The Vestiges of a Lucid Dream

An alleged serial killer was swiftly swinging through ironic person-sized holes in strange mechanical structures that rotated throughout a dystopian sci-fi elevator shaft in an intricate and indistinguishable pattern.  He may have been escaping from a futuristic maximum security prison, or just practicing.  This faceless antagonist had calculated the timing so precisely that he could execute this feat with ease, while others would have surely died trying.  His astounding agility and intelligence were clearly apparent.  Another scene involved the killer planning his attacks - surveying various empty houses and other buildings.  Suddenly, first person perspective was implemented, which meant I had become the killer.  Soon enough, I had the profound realization that I was innocent - that I was actually in my bed, dreaming in REM sleep.  This came as quite a relief, as I hid behind a TV, wondering if I would be able to get a few shots off without anyone seeing me.  The images in my dream began flickering, fizzling, and turning to static.  It was like the end of an ancient reel of 8 mm film, crackling as the quality ominously disintegrated.  It was the impatient pops and clicks of a needle clinging to the outer edge of a vinyl record.  I became aware that the REM stage was nearly finished, thus completing another sleep cycle.  In the distance I could hear a fan and an aquarium.  I then made the seemingly autonomous decision to depart from this nostalgic realm of fantasy and return to a warm reality, like being born again.  After all, my dreams were crumbling.  What would you have done?

Broken Body Blues

I've never been in a car accident, but this is how I imagine a victim might feel afterward.  Excessive knots ran throughout my entire back like miniature landmines, and the skin on my face had been insistently scorched by an uncompromising solar orb.  Even my scalp was unfairly and inexplicably burned, despite an ostensibly protective layer of hair.  My wrists and ankles were sore and useless, and my left shoulder was pulsing with inflammation.  So was my right forearm.  My hips and inner thighs felt as though I had narrowly escaped being drawn and quartered.  These conditions functioned as a straight-jacket, restricting my range of motion significantly.  I twisted and contorted myself, attempting another spinal adjustment, again to no avail.

Such a state of anatomical devastation had left me with additional afflictions, such as mild nausea, a complete lack of energy, and a diminished capacity to concentrate on anything beyond pain, discomfort, and frustration.  My demeanor and outlook were as cynical and pessimistic as ever.   I was frail, humble, and unmotivated.

"Whoa! You're as red as hell!" a coworker blurted out.  Evidently he was unaware that I possess both mirrors and nerves.  He was unaware that I was aware.  Either that, or he fancied himself a merchant of rhetorical statements and senseless observations.   I wanted to tell him his hair was as black as coal.

"Yeah, I got sunburned..."
 
I didn't want to be clever, or funny, or affable.  I didn't even want to be polite - I just wanted to be a ghost.  I was disoriented and half asleep.  My passion and creativity had been marginalized, in favor of a cold, apathetic gaze.  Luckily, a simple text message revived my spirits.  Damn.  Tennis is a brutal sport.

A Pleasant Distraction

Falling eyelids make time freeze
Lashes smile, a subtle breeze
Orbs at rest behind incisions
But when revealed they cause collisions

I must digress to assess
How on earth one might possess
Golden locks, legs of a goddess
A countenance so bleak and modest

And as she struts past
I find that she has
A bun in the oven
A beauty so sudden

My heart is tender, calm and coy
My mind is eager to destroy
The notion of her lips so red
Grazing mine, entwined in bed

Alas, I return from the unseen
To greet the steel of my machine
This purgatory where I work
This factory where bosses lurk

Then I remember Johnny Cash
And all the great ones from the past
Etta James and Brian Jones
Malcolm X and Al Capone

And all the books I haven't read
Every author, 'live or dead
I think of them, and I can say
My soul is fine another day

 

Haiku #2

All the crickets laugh
"A seemingly small giraffe!"
From a distant path

Haiku #1

Mao's little red book
In my glovebox, have a look!
It's my secret nook

The Benevolent Mentor

An internal battle begins
White blood cells die for my sins
An ominous crash of thunder
A torment in my chest, and under

But a cool wave makes its way inside of me
And gives my soul back to Sobriety
I was sick with a fix of childish hope
Naivety the needle, desperation the dope

Where have I been since the sun went away?
In Milwaukee, to see the Ancient of Days
A weary traveler, aged beyond his years
Yet drank more life than any of his peers

He took me in, under his wing
A weathered, feathered, leather thing
And through the skies we whirled and twirled
To see the wonders of the world

Hedonistic queens of sex
The Brontosaurus and T. Rex
Microscopic Asian germs
And enormous slimy worms

Everything in its place
Grown in time and flown through space
Turkish Bath, Barcelona Beach
I shall learn and he shall teach

Grandpa Vern is a Legend

Grandpa Vern is a legend.  He has sprinted faster than a deer, won several prestigious awards for his outstanding journalism, and once killed a deadly gorilla with his bare hands.  Or did he kill a bear with his deadly gorilla hands?  The act was conducted too quickly to tell.  In any case, Vern also served an unspecified country bravely as a Kamikaze pilot during World War II.  He has been around this world, and back.  At ninety-nine years young, Grandpa Vern is still kicking, and despite witnessing innumerable nerve-wracking sporting events, his tell tale heart is still ticking.

            Regardless of Grandpa Vern’s breathtaking history of mind-boggling accomplishments, he is really just a simple man who loves and cares for his family, his community, antique cars, and the meticulous documentation of trivial occurrences on his calendar, year after year.  But the vortex of Vern’s legacy can be found in the countless gifts, vast and subtle, that he has bestowed upon his naïve kinfolk.  Now, everyone knows that Grandpa Vern has graciously made charitable contributions to the empty pockets of his grandchildren for decades, but let’s examine the inception of this compelling tale.  First, Mr. Vernon J. Cahak gave one Sally Lindsay the gift of his hand in marriage.  After several under-the-table deals with The Stork, Vernon gave the gift of Life – three lovely children, who each stopped crying at night when given a pacifier dipped in whiskey.  Through these initially offspring, a batch of an additional 9 grandchildren later sprang forth, and so far, an additional great-grandchild has shown his bright little face.  You might think Vern had little or nothing to do with these seemingly isolated incidents of procreation, but think again.  Vern’s benevolent yet regulatory hand was guiding this process, as he kindly passed the gift of favorable genes on to each of his grandchildren. 

Yes, superior genetic makeup is but one of the many wonderful gifts Vernon has given.  These specific biological mechanisms have allowed enhanced athletic abilities, impressive writing skills, patience, understanding, eloquence, humility, a good sense of humor, or simply exhibiting symptoms of obsessive-compulsive disorder.  In rare cases, such as my own, a descendent might end up with all of said dominant traits (perhaps excluding one).  However, these genes may lay dormant, and may require the powerful presence of their almighty founder in order to be expressed.  Vern’s presence, which includes exposure to his uncanny wit and wisdom, allows several units of his deeply poetic phrases, peppered with his patented profanity, to be absorbed directly into the bloodstream.  As you may have noticed by the diction and flow of this piece of literature, I have been in Vernon’s presence quite a few times over the last 27 years.  You might also be interested to know that, because of this stalwart grandfather, I was, at one point in my career, that fastest kid in elementary school.  I went on to play on the little league all-star team, and became one of the top sprinters and long-jumpers in track and field.  Again, relating to Vernonesque genes, I kept several journals when I was a child, and I have been periodically updating a personal narrative that mainly chronicles my college experience in Milwaukee.  This Microsoft Word document is now 90 pages in length, and none of you will ever read it.

When engaging in the writing process, my aim is to entertain.  But this is a serious matter!  Grandpa Vern is the reigning patriarch – the king of this family, and he deserves some respect.  He is the best father my mom has ever had, and he is my favorite grandfather on my mom’s side of the family.  Not only that, but he is a model, an archetype for all future grandfathers around the world.  Yes, even Oriental and Colored grandfathers.  He is the quintessential grandfather.  Grandpa Vern’s stealth and cunning, though notable, are no match for the community involvement, goodwill, hard work, love, care, and kindness he exhibits on a daily basis.  Though often referred to as “Grandpa Vern”, Mr. Cahak has recently earned the prestigious title “Great Grandpa Vern”, mainly due to his evident greatness.  This Man among men has provided infinite inspiration to all of us, and we love him dearly.  Grandpa Vern is a true American hero.  In a lively chant, I must declare, “Ninety-nine more years! Ninety-nine more years!”