The Slippery Slope Remains the Undefeated Champion

The lessons of history

Are forgotten

Are ignored

Are deemed irrelevant

And thus,

Are required to be relearned (again and again)

The payments for this tuition

Are paid in the blood of millions

Too busy to care, too apathetic to know to care

President Washington warned of the dangers of foreign entanglements

President Eisenhower told of the military industrial complex

Martin Niemöller spoke of no one being left to speak out for me

And still, the ignorant remain blissfully ignorant

Hitler killed millions, Stalin more than Hitler, Mao more than Stalin

Socialism and Communism (vote your way in, shoot your way out)

Killed more than all three combined in the 20th Century alone

George Santayana forewarned of the consequences of failure

But, TikTok is more fun

You may wonder which message was lost, but I don’t wonder as to why

Rules for Radicals and Mein Kampf are blueprints

1984 is fiction

The difference becomes moot when everyone is literate, but no one wants to prove it

Once the door becomes the slightest of ajar to the narrative and not the truth

Appeasing the shouters, the leeches, and the looters

Once men actively seek a benevolent master over personal freedom

Then the slippery slope becomes more than a placation

It becomes a daily expectation

It becomes easy to do nothing else

And such is how slaves have always been made

Some of my

closest friends

are demons

They give

terrible advice

and keep me

up all night

talking about

serial killers

and addiction

Just enough to

distract me

Just enough to

make me forget

that I am dead

1826 Days

She reappeared in my life.

Again.

Five years have passed since I last saw her.

Five years since I knelt and proposed marriage to the only woman I have ever known.

She is the only woman I have ever loved.

She still holds that moniker.

She gave me that, “someone like you, but not you”, look and walked away.

That was 1826 days ago.

I have not found another, nor was I looking.

Her wound takes far longer than 1826 days to heal.

Her wound paralyzes me from another attempt.

Her wound guarantees that I will be where she left me.

Primed for another strike, vulnerable to another assault, I stand defenseless.

That is, until she smiles.

That is, until she says, “Yes.”

A sucker is born every minute and in 5 years, 2629440 take their first breath.

None should have to take a second under these conditions.

Only as my front door closes do I find the closure I deserve.

Today begins the first day of the rest of my life.

In the murky depths of our modern existence lies a cauldron of toxicity, simmering with the noxious vapors of deceit, greed, and disillusionment. The air is thick with the acrid stench of political discord, where truth is a casualty and integrity a relic of a bygone era. Society churns in the turbulent waters of technological advancement, drowning in a deluge of information, yet starving for genuine connection. In this suffocating atmosphere, human empathy wanes, replaced by a callous indifference, leaving souls adrift in a sea of isolation. This is the toxic soup we’ve brewed, a bitter concoction of our own making, where the once-clear waters of morality have become clouded by the sediment of our collective discomfort and relentless pursuit of greed for survival.

In the face of such a tempest, one can only hold fast to the fragile hope that amidst the chaos, a glimmer of redemption may yet emerge. And as the pendulum of power swings with reckless abandon, one cannot help but wonder: who will emerge victorious in the political arena, Only time will tell, as the electorate braces itself for another round of the age-old dance between hope and disillusionment.

I do not wish for seconds.

Easy Going Guy

Searching for my rainbow

For a pot of gold

With a name like Bill

And I wanna be sold

He carries little baggage

An answer to my prayer

Walking into my life

Right out of thin air

He has a quiet manner

A mix of boyish charms

I’ve danced with deceivers

And it sets off my alarms

So, I’ll put him through the ringer

To pass the Nana test

Here is what I want

And he’d better be the best

I want a Church bred, well read,

never lying, always trying,

family man, with a plan,

goes to work, not a jerk,

heart swoon, sing in tune,

good lookin’, some cookin’,

always cares, always shares,

easy going guy.

He arched his brow

And shot back at me

He wanted someone

Strong as an oak tree

Who could weather the years

Keeping hard-fast gutsy

Was his only need

And I was to agree

By the time I heard

Such a simple proposition

I wanted him to keep talking

Just so I could listen

He smiled as he raised

Then kissed both my hands

His words were my words

And this is how they ran

I am a Church bred, well read,

never lying, always trying,

family man, with a plan,

got a job, not a snob,

heart swoon, sing in tune,

good lookin’, some cookin’,

always caring, always sharing,

easy going guy.

As we danced

I kept humming

As he smiled

No more chumming

I want a Church bred, well read,

never lying, always trying,

family man, with a plan,

goes to work, not a jerk,

heart swoon, sing in tune,

good lookin’, some cookin’,

always cares, always shares,

easy going guy.

That’s How I See It

Drinking at the canteen

Two stepping in between

Tunes from a Christine

Vocals from a Geraldine

Whirling in my cowboy boots

Twirling past the crapshoots

A pair of blondes, oh very cute

Both work as prostitutes

I love this life

I love this air

Perhaps I’ll start

A love affair

Just now

I saw her there

Up Town

Up Grade

Underdressed and overplayed

Time to care

Time to dare

Asked her name

She replied, “Emma Clair”

She could dance

She could swing

Do-si-do

And even swing

Miss Blair might bump

Miss Blair might grind

Whiskey shots for courage

Set up on her behind

The band played standards

Honoring Hank Williams and Dolly P

Emma eyes were locked on mine

Emma eyes were emerald green

By nine, she was mine

By ten, I was hers

By midnight, I was drunk

By closing time, I was blurred

Maybe it was the Jack speaking

Maybe I heard Jim Beam instead

When the local Parson asked for my “I Do”

That’s when I got newly wed

So two years and two girls

Tons of diapers, tons of curls

They’re my Queens

I’m their Earl

I still crave Emma’s shots

I still covet Emma’s hots

She’s built like an Autobot

And as easy as a chip shot

The band honors Loretta Lynn

The dance floor is getting thin

But we make this bar our own sin

And that’s how I see it

Dear Dick,

I hope this letter finds you in a state of literary grace and grammatical correctness. It is with a heavy heart and a dictionary of synonyms that I tender my resignation from my position as Chief Wordsmith Extraordinaire, effective immediately.

Please understand that this decision was not reached lightly. It’s just that after spending countless hours crafting metaphors, similes, and puns, I’ve come to the conclusion that my true calling lies in the lucrative world of competitive Scrabble. I feel that my talents are better suited to arranging tiles on a board than rearranging words in a document.

I will fondly remember the days spent debating the Oxford comma, arguing over the pronunciation of “gif,” and trying to sneak “onomatopoeia” into every memo. However, my ambitions now lie beyond the confines of this office, where the only punctuation I’ll be worrying about is whether or not the triple word score was worth sacrificing all my vowels.

I assure you, this decision is not a reflection of the stimulating workplace environment or the copious amounts of coffee provided. It’s simply that I’ve grown tired of searching for the perfect synonym for “exhausted” and yearn for a challenge that involves more than just battling writer’s block.

I appreciate the opportunities for growth and creativity that this position has afforded me, and I will always cherish the memories of our team’s literary shenanigans. Please know that I leave with the utmost respect for you and the entire team, and I wish everyone continued success in all their future endeavors.

Thank you for your understanding, and may the pen forever be mightier than the sword (unless we’re playing Scrabble).

Yours literarily,

Mamba

clouds came, acknowledged

from the desert, a nod to the sea... shore

combing the hair of our beach... lit

in the wind, seeds like shells

of us, burning the soles...

at our feet, and none

shall ever follow... again

follow the footsteps

like we did... as pages

follow you, like I did

my phantom shadow

going west, holstered

into fatal sunset...

PART 1

We're in for now.

Times change in social details, dressing and appointments updated for the new agenda. Daylight savings has been extended, I mean that as a pun, a knockout averted from the bots up the hall. The bouncer robots haven't picked up on me yet. I'm in. I'm ok.

I don't know how much longer I can continue to fool them. There's something about being a plain white woman that is neutralizing. I remain, under the radar. Normal. Words flop meaning often. Take asylum. Once for the insane, now it keeps-in those that are tested and deemed to be un-touched.

"Janie, meeting at 6 in the gymnasium, right?"

It's Alec. His pitch a tad too high, he's always looking to me, as a lighthouse to the port authority, a safe near insider. There's a slight sweat on his brow, but he quickly wipes it in his shirt sleeve and hides the jog needed to find himself in stride with me from the left, behind. I am average, according to all statistics, height, weight, hair, complexion, dismissible in every aspect, near perfect Norm. Whereas Alec is short, heavyset, and always pushing his glasses up like he's competing with Sisyphus. I suspect he's unidentified preliminary borderline but wants so much to be in that he has managed to escape signaling and bouncing out. Luck, not effort, on his part, is at work. There is a disproportionate amount of monitoring outside, and things do get by.

The parameters of the institution are eating away at him. I can see the strain in the constriction of his suit, with seams about to burst. He wants so hard to fit in. He's trying not to breath too hard and relax his leashed mind over contradictions.

"Of course, thanks for reminding me," I say saving face for him, with my voice set to autopilot confidence, the tone I know is expected, and registered on the Checklist.

My response covers me, and him, guarding a secret edge between us, one which only I fully recognize and can articulate. His stress is such that he is turtled. If he could, I bet he would draw in his head and appendages in self-defense. It would get him bounced out immediately as a Bonk. So, this questioning-affirmation is his self-preservation. His thinking, if I'm wrong on details, we'll both be out, and there will be a life preserve to hang on to, maybe. He doesn't know that I am barely hanging on to Expectations.

He thinks I'm a sure bet. The Norm.

"You're a gem. No wonder you're on Responsibility 5."

He slows to compose himself, knowing that I have to move on, to make the clock. They've run the battery of tests on everyone on the inside. How Alec passed I can't say, but I catch my breath, too, knowing myself enough as I do. I'm always on the secret watch for others, like me. I tested free of any diagnosable abnormality. Not ADHD, not Autistic, not Paranoid Schizophrenic, not Bi-Polar, not Sociopathic, not Psychotic, by any given disturbance monitor. I've succeeded in keeping covert my abnormal memory, phonic and photographic. This is not a place where exceptionalism, in any form, is tolerated. This is an asylum for the purely ordinary population to dwell undisturbed and cohabitate in the hopes of reestablishing numbers of the Average Man.

Responsibility 5 is Roll Call. I earned this task by always being present, punctual, and at the front of the line. A veritable yes ma'am. I leveled the line of the lie detector test, and averaged through all the attempted trials given, like to rats in a lab. Tests for willingness to take tasty bribes, lazy shortcuts, etc., etc. My morbid attention to details has been unrecognized. The faked hypnosis has not been detected, and I have never revealed my uncanny ability to mimic gesture as well as sounds such as human voices, animals, and even electronics and incidental noises of inanimate objects.

Never let them see an introspective look in the eye, or a blankness that might be mistaken as such. Extroverted docility is the Expectation.

"Dr. Zbig," I say extending a hand expediently as I near the doors of the gymnasium. It is considered perfectly normal to herd us in here daily at prescribed times, always a little unpredicted, to keep everyone on their toes. It is a mental health check, not at all physical exercise as the room might suggest.

Robots strap sanitized apparatus to our heads as we sit in assembly seats, and automated checks are performed to identify any irregular brain waves.

Dr. Zbigniew knows my file. Seeing me, he does a visual scan and smiles antiseptically.

"Looking good, Janie. Looking good," he says pleased, and it's understood that he is talking about the order of the Institution.

I give a single silent nod. (Grandfather is on the outside, and as family he's all I've got, though I don't know any more if he's gone, and if so, how. Communication with the unasylumed is not allowed. Took some loop work for him to get me in for testing--Passing a must. Think only about breath, he'd said. It's what I call upon now at every check point.)

"Clipboard is on the platform. I've already turned on the Owl. If anything, state the code word, and it will activate back up automatically."

Zbig waves and strides further down the hall, a little too starched, a little too bland, and I can still see his white teeth flashing with indenturedness of a trusted servant.

I give another professional nod to his back. Cameras are watching.

The roster is a on a tablet, not the old school clipboard that used to be used when things were Backward, in the old Asylum days. It's digital, and in this way the central office can monitor in real time who I check off and precisely when. Order is important, for grouping input, data association. Responsibility 5 demands prompt computation since time stamp matters. I know, it's how I merited the position when Robin became patient No. 8.13B. That's B for billion. The slightest hint of deviation will send you out. Following directions is key. There are only 403 of us in the asylum.

The Owl is not a pet. In fact, no animals are permitted, except for lab work, and outside. Pet affinity is a negative indicator, leaning towards creative thinking like anthropomorphism, diminishing the standing of mankind in its special role and dominion which requires rational unsentimentalism.

The Owl is a stationary electronic unit that sits on the platform and scans activity during assembly, with an internal rotating camera, sending close ups for monitoring to the central office. It zooms on the slightest erratic movement, animated facial expression, or altered electrostatic charge of bodily tension. The reassurance is that they see you, and every flinch.

I look at the freshly washed morning faces advancing, devoid of anticipation, imagination, joy or fear.

I begin to checkmark:

Here.

Here.

Here.