Trip Her

Why not trip him? Because the world doesn’t persecute intelligent men. Intelligent men are simply persecuted in a family setting, not on a societal scale.

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I have learned, from dubious experience, (dubious being a universal description or rather an attitude toward the experience of..well, experience) that to avoid extreme mental fatigue and emotional pain avoid intelligence.  There is not much hope for you if you are intelligent already.  I’m afraid you must simply live your life out and take the mistake up with God when you meet Him.  But if someone you know is near the brink, the precipice, the mountain top of intelligence, trip her.

Why not trip him?  Because the world doesn’t persecute intelligent men.  Intelligent men are simply persecuted in a family setting, not on a societal scale.

Shut up.

Once a woman is tripped and looking confused and perhaps a little bloodied try and reason with her.  Maybe she is not physically attractive in the modern sense.  Perhaps she is older and has decided to be a “late bloomer.”  Stop her.

Explain to her that intelligence will only bring her grief.  You need not explain to her how if she has not actually accrued intelligence or if she is at the cusp of understanding, there is time to push her back into the womb of self-absorption.  Tell her to take a long hard look at her constituents in the pursuit of marriage, relationship and exquisite mind melding sex.  Don’t tell her those goals will never happen just tell her the pursuit of romantic love will be less harrowing than the pursuit of intelligence.

Are these lies?

Shut up.

Tell the woman you are trying to save, that she must trust someone and to trust you.  Intelligence is a never-ending pursuit and it will only, in the end, frustrate and demoralize.  Whereas on the other hand, the pursuit of relationship will frustrate and demoralize but she will have a better body (due to her pursuit of just the right partner) and she will have the indulgence of self-deception when explaining to a bleary-eyed intelligent woman how happy and content she herself is in her safe and happy relationship.  Will it be a lie?

Yes, but the bottom line is not to have love or even have intelligence but to outdo the other woman.  That’s what women want.  Not to be happy, content or intelligent but to be better than the next woman.

Think about it.  A group of women around some table in a restaurant, complaining about the job, the husband the kids and trying to outdo each other.  Then in walks a 20 something knock-out that they wouldn’t notice if the men in the room didn’t stop and gaze with wonder and awe.  Nothing, and I mean nothing unites women faster than an outsider beauty.  The only one who would throw this unity out the window is the intelligent woman.  The woman who would calmly state that the beauty can’t help she’s beautiful, that each one of them had their opportunity, and that they are all in different stages in their lives – give the girl a break.

See?  Intelligent.

And lonely.

 

He Waits For Me There

I walk the stone steps alone. The pillars attend me,

the stars my veil,

I walk the stone steps alone.  The pillars attend me,

the stars my veil,

the blackened night sky domes the ancient stone cathedral.

He waits for me there, I feel his presence upon the dais of the altar.

The dress I made myself, feels as if it will lift from my body.

He said, make the dress white with gold cuffs and hem a jewel of red at the neck.

I stand upon the old cathedral patio,

stones tumbled down ages ago

but no matter,

the opening is vast and the stone pews though all askew still leaves a path.

I feel him before me.

The debris of leaves and growing weeds between the flagstones,

the moon shines my direction pointing to the alter

a single candle there and the presence of another.

I pause and spread my hands against my midriff

feeling myself breathe; ragged, frightened, unready.

I step across the threshold and hear the murmur of a crowd long dead

a hushed whisper of those who see me and wonder at the centuries it takes to fulfill a promise.

A step further in and the stars seem to lower and the darkness heightens outside upon freedom.

The silver light fills the windows with the night’s own silver and opaque mullioned windows.

The ruin illuminates the long ago history and my escape and recapture.

One step up to the alter,

I lift the hem of my dress, heavy now in my weakened hands

I place my foot on the altar step,

his hand, his hand alone, from the darkness, appears.

My throat constricts.

to take the hand from the darkness just emerged; fills me with dread.

The audience long dead and long waiting pauses in a useless breath,

they wait for me to reach my hand to him.

My skin upon his gray pallor.

His dark visage emerges from the gloom,

a smile triumphant and the light from the one candle fills the cathedral room.

And I am there his triumph, my life.

And gone from the world of freedom.

– See more at: https://scriggler.com/DetailPost/Poetry/53367#sthash.eUwWWvqB.dpuf

Black and Thin

Swift it flows, black and thin

Sharp the glint.

The moon hangs low and brilliant,

illuminating

silhouettes — brightening the night.

I’ll see her shadow dance

I’ll narrow in upon

the heart he loves.

She dances in love, she raises her arms

to the Above.

I’ll pierce her shadow

and so pierce him.

I’ll salt-tear my face, bite my lip, taste

the blood at the anguish of this night

So pierced, my friends.

Deep in my throat, I taste the iron of hate.

Deep in my heart I know the waste.

And yet swift it flows, black and thin

This river within, this torrent of hate

for both of them.

And when the deed is done, the small kingdom

Of two taken to one

I’ll return to my white and silver throne

I’ll return to praises and music,

no one knows

the black and thin deeds I’ve done.

 

Good

She didn’t realize until she was older that she was mistaken. I’ll cut to the chase, I won’t beat around the bush here but in the summation of her misconception is the story. She realized that the all-encompassing way of life her parents taught her to embrace; the idea of being a decent human being, to accept people and circumstances the way they are, to not pass judgment unless it was a civic duty and to never swerve the car she was driving to deliberately hit a ground hog were, in short, diabolical.

She didn’t realize until she was older that she was mistaken.  I’ll cut to the chase, I won’t beat around the bush here but in the summation of her misconception is the story.  She realized that the all-encompassing way of life her parents taught her to embrace; the idea of being a decent human being, to accept people and circumstances the way they are, to not pass judgment unless it was a civic duty and to never swerve the car she was driving to deliberately hit a ground hog were, in short, diabolical.  The ideas mentioned were diabolical because on the surface they can be summed up as “good,” but to accomplish them left life just that thin as finding a surface with nothing beneath it.

Her soul, her psyche, her intuition screamed out against her very strong mind.  Her soul, her psyche her intuition were parts of her that knew better but were refused voice by her mind.  Her mind was so sharpened by her parents as to be on guard against insidious attacks made by those parts of her she was told to distrust.

Are there those who grow old and die and say during that process that their parents may be wrong but never waver from the path they were set upon?

Well, she was that close.  No, she had no experience other than reading in which to understand that the narrowing down of the flat surface of “good,” or “goodness,” or even that dreaded apparition, “being good,” meant, in reality, a deep pool of cool gloom.  Good alone was simply drowning.

She had read a passage from an author (an old dusty prophet long dead) whom her parents would certainly have thought from the pedantic, judgmental and self-righteous camp and got the idea that if she stopped the flattening out of “good,” she may find something interesting.

But alas where to start?  How could she focus on a point of interest when from her lofty place in life all seemed flat.  Please do not come under the impression that flat is in anyway synonymous to boring.  Her life was not boring.  She was actually quite busy in flattening out the rest of the world and smiling blithely over the serene faces that she left in her wake. Can’t you see them, those relieved of their beliefs, those no longer worried about their convictions because from a distance the bumps, cliffs, peaks, and the deep look flat.

Live and let live.  Wrong could be right for your neighbor.  What harm is there?

There is a power skimming over the water.  Imagine the leathery wings of a dragon or the feathers of a great eagle, extended as far as possible and just inches from the water.  The power of the glide, the mist of cool water and the idea that nothing, absolutely nothing is beneath that inch of calm water.  Where does the eagle grab his prey and where does the dragon plunge to explore the depths of ancient cities and creatures?

Yes, of course, metaphors to her because this world is worth preserving.

 

Cnaejna’s Song

Come with me to the skylines of Chicago, New York, London.

I am rejected by God for good reason but come with me.

 

See the steeple, pierced deep and dimpled down between the

Steel and glass scrapers of the sky that are dark now like me.

 

Take my hand and feel the ice cold sorrow of what life is for me

I’ll allow you to think that you can save me.

 

I’ve seen so many years, so many attempts at power and vindictiveness.

I didn’t relinquish my hope of heaven for any of these.

 

Violence and its shock do not soften by its frequency -not for me.

Is that why you can pity me?

 

My motive was to live.  My motive is to feel.  My desire is now.

Listen to my siren voice if reason cannot defeat fear.

 

She did shine like a star even as a child.  Her green eyes glowed and her

Red hair was brilliant like the sun and the mist could not defeat her.

 

I summoned her like all young girls that had potential to survive the

Long years of life and the idea of hell in the end.

 

But she loved. She loved impossibly and I knew but he did not until

The end.

 

Such girls are wasted on men, wasted on love.  I was her escape to leave

Pain, gain knowledge and learn a wandering, wailing peace.

 

Come with me to the skyline of London, the dark murky shadows and

Man’s pitiful attempts at lighted darkness.

 

Come with me to set her free or to end me.  For she has chosen

Her enemy in me; neither of us beautiful, neither seeking peace.

 

Come with me to feel the vibrations of life’s power on which I feed.

 

Pigs, Acorns and Blue Neckties

“We are the mighty pig herd held captive by inert acorns,”

“We are the mighty pig herd held captive by inert acorns,”

“I hate when you take on the epic like voice.  You sound like a 1940s-silver screen flop.”

“We grunt and we rumble but we are hindered by our own…our own…what?”

“Could you be serious, we have about three minutes before all the guys in silk, blue, ties are in here.”

“We grunt and we rumble and we are hindered by our own want to snuffle.  How’s that?”

“Sickening.”

“We’re going to get fired you know that.”

“Well yes, if you decide to tell them that we are pigs held hostage…”

“Captive, get it straight, I said captive.”

“Okay, captive.  If you tell them we are pigs held captive by acorns that’s pretty much a shoe in for a firing.”

“How in debt are you?”

“Well, there are still the student loans.”

“You’ve been out for six years.”

“College is like a mortgage.”

“College is an acorn.”

“Well, I just broke my ankle on it.”

“Listen, this is not our fault.”

“No, it is my fault.  I should have stayed in Indiana, bought those 15 acres down the road from my Mom and Dad, married and made something of that coffee shop down on the main street.”

“You can still do that.”

“I told everyone I’d be a VP in human resources in this mega corporation.”

“But it’s a classic, a classic 1940s silver screen flop.  You go off a cocky, arrogant know-it-all and come back a humble but more likable gentleman farmer and weirdo bohemian coffee coinsurer.  Indiana would love that and you can marry me.”

“I’m not a homosexual Gary, I’m not going to marry you.”

“But what will you do without me?”

“Stop being called a pig for one thing.”

“Ah, here they come.  Oh, my, you’re right.”

“About what?”

“They all have some shade of blue necktie on.  That’s bad, that’s very bad.  That means they’ve read the benefit’s package we’ve put together.  They have actual knowledge.”

“Gary, that’s why we sent them the report.”

“Yes, but that means we won’t even get to stay for the coffee break.  There’s usually a coffee break in this meeting, good coffee breaks and that was my one consolation to getting fired today.”

“Well if I can scrape enough money together maybe they’ll let me come back next year as the coffee vendor.”

“Hey, I hadn’t thought of that – truly.  Now there is an idea.  See we can still stay together.  I’ll be your PR and benefits guy.  You can snuffle around for money and real-estate.”

“Well, the only options for two idiot guys who tell their upper management team that the Great Society, is dead and employee accountability needs to resurface in the company will probably not only be receiving pink slips today but also have to face the long lonely world of self-employment.”

“Fifteen acres and a coffee shop huh?”

“Yup.”

“Well, here’s to crushed acorns.”

“Skinny pigs.”

“And no neckties.”

 

BLINK

He looked at me with hate and disdain but with the sure notion that he was on top, untouchable. I felt for him, I did because even as I sat there I pictured him being hit by a bus or a meteorite connecting with his skull. No, I wasn’t wishing wistfully, I just knew that people who reveled in their perceived high places, tumbled down off their self-made pedestals suddenly and violently.

“You are a tiresome little man.”

He looked at me with hate and disdain but with the sure notion that he was on top, untouchable.  I felt for him, I did because even as I sat there I pictured him being hit by a bus or a meteorite connecting with his skull.  No, I wasn’t wishing wistfully, I just knew that people who reveled in their perceived high places, tumbled down off their self-made pedestals suddenly and violently.

When I was sixteen I was beautiful.  I went to a small high school in Washington state.  I was on the cheerleading squad and had not failed in being elected to the pageantry of homecoming.  I was asked out by different guys on the football team, basketball team and baseball team.  I had a summer job at my uncle’s little ice cream parlor and I raked in the tips during the summer months, cleaning tables and talking to the tourists.

While being raped one summer evening at the age of 16, the idea went through my head that I had been nice to all who knew me in a condescending sort of way.  As the air left my lungs while he flung me around like a rag doll, I had small visions of myself unaware that I was predictable, unimaginative, safe for people who wanted no personal challenges.

I felt the pain of being hit, slapped, choked and eventually violated in a way that made me wonder at the man’s rage, over someone like me.  His anger toward me was pathetic, deplorable, despicable and criminal.  I was also terrified, cold, in enormous pain and for the first time inarticulate outside the sobs and cries I uttered while going through my ordeal.

I saw in his face the power he felt in his strength and his ability to cause me pain.  I saw too that he felt himself untouchable.  When the switch blade bloomed out of his throat in a surprisingly clean and gleaming silver I could only look at it in a senseless stupor.  The man who had caused me such pain and humiliation had a look of dumb blankness on his face, then terror.  When his blood started to pulse out of his mouth to the beat of his heart I had sense enough to squirm out beneath him.

To this day, I do not know who killed him.  The police asked if I had done it, just to say they did their job I’m sure.

The recovery was long because no one believed me when I said I wasn’t afraid; the dark didn’t disturb me nor did strange men.  I went back to working at my uncle’s ice cream parlor the next year but I stopped cheerleading and did not accept the homecoming honors; the idea seemed somehow too small, too narrow in scope.

“You really are tiresome.”

“You need three forms of identity and three letters that are addressed to your house, they cannot be personal letters.”

“I lost my driver’s license, I didn’t commit a crime.”

“Those are the rules, and I’ll thank you for not insulting me.”

“Are these rules implemented to protect me or to protect little Nazis like you.”

“Next!  Number 312, please.”

His voice was high and strident and I knew that I had been dismissed.  A shadow, a low thundering movement that chilled my back seemed to brighten the air like lightening in the stagnate room, which housed the bureau of motor vehicles.

“Don’t kill him,” I whispered under my breath.

The little man behind the counter refused to look my way but blinked and peered for number 312.