Buffard- a stupid person

Shreuard- scoundrel, rogue

Putrefactible- subject to putrefaction, rotten

Clom- shut up

Mobard- rascal in a foolish sense

Conjoun- nincompoop

Gigelot- Harlot

Bisulpen- corrupt

Smotten- corrupt/imbalanced

Wither-laue- ruffian

Shitel- rash

Slabbard- someone slow or dull witted

Grisli-hideous

Weary silken wings

Stricken by frigid air

Push forth with no small effort

Beneath a silver glare

A wingtip brushes another

A small comfort in the night

And together flies the mated pair

Across the frigid blight

Guided only by stars

Beneath them lies a glade

Mourning the forgotten

Hallowing the made

The geese are privy to all

Within that silven hollow

And so they continue on

Where others may stay to wallow

The sky is clear tonight

And time holds still for a minute

An atlas of freedom and life

Studded by stars infinite

And so the mated pair flies on

As blustering winds turn mild

Tired wings find rest at last

A solace from the wild

This flight will be their last

So much the geese have known

And yet they have found comfort

For neither will be alone

Making one final ascent

Something ancient takes a sigh

The geese have found eternal peace

And in a better world they fly

A vast majority of the average human life is a trivial pursuit. Perhaps, within the expanse of their time, the individual may be able to count on one hand their contributions of value to the existence of human life. No matter, such an issue is one of subjectivity; the value of a human contribution can only be determined by the individual and those around them. One may ask, "Is it better to be an agent of change, or one of consistency which others can depend on?" It would seem that both types are needed in the establishment and maintenance of progress. However, it would also be the case that the two types that have been mentioned have a habit shunning each others' actions. Such a phenomenon can only be attributed to the paradox that is human nature.

An individual sits at the bank of a river and in that moment, time passes as slowly and nonchalantly as the lazy flow of the river itself. Thinking about nothing at all, the individual bites into an apple. The apple's skin, a rich, pure red, is slightly warm from sitting in the sun. The flesh within is complex in flavor, both sweet an tart in the way that only an apple can be. The apple is juicy, but not overwhelmingly so, as a peach might be. It is neither too crispy nor too soft, but somewhere in the middle.

Eyes on a distant horizon, the individual munches in silence, putting little thought into the apple because they don't have to. The apple simply is. When the apple was purchased, there was no particular wish for the apple to exceed the pre-existing expectations for what it should be like to eat. The experience of eating the apple was preconceived; a lazy expectation that could be carried out in the mind's eye with no particular effort. It was mere fodder for enjoying a leisurely, purposefully insignificant day in the sun.

With the preconceived notion of the experience of consuming an apple, a sense of comfort arises. In such a scenario, the apple has become an agent of consistency, and thus becomes capable of complimenting the nonchalant experience of lazing beside the river. It would be wrong for the apple to become something unexpected. An explosion of new flavor and strange textures would be a breach to the long established ideas of modest yet pleasant dependability. In truth, such qualities can only be found in one member of the vast apple species.

In the year 1811, the Macintosh apple was discovered by Canadian farmer John Macintosh. It would seem that the Macintosh is a perfect combination of its predecessors, exhibiting the juicy tartness of the Detroit Red, and the sweet flavor and hardy nature of the Fameuse variety. Compared to the long expanse of humanity's existence, it could be considered unfortunate that it took so long to make such a simple, yet fantastic discovery. Perhaps that it the best description of all for the humble Macintosh; fantastically simple. Nonetheless, the Macintosh unsurprisingly rose to popularity in the 19th century, establishing itself as that mundane yet versatile figure of consistency that we perhaps do not deserve.

It is true that in some capacities, the Macintosh cannot compare. It does not possess the prestige of the Flower of Kent variety, renowned for falling before Sir Isaac Newton and prompting the discovery of gravity. Certainly, the Macintosh apple does not possess that frilly crispiness and sweetness that has brought the Honeycrisp into the adoration of the apple consuming strata. But at the end of the day, the Macintosh is something that we can all can come back to. A figure within the turmoil of our world that doesn't try to change or become something more than it's meant to be. When all is said and done, it is the humble Macintosh that sits at the center of the world that is the apple consuming populous.

Within the consumer culture that has become the essence of our current setting, there is a constant competition for the individual's passing eye. Certainly, the apple industry has attempted to employ such an approach, and it has been proven that the results can be disastrous. Take, for example, the unnecessary bitterness of the Granny Smith. The apple is known for its iconic green color and supposed usefulness in baking, yet upon the first bite it stings teeth and burns throats. Consider the Red Delicious, flavorless and dry. If one who was unfamiliar with apples were to take a bite into the disappointing flesh of the Red Delicious, they would undoubtedly assume that apples as a whole are not worth the time of day.

To say that a state of unconditional superiority over the apple species is unattainable to the Macintosh variety is not completely unfounded. However, the debate of which apple is truly superior is a matter of great subjectivity, and possibly one that is unsolvable. Perhaps there is only one true way to navigate such a quagmire, which is to resort to the known. In a fitful sea of conflicting ideas and beliefs, it is the presence of fact that becomes a beacon of solace and familiarity. With the availability of so many apple varieties, we have been given the privilege of choice; a gift that we perhaps will never be fully capable of handling.

In a time of great confusion and conflict in our world, the issue of apples is unique in the way that there is still a place to find comfort. There is still an option to take that will result in wonderful, comfortable averageness. What other apple makes people say, "This will do", or "It's not special, but it's a crowd pleaser". In the wide realm of apples, the consistent employments of such notions can only be attributed time and time again to the Macintosh; the true monarch of unageing normalcy.

In a setting where it feels as though the shiniest thing gets bought, or the loudest voice has final say, the Macintosh has become so much more than a simple apple. The Macintosh has become a symbol of standing by what is right. To those who understand it, the humble Macintosh is a pristine model; one to look up to in the ever-present fight of seeing past all of the smoke and mirrors that we are presented with in our daily lives. With so much of the simplicity of what used to be now lost and forgotten, it is our duty to stand by the Macintosh apple, and all it has come to stand for.

Gracing ember times

Within the silver glade

Flesh snagged and torn

Upon the icy blade

Laden love is gone

Over the gilded moon

Silenced is the lullaby

Broken cries the loon

Lost in the blackened wood

Stricken by shadowed grief

Emperor so far and gone

Elusive is relief

Drowning deep and frigid

Ashen breath draws thin

Sining in a boundless sea

Jagged toothy grin

Alone cries the loon

Delirious and free

Tap, tap, tapping

Bony fingers of insanity

Shoved beneath the umbra

Shrieking to the night

What would it cost to see

That precious golden light?

Weary bones grow taught

Wicked and distraught

Beseeching eerie gods

Immortality grows fraught

My initial instinct was to paint the horror that I experienced in the sacrilegious and abhorrent light that can only be attributed to a rating of no stars. However, upon further reflection, I came to the conclusion that I, myself held a certain responsibility in the matter.

It was a cold night in March, and I was north bound on the New Jersey Turnpike. Weary from driving all day, and resigned to the fact that the final slivers of my sanity had escaped me, I resolved it was time to stop.

My cheeks slightly flushed from the cold, I stepped into the doors of the Thomas Edison Service Area. This is no ordinary service area, but the final stop before performing a deed that cannot be undone. A final chance to stop oneself from entering the hellish wasteland of potholes; the inferno of brake lights that they call the Cross Bronx Expressway.

I rarely waste my time in the lines that accompany the regular fast food joints within the establishment. After you've been on the road for so long, lines are just another type of traffic.

Instead, I chose to go directly to the hub of the most seasoned traveler. An area with no windows and compromised lighting, occupied mainly by passing truckers and tradesmen; men who have places to go and things to get done, if you will.

I browsed for a time, waiting for anything to catch my passing eye. Then it happened. My eyes, and perhaps my entire being, honed in on a beacon of hope. A potential comfort to lessen the pain of the Cross Bronx.

In front of me sat a microwavable burrito of rice, beans and cheese. In my dazed mind, it seemed to be quite a nice balance of carbs and protein and certainly less risky than the taquitos that roll around in that little display case for days on end.

My decision was made. I paid for the burrito and placed it inside the gas station microwave for the instructed one minute and thirty seconds. At the time, I payed no attention to the gas station cashier who would occasionally cast me a glance that can only be described as something between confusion and concern. Reflecting upon the moment with a clear mind, it seems as though I missed a valuable warning.

I was back on the road, less exhausted and almost sane, with one hand on the steering wheel and the other holding the burrito. In that moment, the most fragrant spices and sweetest flowers could not counter the aromatic harmony and comfort that was produced by that burrito.

Unable to wait a minute longer, I bit into the burrito as the radio played the absolute banger that is "Low" by Flo Rida. It was a moment of near-solace where everything was almost okay. An eye in the storm, if you will.

The burrito was not bad. The textures and flavors didn't quite match what the smell had suggested, but I was hungry and the burrito warm. I finished it quickly and washed it down with a sip of Poland Spring, because I was not about to spend my hard earned money on a six dollar bottle of Aquafina.

I was ready for the Cross Bronx. Still, I did not want to go there, but sometimes there is a difference between wanting something and being ready.

In the beginning it was average. There were lots of bumps and the expected host of aggressive truckers and stupid people, but nothing tragic. I kept my head down and kept driving. Traffic was slow, but it was moving. All I had to do was not hit anything and I'd be through it soon enough.

It was just after the George Washington Bridge that I experienced that first twinge of pain. Initially, I thought little of it. The burrito may have crossed my mind but I quickly dismissed it thinking that it was just a coincidence.

Ten minutes later, I knew that it was not a coincidence. I was building up the remains of my stamina to convince myself that things were going to be alright. So what the gas station burrito gave me indigestion. Things could be worse.

By the Throg's Neck Bridge, things were even worse. I will spare the most concerning details, but this was the point that I truly began to worry. I told myself that I just needed to hold on a bit longer. Realistically, I was still at least an hour and a half from home, but in that moment of despair, even false hope seemed better than none.

I'd arrived on the Long Island Expressway and mercifully, the traffic was light. Suddenly, my preferred driving pastimes of complaining about the bumps on the road and wondering where, exactly, my tax dollars had gone, seemed obsolete.

I drove fast. The cops didn't matter to me in that moment. Instead I thought 'fuck it, let them come.' My entire being had isolated itself within the singular cause of receiving the twisting, bubbling pain in my stomach.

The Long Island Welcome Center couldn't come soon enough. Had it been only moments later, I may have perished. I ran straight through the doors, and through the middle of a foreign family that looked at me disapprovingly and muttered incomprehensibly.

It did not matter. In that moment, nothing mattered except receiving that pain; that absolute apocalypse that had been born from the gas station burrito.

After a period of resentment and betrayal, I have accepted that the gas station burrito may not have been a good choice. Better than the taquitos, but still a poor decision. To anyone who is still reading this, I warn you to stay away from any burritos in the gas station. Resist the temptation at all costs and remember this; sometimes it's okay to buy a banana or some crackers and call it a day.

Set aglow on a winter's night

Bursting into amber flame

Combating eerie, mournful light

Darkness to which none lay claim

Huddled by the bricken ingle

Crouched upon a tired knee

Weathered fingers fold and mingle

Crumpling gossipy decree

Balled up in crinkling complaint

Laid upon the ashen floor

Serving to grow a spark so faint

To the warmth that all implore

Every row of text contorted

Stony faces in the news

Lies and hate and crime reported

Melted into inky blues

An ode to one who remembers

A greedy consuming roar

Cast away in floating embers

Smoky ghosts of modern lore

Every word is lost by morning

Where only ash remains

A modestly potent warning

To the press' bitter stains

Dreaming we were sea

Swirling cloudless uncertainty

Daft to silken hands

Caressing us as we fall

Chaos holds a steady reign

As we fly against the moon

Holding fast against the light

Things are different tonight

Swathed in melted stars

You look so divine

Fallen drops of sunlight

Mellowed cosmic cascade

Plunging further down

Leaking from the sky

Like stars betrayed

Too lost to feel afraid

Heathens they become

Bound to immortal gloom

That the goddess of promises

Has failed to make right

Impenetrable paradise

Squandered long ago

We only see it now

Hidden in cruel delight

Salvation is a ghost

A shadow of the sun

Some may never see it

Until the time has passed

There's something about change

The unruly knight of time

Laughing in the face of fortune

Clashing with the known

There's something about change

Jesting at predictability

Severing bonds of promise

Spinning webs of progress

To dance in the streets of madness

And relish petty ire

There's something about change

Keening for lost desire

Hardened by blood and coin

Corrupted by lust of men

Cosmic fingers clench tighter

Steady lies the master

Kings enslaved and helots crowned

There's something about change

A cosmic confluence

Entwining time with fate

Bump, thud and rumble

The melon runners take a tumble

Like a bullet from a gun

Up and down the stairs they run

Leaping high to catch a bug

Scrunching up the area rug

They awaken when their master calls it a night

After they've lazed all day in sun's light

Yet who can be the master

To agents of disaster?

Creatures designed to rule and roam

And saunter about a home

Creatures unnatural in their construction

Masters of chaos and destruction

Committing acts that physics should not allow

For one that weighs eight pounds and says "meow"

Sun's flames reduce to embers

The sky is no longer blue

Darkness casts a silver eye

And in it I see you

Stars encrust the darkness

Among them you travel far

Still, there is a place you remain

Grasped by aching love

Deep within the ocean

Floating in the sea

Misty air surrounding

Will you come back to me?

Steady beats a bleakened heart

Empty in all but grief

Heavy is the chest surrounding

Yearning for relief

Birdsong beckons the day

Before the umbra is complete

Lithe rises the dawn

Darkness admits defeat

Shrouded by dappled light

In a kingdom free and vast

Welcomed by familiar hands

And finding peace at last

Running in the meadow

Dancing in the grass

Golden light surrounding

At least I know you're free