Oh hello. I wasn’t expecting any visitors but am always glad to have company. Welcome to my mind. This must be your first time here since you don’t look familiar. Hope your visit is enlightening. Since I’m not big on self-promotion and don’t charge admission, there’s no tour guide. But I’ll be puttering around in case you have any concerns or just want to look over my shoulder and kibitz. I will ask that you wipe your feet as I recently had the accessible portions of the floors refinished to strip off the plaque buildup.

There are a few things that need to be taken care of before you can begin. Nothing major, just some forms. You know, typical bureaucratic boilerplate releases that Legal needs to have on file for insurance reasons. Red tape, what are you going to do, right? Let me get the packet.

The first piece of paperwork is the standard NDA. This just ensures that proprietary ideas, thoughts, sights or funny quips aren’t released into the public domain prematurely. Read and initial there. Recording devices are prohibited. Initial there. Then sign and date on the bottom. And today is November 17th.

The second form simply states that you are here on your own free will. You were not coerced nor under duress. You can leave my mind at any moment. Sign and date on the bottom. I’ll need to get a thumb print next to your signature. Yes, a thumb print. Either one, doesn’t matter. It’s verifying you are who you say you are. Paper towels to wipe off the ink are on your right.

This third form is if you decide to stay for an extended period, you can do so rent-free. Yes, as long as you want. Oh, you’d be surprised at how many people come here with the intention of “just looking around” but end up hanging out for many months. Some even years. Don’t worry, with only using 10% of my brain, there is enough space to accommodate all long-term visitors. Between you and me, and I’ll deny I ever said this, Code Enforcement has never shown up, so the OSHA mandated maximum capacity rating is totally ignored. I’ll also need emergency contact information.

And here’s the last piece of paper. This is the Trigger Warning rider. It’s a generic, encompassing declaration because I don’t know what will upset people these days. Fairly straightforward. It absolves me from any civil litigation involving self-imposed, implied trauma you allegedly suffered as the result of being exposed to the inner workings of my brain or getting an answer that was contrary to what you wanted to hear. Okay, sign. And perfect.

Now about the amenities. No smoking or vaping in the facility. For your convenience, bathrooms are handicapped accessible and located throughout my mind. Restrooms were installed in response to all the people dumping on me. Part of life, I guess. Please refrain from putting feminine products in the toilets. Use the small trashcan under the vanity. The hand soaps are free of lye to prevent dermatitis. Breath mints get replaced daily.

If you come across panhandlers, don’t give them money. They’re a scam. As for those voices echoing throughout the venue, I know it’s easier said than done but ignore their negative commentary. Neither are sanctioned by my brain’s governing body and steps are being taken to remove both from the premises.

Please don’t touch the displays or rearrange anything to make it more to your liking. Remember: You break it, you buy it.

The gift shop closes at 4:00 p.m. sharp.

I’d appreciate it if you completed a short survey regarding your experience with the telepathic transportation machine developed by Dr. Jackson J. Youngblood which got you here today. This ground-breaking invention has literally opened minds. As with all modern technology, the potential for beneficial upgrades increases with input from actual users. Although I haven’t ridden in it yet, I’ve heard good things about the Youngblood Individual Knowledge Exchanging System (Y.I.K.E.S.) that people take to enter the minds of others.

Anyway, enough of this chitchat. Let’s get you started. The layout of my brain is similar to a bicycle wheel. We are in the central hub with the spokes radiating towards an outer walkway. Unlike a corn maze, there are no dead ends as every path leads back to this starting location. Please disregard the clutter scattered about. I used to do housecleaning on a regular basis. But over time, the slow accumulation compounded. After decades, my attempt at “shabby chic” now looks like an episode from Hoarders.

Each spoke has a specific theme. I’ve satiated my somewhat OCD tendencies with the spokes’ themes matching their identifying letters. Spoke A behind me focuses on Anamnesis. This starts with recent adulthood memories and proceeds back through my childhood, highlighting the associated growing pangs. There are separate kiosks for family, friends and miscellaneous recollections. Spoke B is Bravery. Not much to see here. I am proud of the quality, not the quantity on display. C’s theme is Crazy Ideas that never came to fruition while D covers Desires. Some content is repeated between C and D. Rest assured, exhibits in D are not morally compromising, but still NSFW.

E is all about Education gained from formal institutions and real-life occurrences. F showcases Failures, including setbacks and overall humiliation. Allow extra time to peruse Spoke F as there’s a lot to see here. G houses all things Glorious, whether secular or sacred. H is for Humor. This is a subjective spoke. I presents Information gathered over the years that is totally frivolous. It’s a catch-all vacuum. I don’t know why I can’t part with this information. Everything in Spoke I should be purged.

So, enjoy my brain. It’s not a bad place to spend the afternoon. I hang out here as much as possible. Before I forget, the tram back to the departure pad runs on the top of every hour. If you leave your contact information upon exiting, maybe I can Y.I.K.E.S. on over to your mind to compare content. I’m sure we have a lot in common.

I was there the day you died

And between the torn curtain

Shouted back defiant light

My tears slipstream balm

Murdering devils

And briar clawed chokeholds

In a defiant grapple

For your soul’s return.

Twain, an art

sees a void

(the grey space 'mist)

betwixt living souls

Twain, persons

write averse

(as poetic prose)

Twain, a rite

plays with words

(common err's)

Twain must know

what results

(what dost result)

All I have left are ghosts.

The ghost of my marriage

Anniversary mid October,

the ghost of my dad

died early November,

the ghost of my family

haunting the holidays,

and now the ghost of you

haunting my birthday

December 3

the last day I saw you.

Now everything

is just growing old and dying.

What I wouldn’t give

for one more hint of life,

one more hint of youth,

one more night with you.

you may think

you're getting away with it

words generated by ai

posting them as your own

but once busted

you can't be trusted

edit that shit all you want

it still stinks of ai

like that lingering funk

after sprayed by a skunk

tweak and reformat

it's still fuckin' junk

so pants on fire you

you disgusting flunk

you smarmy scheister

you plastic punk

11/16/2024

An invasion of little

demons in the form

of ordinary peoples

Brushes with consequences

the dying brown soil

they single handedly turned

In the mind like worms

thoughts internal churn

a cranial terrarium

The decomposing body

holds in, a moment,

very shortly after birth

2024 NOV 16

1999: the year my country fell. You can still find it standing, just barely, hobbling along on one leg as serpents nip at its heels. But that's the year everything changed.

Venezuela was a proud country, a rich country, even. My people had grown fat off the rich oil reserves nestled deep underground, had thrived as the epicenter of Latin American media. As with most periods of boundless prosperity, there's always something lurking in the shadows, ready to snuff out its light. There's always someone waiting in the wings for their chance to leech off the power and wealth my country once laid claim to.

No one ever really predicts that their home country will fall. Not just a simple tumble, either, but a chaotic descent into a black pit with vipers squirming around in the darkness below. My people are dying of hunger while up to their necks in the thick tar that once fed them, slowly drowning as it fills their mouths. How can a nation fall into such extreme poverty while sitting on such rich reserves of liquid gold? The answer: greed. Egomaniacs just have to come and ruin everything.

First they brought their promises: promises of growth, of wealth, that all those hungry mouths piled high in the slums of Petare would pull themselves out of poverty if they just elected one man. The populist. The common man. The thief. They donned their red shirts and tagged buildings with political slogans. They campaigned for a man who pledged to take all their worries away if we just handed him a little bit of power. Just a little, to start. That's all he needed, right?

He got his picture taken with the poor farmers in their shantytowns, shook their hands, told them to their faces that things would all be different. I guess he was right about that. Things were never the same once he entered office.

Everything comes at a price. Venezuela was sold to the highest bidder and ransacked until all that remained was hyperinflation and nationalized industries. The landscape slowly changed as the buildings came down. Companies started leaving the country, fleeing behind the first wave of migration.

1999. The year the first wave of Venezuelans first left in search of new homes. Among them, a young couple with a toddler in tow. She was too young then to understand why she had to leave the rest of her family behind, to understand why she had to go to a new school where everyone spoke a strange language she had only started to pick up from international television shows. The kids made fun of her for the rice and beans in her lunchbox. She never did like peanut butter.

As the years passed, the infrastructure back home slowly crumbled. The earth reclaimed power lines, growing thick tangles of vines around the aging equipment. Turquoise waves once lapped at clean, white-powder shores. Now waves of blackouts ran through the country several times per week, sometimes even per day.

The years brought more waves of migration out of the country. Some were more welcoming than others. Some could not possibly understand what it was like to have to start over in a strange land with a strange language, trying every day to forget that they might not ever see home again. As long as I was the "right" skin color, they could pick and choose when to conveniently forget that I was different. But god, they didn't let me forget it when it supported their narrative. Some would look at me like a specimen on a glass slide, marveling at my lack of a pesky accent.

Most of my family is scattered across the globe now. I guess I should be grateful at that fact. At least they're not stuck back home under the thumb of an oppressive regime. But I can't help but think of spending holidays at my grandpa's ranch, collecting eggs from the chicken coop in the morning and climbing up to pick avocados from the tree. We'll never be in one place again. We're doomed to live out the rest of our lives thousands of miles apart.

When things get just a smidge safer, we're able to lower our defenses and visit home once more. It's bittersweet, knowing we can never stay and knowing we'll always leave someone behind. But these times are few and far between as crime continues to take hold of my country. Narco-terrorists rule the land, kidnapping people when it conveniences them. You can't wear brand-name clothes or visible jewelry or it'll be ripped off your neck in the street. You can't pull out your phone at a traffic light, or a motorcycle will drive up and take it from your hands at gunpoint.

What hurts to see is that so many Venezuelans still walk around with their red hats adorned with eight stars of the new flag. When Chavez came in, he changed the Constitution like it was a page in his scrapbook. He added an eighth star to the flag without explanation. My family believes it was meant to represent him. A terrible stain on the nation for the end of time. He's long gone now, but his circle remains in power. The corrupt line continues to pass down governance and an ever-increasing wealth built off the broken backs of my people.

I should be thankful that my parents had the good sense to see Chavez for who—or what—he really was twenty-five years ago. And I am, up to a point. But it's clouded by my resentment for the Venezuela that could have been. The Venezuela that should be today. My country was pillaged and stripped down to its bones, leaving death and destruction in its wake.

It's easy for us now in the first world to put this worst case scenario out of our minds. We're separated by oceans and years from the worst of it. It could never happen here, right? We grow complacent. We plug our ears and cover our eyes to avoid seeing those raiding the national coffers for their own benefit. We think it's just something that happens to other people. I hope to god they're right. Because I can't do this all over again.

Sit down and shut up

Do not doubt anything

Proceed exactly as you’re told

For we control everything

The government values obedience

Conform without question

Stay in lockstep with society

There’s no freedom of expression

Change starts with self awareness

Defy the foundations of normality

Begin to think and act for yourself

Be free to create your own reality

The rulers demand ideological compliance

But self awareness occurs from cultivated thought

We need to stay sovereign amongst the chaos

Or the fight to be free will be for naught

The sun is a splintered arrow

Lead heavy

Piercing the outmost parts

Eclipsed by wayward dark

And I relent

As my bone scraped frame

Wearies

That this slyly pusillanimous town

Desires to eat me up

For hate pants in want of company

And I say

Leave me be

You prison of flesh and dreams

I’ve rung the toll bell’s toothache heart

That I might bond outward

Where I belong

Far from the miserly lot

And closer to an umbrella of refuge

Spirited to shield my collapsed autistic brain matter stew

Off the headstone parish

And into oblivion’s sinkhole hope

It's a strange impression

Persistence of Memory

makes...

a theme so grande

one would think

it should be

painted across

the ceiling

walls and

floors

even,

but actually

it's very small

not tiny,

just enough

to humor

the cynicism

of the title.

11.15.2024

Pencils don't bend challenge @Last