twenty minutes

Twenty minutes after midnight
I heard a discussion about
pharmaceutical companies being
under quite an investigative
pressure. I think it was on
91.7 FM and when the subject
was introduced, immediately
my mind went to an appointment
I had with a psychiatrist in
two thousand eight or nine.
He was a person whom I’d
maintain for follow-ups and
refills, however, in the midst
of a very paranoid state I
inquired the possibility of
pharmaceutical companies working
with those in occupations of a
psychiatric kind to exchange
money and promotion of drugs,
to which he responded in a
wide-eyed manner, “If there
were any benefits, I wish I
could use some of them,” and
then remained silent. It was
he I gave trust to intoxicate
my mind with helpful substances
in pursuit of emotional stability.
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|_ife is crazy.
The three words
come to mind often
when there’s difficulty
thinking of something
to say about a topic.
Maybe the habit is
the result of perpetual
side effects of pills
deemed advisable for consumption.
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Do thoughts of what has passed and
what will come in near and far
futures determine what has become
of the present moment in time?
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Only a few
more minutes
until the
clock strikes.

with Ghesquière in mind

As a new month begins, making transitions
between cities, embarking on journeys of
professional and artistic endeavors, or
progression with relationships one has with
others, while finding centered moments and
learning to thrive with a third guiding force
of intuition on not only significant matters
but sustaining peace and helping others
achieve the same awareness, seems like
exceedingly practical goals to accomplish.
These days many people seem to be
overextending their skills because they can
identify elements in need of support while
accomplishing requirements of one’s position
but are unmet with support from superior
authorities of seemingly less creativity-inclined
mindsets. The interview with Nicolas Ghesquière
proved the vitality of recycling the feeling of
empowerment within a place of work.

What was clear was the disintegration of
language juxtaposing the eerie immediacy
of information, which one cannot refute
as a sort of ambiguity in establishing
how one can grow when the original
responsibilities of one’s occupation
no longer carry the same intensity while
moments of reflection demonstrate the
cloudiness masks an abusive demand for
one’s skills. Is this the plight of all
creative entities? Perhaps, however, as
aggressively as the wind pushes against
bare tree branches, it seems one must
navigate through cumbersome hierarchies
in pursuit of support for successful
achievement with exceptional stamina in
order to overcome rigidity of tradition.
I wonder how long it will take for Playboy
to move beyond the impediments posed in Goa.
If change incites skepticism from occupied
positions of power, how do creative gusts
of wind garner enough momentum to motivate
a wholesome and effervescent evolution?

many pages and half moons

The first warm breeze of the spring season
tickled a young boy’s ears for no apparent
reason. He watched the branches’ rigid
movements and let his nose be overwhelmed by
the scent of moist soil until upon a horizontal
current slid a screen door. When he turned
around and saw his playmate run from afar, he
felt in the pit of his stomach a desire to learn
what he’d heard once in the schoolyard.

“What is respect,” a young boy asked his
playmate in a sandbox who responded to the
interrogation with a face so coy.

“I read in a book with many a page and half
moons respect is something you feel if an
honorable impression is made.”

Staring at his toy and then at the sand, the young
boy inhaled and said, “The feeling I get when I
sit on a train, seeing trees and clouds whiz by in
the sky, is this an instance respect can be applied?”

The corners of the playmate’s mouth turned
upside down but he stayed calm for he enjoyed
the effect of a verbal merry-go-round. “When
you sit on a train respect could be felt, as long
as you’re not thinking of yourself.”

The young boy’s eyes widened with surprise.
“Not think of myself? Well, you must be joking!
I’m most happy and can twaddle for hours when
I see the world and it speaks to me.”

The playmate laughed heartily and exclaimed to
his friend, “Now you must be the one who’s
joking for the world does not use words to talk
to human beings! We’re on it because it’s only
here to be seen!”

“Take that back,” said the young boy in a fury.
“I’ll have you know the trees and grass have a
bond with the wind and rain as much as you and
I have in this sandy space.”

Shaking his head and peering around, the
playmate stood up and looked quite proud.
“This area is for everyone to use and enjoy,
not to…”

Before he could finish, the young boy inserted,
“Isn’t it everyone’s duty to employ gentle senses
when understanding all forms of nature’s beauty?”

The playmate answered quickly, “How do you
come up with a word like employ when you just
asked me to clarify simple terminology?”

“Words of that sort seem easy to understand
while terms of so common seem abused by the
absence of comprehension regarding the realm
imbued by simplicity.”

The playmate shrugged then looked toward the
heavens. “Maybe the self can be included in
thought when it comes to respect of this
wondrous environment.”

tis the season

A woman with dark luscious unwashed tendrils spewing from her scalp walks down the narrow aisle of dark wood tables with hooks on the sides, one of which is occupied by a voluptuous espresso satchel. She slides into a booth facing the rear of the kitchen, keeps her glasses on, then digs in her bag. After grabbing and placing a small black object in front of her on the table, she presses a few buttons and then speaks softly in one end.

“The climate is so strange in this Midwestern humidity. Rays of sun are constantly beaming upon human faces whose bodies have wrinkled as quickly as the leather bags who’ve aged as soon as they leave the department stores from whence they’ve departed in glossy shopping bags. Each day seems to repeat itself and the clouds’ movement never stays the same for more than one hour. I find myself dreaming old memories, which I thought faded into mental peripherals, but am now realizing are being brought to the forefront of my mind as concepts of desire impeding forward progression. Then there’s the issue of style– establishing and portraying a sense of self to the world regardless of the destination or climate. Why in the workplace does one’s style marry regulations of dress imposed by authorities who’ve seemingly not perused the contents of a trustworthy collection of knowledge regarding ideas, colors, fabrics, images, stories, individuality?”

Heavy breathing of the oncoming server comes closer to the woman’s table. “Hi, what can I get for you today.” After a brief pause, the woman continues speaking to the microphone in the same volume.

“As a member of a generation who has grown accustomed to depending on more technological sources of knowledge…”

The server shifts her weight and whispers, “I’ll give you a few more minutes.”

“I’ve found myself dumbfounded by determining my place in the workforce especially when there are influences of my behavior hindering the expression of my self I wish to achieve in a professional and creative manner in more settings than one. Given the vast disappointment in procuring employment with a substantial form of compensation for my time and skill level, I scratch my head in irritation because I know there is more for us in this universe and listen to stories in wonderment of those who simply asked the universe for achievements and happiness, who consequently created the masterpiece of their life’s actions with calling upon the forces of nature to bring favorable results in their directions. Sometimes the greed of it all seems too enticing to explore and discuss with the public but on the other hand, one cannot deny the fun life would be made. What other purpose do humans have except to enjoy the fruits of fervent labor?”

She stops and presses a button to end the recording and sits motionless. To the left of the woman are two young thirty-something year olds. The male speaks passionately as the female stirs her shake slowly. “I really feel like the cosmic forces are telling me to stop smoking. I mean, swiping the lighter was just a last straw kind of sign. If I can’t stop the impulse to retain someone’s lighter or remember money to bring for product I fully intend to purchase, I shouldn’t be allowed to smoke in the company of others or be trusted to handle money. Honestly though, tell me what you think.”

The woman takes a sip from the red striped straw, swallows delicately and exhales, “The last thing you want is to hear what I’ve got to say.”

He replies, “Please just skip the nonchalance with the dramatic sequence of events I’m sharing with you and tell me whether I’m placing too much value in omens or I’m fully capable of utilizing this medicine as a tool for all creative purposes.”

“I think you should focus on why you want to negotiate the possibility of investing time and money on a resource that doesn’t exist in a way that one would imagine…Whatever, the thing that’s on my mind is the way I was smoking a cigarette on my patio last night and heard footsteps nearby. I was too drunk to prop my head up and way too unprotected to combat an assault.”

face it

The days I’ve contemplated titles
for projects that have been on my
mind are the days I become so
moved by the imagination, which
takes flight upon visualizing
publication of stories past and
present. The impact they will
have on marginalized and
introspective beings could be
tremendous yet there is a
possibility of the stories
being perhaps too honest, too
insouciant, to a degree of
concern. Oh, bring on the
degree however severe it may
be to the monitored eye.
Enlightenment is desired and
how better provide it to
the masses than with sullen
speculations of a Midwestern
writer? It seems the main
objective of those who
have published their
literary voices is to
explore the dimensions
through which vague senses
of self floats and weaves
belts of connectivity.
These explorations may
be therapeutic for writers
but most certainly
are craved by the audience
for whom the tales and
hypotheses are transcribed
but is it because the audience
is incapable of exploring
within themselves fascinating
themes and questions so far
tucked away into the unconscious
due to overwhelming schedules
and elements of home life,
which incite literary fervor?
Perhaps. I’ve noticed the most
avid readers tend to be some of the
hardest working individuals I’ve
been blessed to have become
acquainted and the more
lazy readers I’ve known are
more noticeably less motivated
to make sacrifices and challenge
their minds with non technological
stimuli. With this thought process, I
hope to de-clutter the fragments of
stories I’ve accumulated in order
to create cohesion in plots and
day bring smiles and laughter,
introspection and confusion, then
enlightenment and hope for the future
but the question of when others may
appreciate such tales of honesty
and betrayal, mystery and self-
loathing, roundabout woes of
contradiction if too they
happen upon such worrisome
avenues of thought also rises.
Hopefully sooner rather than
later for positive changes
must happen with the utmost haste.

a silhouette ponders love

The smell of nicotine
clouds a room in which
the silhouette of
a masculine body
with feminine features
sits near a window.

Love, how you evade me,
make a mockery of my emotions,
declare me mad when I’ve made efforts
to communicate on levels of unusual custom,
falsify any notion of affection!
Why do I entertain thoughts,
mere fruitless ambitions,
which evoke no promotion
of strong feelings within
the subject of my admiration?
Is this game of emotions,
battle of wits, what have you,
similar to the flight of a young bird
soaring through the air without experiencing
the altitude it strives to achieve?

The silhouette falls silent as
raindrops splatter diagonally
across horizontal walls of glass.

Oh, stop the indecent conversation.
Prepare yourself for instant gratification.

I thought you were to be found
after hard work and dedication?

Only the blind can find
me in such consecration.

Then I beg speak to me plain!
What must I do to forgo lover’s scorn,
admit passion in another, all to
satisfy desires deep within?

Impede such interrogation
for it is not healthy
contemplating that in which
you have not participated.

You ridicule my ineptitude
for this sort of relation?

Dare you question my advice
disseminate from malice?

The silhouette pauses,
taking note of faster raindrops.

I rescind my former inquiry
for I meant no misjudgment.
Please spare me though still,
will I ever move forward
from this frenzied isolation?

Your forward motion is
dependent upon your actions.

And what of these sentiments for,
I must admit, I waste minutes
and hours entertaining the
cruel nature of idle
introspective fervor?

The estimation of your
heart’s movement toward love
and devotion is not a prediction
I am at will to recite.

Then oblige me with
a statement forthright,
will I ever know what’s right?

And with the last word,
a gust of wind whistles
through a cracked window,
forcing the silhouette to
shiver through the night.

fascinating times at Common Market

As I transcribe the words
of a person sitting on my right at the
outdoor area of Common Market,
I find the content of his speech
rather superfluous for his companion.
I realize in my desire to capture
distinct surrounding affects,
I need not rely on conversations
of others in order to animate
the mind. Many would likely
avoid wasteful contemplation of
those in close proximity since there
are many who bask in bromidic cordialities
that impede understanding the depths of
consciousness with which we crave
acquaintance. I hate ending a
sentence with a preposition
but the help of this grammatical
crutch can be extremely advantageous.

It’s been over a month
since I arrived in Charlotte
and I am learning my patience with
verbalization, despite the veil
of interest that can be used
to extract what it means
to be, is dwindling.
However, I still crave
listening to stories that
cultivate one’s mind during
today’s economic and political
chaos of American and global
societies. Then again, with
coverage of frivolously
lucrative charades,
political dras, and
artistic hoorahs,
it seems easy to fall into
ignorance of positive impacts
on marginalized and disturbed communities,
which ones who live in bounteous bliss can incite.

As I end my second glass of Merlot,
I find my mind traveling further
from reality while male and
female voices around me
seem progressively foreign.
Perhaps the speakers’ blaring
99 Luftballons alters a comprehension
of brogue more so than Bordeaux merriment.
I also arrive at the point of intoxication
where the validation of inquiring for a
cigarette is inevitable and I cannot
avoid laughing at my laudable
expenses, which contradict
saving money to address
the financial obligations
accrued during unique
educative journeys.

But what of bodies
of legislative, judiciary
and executive exploits, how
are college graduates expected
to fulfill repayment standards
when governing bodies, both
domestic and abroad, seem
incapable of setting
a positive example?
This thought bubbles
after taking heed to the
perspective of a commentary
created by an insightful minority
as does the influence of social
networking on conversations
enjoyed when in public.
How can online sensations
serve as points of elaboration
for those in close company while
jointly transforming into pivots of babble?

First, with how much wine should I fill another glass?