Sometimes

Sometimes I dream about

you lying dead and stiff.

Sometimes I think about

you confessing your guilt.

You are never content,

always longing, always groping.

You reject opinions and

isolate yourself, hurting

innocent in your tirade of

self-indulgence.   

Sometimes I wonder at

your compassion, but you

 blindly dice the moment –     

with outbursts of intense stupidity,

harsh, empty masochisms.

You could better humanity,

else lay waste to lovers. 

You spit poisonous barbs,

kind words – poorly guided.

Is gratifying others a sadistic

means to pleasure yourself?

Sometimes I wish you would

fall from a New York rooftop,

splash across the shuffling

hoards of strangers you scorn.

Sometimes I wish you would

find yourself at peace, or

shivering in an arctic tundra –

leaving the world in seclusion,

the fetal position you wore

at birth.

Such a Good Idea

I just realized that the catholic church could do something great for the world!

The church could liquidate all of its assets and give all proceeds to science!
We could burn all the bibles to generate electricity. Then all the devote can finally say "America runs on faith!"

Reality

I always wanted a large colonial house, acres of long green grass, a creek flowing underneath the tree with the big swinging rope - all enclosed by a poplar forest.
I wanted to spend the days walking through the field, laying down on the long grass and gazing at the fat clouds drifting lazily, swinging from the tree and dropping into the creek, sipping coffee out on the porch and watching the sun vanish behind the poplars.

Turns out everything in life costs money. They say money can't buy happiness, they damn well better be wrong. I'm sitting in my cubical staring across the aisle at Bill's calendar. He just flipped it to June, it's a picture of two ranch-hands throwing some hay bales in a rusty old pick up outside a weathered barn, the air is golden with dust from the hay. Tightening my tie I turn back to the columns of numbers, for a few desperate moments I try to arrange them in such a way - so they will equal a colonial house, maybe a small farmstead, a wife? Sapped of strength I sip my burnt coffee and move on to Mr. Halson's account.

Life Story

I watched in awe as the bestial spider raced about, devouring the hatching young. Sucking the infants dry, or perhaps slaying them for a future meal, it made no difference to the lifeless newborns littering the forest floor. The tyrant spider killed without mercy, were they his young or did they belong to another? Last year my neighbor shot his wife. The little boy in the baby blue house across the street, the one who won the spelling bee last year, he saw it happen; my neighbor shot him too.

New Blog

This blog is to display my writing.
I will write when I am bored, upset, or simply curious about something.
Please comment, offer feedback, or write a response.

Thank you for Visiting.

- Curious Scholar