Oh wicked magician,

Latest victim died at dawn,

For once she was there,

And next she was gone,

Oh wicked magician,

You perform on four stages,

The fourth being hopeless,

Death locked up in cages,

Oh wicked magician,

How beguiling your act,

Your tricks undetected,

Your surprise without tact,

Oh wicked magician,

How long is your show,

Two weeks, ten years,

Your intentions unknown,

Oh wicked magician,

What age is your unwilling volunteer,

Did he turn sixty seven,

Was she to turn three next year,

Oh wicked magician,

Your wand grants me no wishes,

Though it does make me dream,

I'd had time for more kisses,

Oh wicked magician,

We fight but you ruin that too,

Fighting is tethered to I.V. poles,

Told there's nothing we can do,

Oh wicked magician,

Up your sleeve lies a cure,

But you prefer martyr's,

Lined up at death's door,

Oh wicked magician,

Pickpocketing thief,

Stolen hair, lives, dreams,

Your pain bares all it's teeth,

Oh wicked magician,

Like your flowers, tumors grow,

Growing bills, growing saddness,

Growing to kill us, your foe,

Oh wicked magician,

I know one thing, your name,

Your name is Cancer,

No one wants you, but you came.

Roses are blue,

Violets are red;

Enough has been heard,

Nothing has been said;

Regret the success,

Celebrate the mistake;

Aim for first fail,

Dread when you place;

Dream of your fears,

Run from your hopes;

Flee from your friends,

Run toward your ghosts;

Strive for ignorance,

Rebel against success;

Love when you're last,

Hate when you're best;

Follow your head,

Ignore your big heart;

It's good to be dumb,

It's bad to be smart;

Beauty is hated,

Ugliness is loved;

Light is from below,

Dark is from above;

The game is beginning,

The explanation is done;

Reverse all last words,

These are fun ones.

I am full of heavy words. Some are heavy in my heart, my stomach, my mind, my shoulders, they all bear weight so cumbersome that I have to let them out. For a while, I couldn’t convey myself properly. I began to spend hours at a time on social media trying to find ways to release. But I need poetry and prose. Those were my first loves. Even now, I feel uninspired and inadequate to even string letters together. But I am looking to win my love back--writing. I’m here to get her back.

We were all lied to. That those in need are needy because there’s not enough to go around. We say this half-wittedly while we throw away out leftover food and donate clothing to the needy. Seedy politicians sew trees of lies, blocking the sun to feed themselves, no light in sight. Billionaire blowhards evade their civic duties and instead sketch dreams of a life in space. Using the money that might restore an already habitable planet to inhabit a new one. We watch with enthusiasm and curiosity in our eyes as megalomaniacs confidently say that soon “we” will make it to Mars. We. As though they’re bringing me there. A near-thirty year old college dropout who hasn’t amounted to anything. What will happen to me and the other Mes when they go? Will be become slaves? Will we be left for dead? I imagine a future where we’re all either sent to code camps or mines, programming the comptuers or digging for metals and oil for the billionaires we admire and worship. Our admiration for wealth will kill our grandchildren, as it’s killing children all over the world, every day. I fear we’re making a mistake, admiring it all. Is anyone listening?

My essence in your love,

is surrounded by solemnity.

Your comfort wraps around me like a wave.

Prejudice and eternity,

peel away like cruelty,

for nothing lasts as long as love and hate.

Decreptitude binds the luxuries of youth,

faithful normality lights the way.

Lamenting frail bodies fade away like gales,

for Love hates hate,

Love loves hail.

Creeping swaying willows,

withering elephantine leaves.

Recollection of former mischiefs,

peek-a-boo ,mud -soaked sleeves.

The solemnity of elephantine love,

blowing up gales of decreptitude and hate.

The normality of love loving love and hating hate,

Eternity slipping away at youth’s gates.

12/29/18

The family of 5 sat down to eat dinner

They were having peppers and corn from the farmers market that morning.

"Nothing is spicy" dad promised. "All will be fine," he said.

As they sat down to eat their food, the daughter poked and prodded at her pepper. She asked once more "are you sure it's not spicy?"

"Yes" the mom declared. "Now eat the food your father made."

The daughter took a bite.

Heat immediately poured into her mouth, tongue already on fire in just one bite. Spitting the nasty, gooey pepper onto the plate, she said "it's spicy!"

The younger brother saw this and refused to touch his food.

"It is not spicy. Eat your food now." The younger brother began to eat his pepper. The daughter attempted one more bite but was forced to spit it out once more. Drool and spittle formed within her mouth, the salivation causing the spice to swirl within her mouth.

"You are not leaving this table until you finish your food, young lady" the father proclaimed.

So there the daughter sat with her arms criss-crossed across her chest, refusing to take another bite.

"If you don't eat your food right now, you are grounded for a week" the mother stated, putting her foot down.

The pepper loomed at her with it's devilish taste still looming in her mouth.

The lumpy mound of pepper now looking like green mashed potatoes.

She tried to plug her nose, but the spice hit even harder than before. The saliva in her mouth multiplied, as did the tears on her cheeks. Snot rolled out of her nose.

Finally, the mother was done. Grabbing the plate from the daughter, she took her own bite. The mother's face went immediately red as she sprinted to the sink to wash her mouth out.

And there stood the daughter, still standing in the middle of the living room with every facial orifice leaking, begging to not have to finish the pepper.

11-18-2119

Happy Birthday myself! (That exclamation point is a liar. Believe me, I say this sentence with as much grudging, sarcastic, un-excitedness with which a human being could ever say anything. Perhaps even with a hint of longing and loathing.)

So, Yaaay! Happy Birthday!

How does it feel to be a hundred?

I dunno. Fake.

Today is not only my hundredth birthday, but also the hundredth birthday of a little product called Necata, derived from the latin “nec aetas” meaning “no age.” The scientists behind it had been doing underground research on it for years before the product started to surface in 2019. The official release date just happened to be the date I was also released into the world.

An anti-aging medication. But this time it wasn’t a cream that softened skin and smoothed out wrinkles. It wasn’t some cringy homemade herbal remedy. No. It was the real deal. Necata, “The nectar of life.” Certified, Approved, Authorized, Endorsed, Guaranteed, by anyone and everyone whose medical opinions were of value to the public. Necata was ready to be bought, and used by everyone right away. Starting with babies.

If you were pregnant, and your due date was November 18th, you had better start saving your money to buy your newborn baby’s immortality. Necata’s advertising campaign was geared mostly towards parents who could provide this for their kids. I mean, come on. What mom and dad don’t want to give their baby the gift of eternal life? And my parents were no different. . .

You don’t know how many times I’ve wished I was a preemie. Or a few days late.

So the nurses roll in, with a shiny shot needle, inject Necata into the infant, and boom! Just like that! The kid’s immortal.

Not quite.

Turns out Necata’s “top scientists” who had been developing the product for years, still hadn’t worked out all the kinks. They were just so in debt from their research, that they desperately needed profits. And so, decided to launch the unfinished medication hoping for the best.

Instead of staying a perfectly preserved bundle of newborn joy, complete with sunshine and rainbows, the Necata babies aged. We aged fast. By the time most kids were learning how to crawl around, I had the body of a tween. I also had mental disorders, speech disorders, learning disorders, and growth pains like you wouldn’t believe!

Yeah. I remember it. I was conscious, just didn’t know quite what to do with my brain yet.

Our growth started to slow just before we hit age two. By then, we looked like 20-year-olds.

And then we stopped.

Necata was banned from being sold or administered, and thank heaven above, no one else suffered the same fate. But the world was left with a few hundred thousand two-year-olds who looked like 20-year-olds, who had been injected in the first few days of the product’s launch. Programs were instituted. Special schools and therapy facilities. Weird enough, after we got past the disorders, we learned really well. And extremely fast. Like genius-level fast. I finished kindergarten through 12th grade in four years.

But it became pretty obvious, pretty quickly that we weren’t going to age after that. We’d hit our prime, and that was it.

So here I am. I’ve outlived my parents, my older sibling, and my younger one. The product worked. I haven’t aged. I haven’t died. Which is partially Necata’s fault, and partly my own. I haven’t killed myself yet. I don’t know why. Almost every day, I wish I would hurry up and die, but I can’t bring myself to do it. Quite a few members of “Generation Infinity”, as the government nicknamed us, discovered that they couldn’t die from old age, but they could be killed. Suicide rates went through the roof right after that.

Maybe that’s why I choose to stick around. To make sure no one else makes the same mistakes. To ensure that as long as I live (which I am betting will be quite long) that no one in the universe will have to suffer like I have. Like we have. Mortality is meant to be temporary. Living forever is almost worse than not living at all. It’s good to grow, to age, and yes, to die. Eventually. When you’ve lived a full life, and are ready to escape.

So I think I will save this blog entry/rant, and share and preserve it. Don’t play God. He’s much better at it than we are.

Sleep doesn’t come.

I somehow feel your purple, acid-washed tee against my skin

My bare legs against your thread bare comforter, wrapping around your waist

I somehow hear your shallow breath that you can rarely catch

I wonder if I rolled over and woke you

I wonder if your fingers curled on my waist and your eyes hit my own

I wonder if I hadn’t held back

And I wonder why I ever wondered.