroding Night, or rather, what's left of them, their lead rapper, Righteous.
"...And I swear by every hair of my son's firstborn,
I'll never fall off, because God put me on,
kicked the knowledge to me straight and told me 'Righteous, Hold Strong'
Cuz there is someone out there listening that needs to feel this song
And to that one, I hope you get it,
To the two, I hope you share it,
To the three, I pray you feel it, Because on my life I bear it,
To the people that believe it and the mighty that can see it,
Come together as a people, and together we'll defeat it..."
So my options became limited. But I became tough as I grew older and found that I had a talent for fighting. Then I discovered that it was less of a talent, and more of a lack of consideration for human suffering. I quickly fell into the cracks of the Alleyways, becoming one of the most efficient killers money could buy. Not to brag. At first, it was petty, women going after their cheating husbands, corporate jerkoffs getting rid of some asswipe standing in the way of their money. Then I would start getting jobs from from random middle-men sending me cross-country and overseas. They jobs started becoming more tedious, and difficult due to heightened levels of security. All in all though, I never thought it'd bring me here.
With my finger resting on the trigger of this light, superbly crafted rifle, I watch Righteous through the scope of the gun. The underground concerts were gaining ground, and everyone in the streets knew about them. I keel telling myself that it's partly his fault, but, I know that that's not true. And even if I put the gun down now, they'll only find someone else. Someone that will kill this man with much less poise and candor. With no dignity. With no respect for who this man is. My phone rings.
"Hello. Yeah. Here. 1 minute. Less. Lighting problems. Fine."
I should have killed him 15 minutes ago. But I figured I'd let him finish the set.
"...and when my light's out, remember me,
don't cry, remember me,
but still, more than me, keep the message in your memory,
these streets are yours, have been, and will forever be,
keep love in your heart, and your mind..."
"...on the peace." I whisper. Cutting him short in just enough poetic fashion for it to be memorable. The venue is not large, so the crowd hears the shot. But it takes everyone a little under ten seconds to realize what is happening. I've taken the ten seconds to drop the rifle and walk away. No prints. One bullet. Casing in my pocket.
I join the others running outside for safety. Some are crying. Others are furious. I am both. I am paid. I am the tool of destruction and the calamity in the midst of peace. I am a product of my environment and the by-product of my society. This will change everything. This will be what was always necessary. This is what I've told myself to survive.
I baffle me, because I know these bitches is after me,
Yet instead of reclusive, I go for anti-afraid,
And get these motha-fuckas back when I come back from my grave..."
Even now, with this government-issued sniper rifle aimed at his neck, I can recall the first time I heard his lyrics. Ralph, my older cousin, let me borrow his mixtape before he even got mainstream. I had to listen to it on the headphones so my parents couldn't hear. But even then, over time, it would be the only thing they'd hear blasting from my bedroom. I tried to rap like him, fall into his shadow in hopes that he'd catch me one day. I dreamed of opening for one of his shows. Don't get me wrong, I had my own style and all, but it was his passion that I aimed to mimic. He believed every word he said. Every line he spit on the mic came directly from the depths of his soul and particle of his being. My dream of following him was short-lived though, as the government started putting tighter wraps on public expression.
"...Fuck a W-2, I gotta pay for this food,
I gotta pay for this heat, and gotta pay when its due,
I gotta a baby and a lady that depend on me too,
I don't depend on them fools, I only get what I'm due..."
My dad told me that artists used to express themselves all the time in his day. Not only expressing themselves for themselves though, but for the people. They took messages for the masses and broadcast them over the airwaves...even performing them live to the masses themselves. People didn't used to have to sneak around to listen to them, or meet privately to enjoy the sounds. According to my dad, there were countless musicians that vied for just the chance to be heard, to make their mark on history. But now, after the ban, there's only Eroding Night, or rather, what's left of them, their lead rapper, Righteous.
"...And I swear by every hair of my son's firstborn,
I'll never fall off, because God put me on,
kicked the knowledge to me straight and told me 'Righteous, Hold Strong'
Cuz there is someone out there listening that needs to feel this song
And to that one, I hope you get it,
To the two, I hope you share it,
To the three, I pray you feel it, Because on my life I bear it,
To the people that believe it and the mighty that can see it,
Come together as a people, and together we'll defeat it..."
So my options became limited. But I became tough as I grew older and found that I had a talent for fighting. Then I discovered that it was less of a talent, and more of a lack of consideration for human suffering. I quickly fell into the cracks of the Alleyways, becoming one of the most efficient killers money could buy. Not to brag. At first, it was petty, women going after their cheating husbands, corporate jerkoffs getting rid of some asswipe standing in the way of their money. Then I would start getting jobs from from random middle-men sending me cross-country and overseas. They jobs started becoming more tedious, and difficult due to heightened levels of security. All in all though, I never thought it'd bring me here.
With my finger resting on the trigger of this light, superbly crafted rifle, I watch Righteous through the scope of the gun. The underground concerts were gaining ground, and everyone in the streets knew about them. I keel telling myself that it's partly his fault, but, I know that that's not true. And even if I put the gun down now, they'll only find someone else. Someone that will kill this man with much less poise and candor. With no dignity. With no respect for who this man is. My phone rings.
"Hello. Yeah. Here. 1 minute. Less. Lighting problems. Fine."
I should have killed him 15 minutes ago. But I figured I'd let him finish the set.
"...and when my light's out, remember me,
don't cry, remember me,
but still, more than me, keep the message in your memory,
these streets are yours, have been, and will forever be,
keep love in your heart, and your mind..."
"...on the peace." I whisper. Cutting him short in just enough poetic fashion for it to be memorable. The venue is not large, so the crowd hears the shot. But it takes everyone a little under ten seconds to realize what is happening. I've taken the ten seconds to drop the rifle and walk away. No prints. One bullet. Casing in my pocket.
I join the others running outside for safety. Some are crying. Others are furious. I am both. I am paid. I am the tool of destruction and the calamity in the midst of peace. I am a product of my environment and the by-product of my society. This will change everything. This will be what was always necessary. This is what I've told myself to survive.
Tuesday, April 8, 2008
On-Point Man
"Ok," Dana responded, "I'm listening now, what is it that you're trying to do again?"
"I said", I said, "that I'm going to reinvent myself. That I'm trying to reinvent myself. That I want to be the type of man that has his shit together."
Dana looked at me with a puzzled face, her half-rim glasses slipping down her slim, yet elegant nose. "I don't get it, what are you now then?"
"I dunno...unorganized, unprepared, unmotivated. I'm a list of 'un's' where I want to be a guy that's about more. I want to seem as though being prepared is second nature to me. As if the things that I'm supposed to do and/or have done is second to my own peace and tranquility. I want my boss to come to my desk and ask for the report, and I reply with 'here', yknow? That's the type of man I want to be. But I'm not that right now...so I have to reinvent myself. Reset and reorganize my priorities."
"Don't you have a report due in an hour?"
"It's not an immediate shift Dana. It's a progressive evolution. It's a gradual change. I just had this epiphany in the shower this morning, you can't expect it to take it's toll now. I gotta plant seeds."
"I'm just saying," she said cooly, "you could be doing your report now, instead of telling me how much of a prepared man you're gonna be one day..."
"...you're right, but..."
"...and knowing you, you've probably told several other people this same speech, haven't you..."
"...just John and Horace, but then..."
"...AND you probably wrote about it on your blog, or journal, or whatever the hell yo do at your computer between porn and talking to people on Facebook..."
"...that was just that one time Dana! See, this is why I don't tell you my epiphanies. You always bring this element of reality to my thought process that I don't appreciate , nor do I fancy."
"Funny," she said as she turned back to her work, "I thought that's why you do tell me your epiphanies."
I sat back down at my desk and stared at two objects - a half-finished report due in approximately one hour, and my internet-happy laptop with several new friend requests.
"Hm," I thought to myself, "maybe that IS why I tell her my epiphanies."
"I said", I said, "that I'm going to reinvent myself. That I'm trying to reinvent myself. That I want to be the type of man that has his shit together."
Dana looked at me with a puzzled face, her half-rim glasses slipping down her slim, yet elegant nose. "I don't get it, what are you now then?"
"I dunno...unorganized, unprepared, unmotivated. I'm a list of 'un's' where I want to be a guy that's about more. I want to seem as though being prepared is second nature to me. As if the things that I'm supposed to do and/or have done is second to my own peace and tranquility. I want my boss to come to my desk and ask for the report, and I reply with 'here', yknow? That's the type of man I want to be. But I'm not that right now...so I have to reinvent myself. Reset and reorganize my priorities."
"Don't you have a report due in an hour?"
"It's not an immediate shift Dana. It's a progressive evolution. It's a gradual change. I just had this epiphany in the shower this morning, you can't expect it to take it's toll now. I gotta plant seeds."
"I'm just saying," she said cooly, "you could be doing your report now, instead of telling me how much of a prepared man you're gonna be one day..."
"...you're right, but..."
"...and knowing you, you've probably told several other people this same speech, haven't you..."
"...just John and Horace, but then..."
"...AND you probably wrote about it on your blog, or journal, or whatever the hell yo do at your computer between porn and talking to people on Facebook..."
"...that was just that one time Dana! See, this is why I don't tell you my epiphanies. You always bring this element of reality to my thought process that I don't appreciate , nor do I fancy."
"Funny," she said as she turned back to her work, "I thought that's why you do tell me your epiphanies."
I sat back down at my desk and stared at two objects - a half-finished report due in approximately one hour, and my internet-happy laptop with several new friend requests.
"Hm," I thought to myself, "maybe that IS why I tell her my epiphanies."
Monday, April 7, 2008
Latex
He heard that you weren't supposed to tear the condom wrapper with your teeth. He heard that you weren't supposed to keep it in your wallet. He heard that you weren't supposed to use it within a month of expiration. He heard you weren't supposed to double them up. He heard that you weren't supposed to leave the condom on after you came. He heard that you weren't supposed to use it with lubrication. He heard that you weren't supposed to pull it off until you were done. He heard you weren't supposed to keep it in a place too warm...or too cold.
So he held it in his hand, flat against his palm. His hand was outstretched as if he were carrying a plate of food to the dinner table. It was well balanced. It was secure. He had his older brother buy it earlier that day, so as far as he was concerned, it fit all the conditions. "Though, he thought to himself, how safe could it be if it has so many stipulations". It was a fleeting thought as the rest of his mind was focused on when exactly to ring the doorbell.
It was 7:30 in the evening. Her parents were out of town until the morning.
The one fact in the forefront of his mind was that once his finger pressed the doorbell button in front of him, he was going to lose his virginity. This was fact. This was truth. It had been all but written into law that this was going to happen. She had all but told him directly that she was going to make him a man. All plans were set and all lights were a go. "Before the end of the night", he kept reminding himself, "my penis would have been inside of a vagina".
He just had to push the doorbell.
Though his body was frozen, his mind was not, as he tried to figure out his script. His mind wrapped around the notions of whose clothes come off first, would it be proper etiquette to ask permission, is it appropriate to snuggle afterwards, would there be a break for food, how long is too long, how short is too quick, what the hell foreplay consisted of, was there a game involved, should one exercise beforehand, and whether or not to kiss. His penis was throbbing and his heart was pounding. He could hardly distinguish the two.
And then, with no warning or thought, with no hesitation or prolonging, with no startle or pause, he leaned forward with his non-condom-holding hand, and pressed the doorbell. His entire being seemed to stare at his hand in disbelief, jaw-dropped and awed as to the utter audacity to make such a decision without the rest of the body. The nerve! The disrespect! The door! It's opening!
The condom-hand thought just as quickly as it jammed the un-opened rubber into his pocket. His penis almost tore through his denim jeans. His forehead accumulated a healthy layer of sweat. His throat ran dry. But he let on to none of this, and his face stood cool in the dim breeze of the Spring air.
She stood in the doorway wearing only a light-yellow tshirt, and a smile.
So he held it in his hand, flat against his palm. His hand was outstretched as if he were carrying a plate of food to the dinner table. It was well balanced. It was secure. He had his older brother buy it earlier that day, so as far as he was concerned, it fit all the conditions. "Though, he thought to himself, how safe could it be if it has so many stipulations". It was a fleeting thought as the rest of his mind was focused on when exactly to ring the doorbell.
It was 7:30 in the evening. Her parents were out of town until the morning.
The one fact in the forefront of his mind was that once his finger pressed the doorbell button in front of him, he was going to lose his virginity. This was fact. This was truth. It had been all but written into law that this was going to happen. She had all but told him directly that she was going to make him a man. All plans were set and all lights were a go. "Before the end of the night", he kept reminding himself, "my penis would have been inside of a vagina".
He just had to push the doorbell.
Though his body was frozen, his mind was not, as he tried to figure out his script. His mind wrapped around the notions of whose clothes come off first, would it be proper etiquette to ask permission, is it appropriate to snuggle afterwards, would there be a break for food, how long is too long, how short is too quick, what the hell foreplay consisted of, was there a game involved, should one exercise beforehand, and whether or not to kiss. His penis was throbbing and his heart was pounding. He could hardly distinguish the two.
And then, with no warning or thought, with no hesitation or prolonging, with no startle or pause, he leaned forward with his non-condom-holding hand, and pressed the doorbell. His entire being seemed to stare at his hand in disbelief, jaw-dropped and awed as to the utter audacity to make such a decision without the rest of the body. The nerve! The disrespect! The door! It's opening!
The condom-hand thought just as quickly as it jammed the un-opened rubber into his pocket. His penis almost tore through his denim jeans. His forehead accumulated a healthy layer of sweat. His throat ran dry. But he let on to none of this, and his face stood cool in the dim breeze of the Spring air.
She stood in the doorway wearing only a light-yellow tshirt, and a smile.
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