2 Minutes. Go!

I'm just taking care of business. I've got the patent, and I won't stand idly by and watch you make the same mistakes over and over. Have you been taking your B vitamins? Have you been doing your sun salutations? Have you taken a moment today to bond with your gratitude today?

There are some things that Apple Cider Vinegar won't fix, and you don't want them. It's about your chakras. It's magnetic. Your mood is controlled by the moon. Your menstrual cycles are communion. Blood of my blood. 

Flesh of my flesh.

Open a vein and let your life force flow into their waiting mouths. They are thirsty. Thirsting. They are dying to be immortal. They will sacrifice anything. Compromise is their poison.

This is capitalism. Like it or not, this is the only way we can be free. The billionaires are looking out for everybody. Just not monetarily. They're looking after a future us that doesn't exist and probably never will. 

Check your copyright. Make sure everything is on the up and up. Throw some raw meat to the lawyers and enjoy your American Dream. Bitter like coffee. 

No cream.

2 Minutes. Go!

It's OK, baby, I'm just a little bit slow. A little bit tired. I've been traveling for lifetimes, and my sense of comportment deported back near the wreck of the first MUSKROCKET. This was before the chlorine clouds thinned the herd out. Before the ocean turned to salt wash. Before the birds stopped flying and started living in holes.

I know you had a long day, honey. I did, too. My body is damn near shook apart trying to keep up with the augments. This new titanium and NUflesh exoskeleton will be the death of me. 

Baby, relax. We aren't here to talk about genitals. Here, plug in. You know you'll feel better after you're plugged in. There's too much static in your head because you're trying to go against the system, the way. You're taking their happyfeel and shoving it right back in their faces. They won't like it. 

I won't be here when they come. When they bring the erasers and the reProgs. I'll be halfway to Mars, baby. You won't stand a chance. 

Now, just relax. It's time to feel good. 

You like feeling good, don't you?

Good.

2 Minutes. Go!

I'm torn between feelings of love and feelings of anger. The anger is for a man, like many men, who couldn't control himself. The love is for the woman who was betrayed. Bruises hurt, but some wounds last forever. I know this. I have seen this. I have damn near lived this. The bruises you see are just the tip of the iceberg.

My Aunt Linda was a stronger woman than her time was willing to accept. She was an RN, a supporter of her whole community. She was the one people called when they needed someone. She was also a woman who suffered violence at home when she first tried to make a life for herself. 

It's hard to understand how a strong woman could "let herself" (dangerous words, these) be abused. My Aunt would have been the first person to rescue a friend in her situation. It was harder for her to rescue herself for the very same reason everyone loved her. She was so full of compassion that she didn't give up on people. She gave people second and third chances. Maybe some women would have left the first time, but I can see my Aunt excusing it once, trying to fix it for a while, hating that it happened with all her heart, before finally coming to the realization that she had been duped. 

It might have taken a notch out of her strength for a time, but she only got stronger in the end, and it never made her mean. She raised her abuser's kid with love and understanding. She didn't even talk him down.

The best, most compassionate people in the world are loved and hated, worshipped and betrayed. Those of us (not me!) that love the most purely will also have to write off the biggest transgressions. It is not fair. Like I said, though, not me. Hit me once, and we're done. I've been that way my whole life. 

I'm also not beloved by the whole community. I'm no martyr, and no one says my name when asked to name the most generous person they know, the most loving. I'm alright, but I'm too cynical and mad to have the kind of open heart that you need to love the hard and ugly people. 

So, I sit here, torn between anger and love. Should I be seeking violent retribution? Should I be softly in the background? Should I let the love win? Or the anger? Seeing as how anger is what brought us to this point, I think I will choose love. For me, this does not mean forgiveness. And that's fucked up. But I can love someone while hating the person who hurt them. I've been doing it my whole life.

So, that's what I'll do. 

It will have to do. 

2 Minutes. Go!

The old man sat staring at the baby ducks, and it was like the rest of the world didn't exist. The man was locked in. His mouth hung open a little, but his eyes were his most arresting feature. He was looking at the ducklings like they were the face of God. There was some wonderment in the ducklings that I could not see, but I was intrigued. I lit a cigarette and watched the man watching the tiny fluffs of down that were following a big, tired-looking mama duck. 

Man staring at ducks. Me staring at man. (Just making sure you're with me.)

I wasn't smart enough to realize that there would also be someone staring at me. The man was interesting. The man fascinated by the man was...what? Also interesting? A danger? A threat? An invitation? People are free to make up their own minds, and my watcher did. He pulled a long rifle from a canvas bag, laid down on his stomach, and took careful aim. 

The sound of the shot scared the ducklings, and the ducklings terror threw the old man into a momentary panic. I was already falling. The bullet had already entered my chest and exited through a big hole in my back. I was well on my way to being dead. 

My watcher sighed. He smiled a small smile. And then he caught a sniper round through the back of his skull. We died so close to each other it was like we were brothers. And brothers watch brothers. As I died, I should have wondered who was watching the shooter of the shooter. But I had a lot on my mind. It takes concentration to die.

They say your whole life flashes before you. That's not true. Me, I died wondering what the fuck had happened. Same thing will probably happen to you. 

You'll be dead before you know what hit you.

2 Minutes. Go!

The taste is in the back of your throat, but you're used to it, and it doesn't alarm you. In fact, it is enticing. There is a fine line between sweetness and sickness. Sometimes straddling that line is easy, but most of the time it is like slack-lining. It requires impeccable balance and a locked inward gaze. 

There is terror in your eyes, but that look is always there. It is the look of an animal that has never known love. The eyes are quick and darting. You give off the energy of predator and prey. You are dual-sided. There are two wolves inside you...however you want to think about it, wrap your mind around the strange dichotomies. They keep life interesting. 

Climb to the top of the hill, grabbing bramble bushes for security. Stand at the top and let the wind wash you clean and carries your unclean bits away, to float over the city, adding to the cosmic pull. We are organic. You are organic. You are part of a bigger mess than you can ever comprehend. 

Throw the whole mess in the fire. Fire cleanses, too. Fire is the great equalizer. You learn to live with it, or you die. Being human is tricky business. Fire is just part of it. 

If you can't make it make sense, there are buildings downtown that no one could survive a fall from. You can go to one of those buildings. Or a bridge. There are many places you can say goodbye. You just need to pick one. 

Remember, it's permanent. 

2 Minutes. Go!

The finish line is an illusion. They told you it was there to keep you running long after you were tired. Long after you should have up and quit. 

Once you know it's sleight of hand, it's obvious, but you have to look at it just the right way. Most people don't. Most people insist it's still there, sometimes gold and shimmering, waiting to give them what they worked for. It's a comforting deceit, but it will always prove false.

If you stop running, people look at you like you're crazy, and it doesn't matter how logical it is to you. I was tired. This is fair. I was thirsty, hungry. This is also fair. I wanted to look at the way the light played on the sunflowers...this is when people start using labels. 

You must be a commie liberal. You must be a redneck reactionary. You must be a fat cat capitalist. You must be a government charity case. Hippie! You must always be the one to suffer two dimensionally, because two dimensions are all you can take in with a two-second, surface-level glance. 

Who's got your six when all you have is two's. Even without your propaganda glasses on... 

They're going to move the finish line until they are done with you, and then they will tell you that the finish line was only an idea. An ideal. Or it was there, but you didn't work hard enough. You didn't sacrifice enough. You were a bad cog. Bad cogs don't get rewards. 

As a consolation, there is one finish line that never changes, but most people don't recognize it when they get there. And by the time they are past it, they have ceased to recognize anything at all. 

2 Minutes. Go!

So, the president is a crook, and some of y'all are OK with that because he hates the same people you hate. He has the same paranoid delusions that you have. He has been brainwashed by the same echo chambers. Those ugly feelings you have about other people? He says those are OK. He encourages them. 

I had to get a DOJ/FBI background check to be a teacher. There are standards I must live up to if I want to maintain my credential. I can't act the fool, spew hate, or indoctrinate people. Maybe we should hold the most powerful person in the country to the same standards. 

If I did what Trump has done, I would be in jail. If Trump were black, he'd be dead. That's fucked, but look around you and tell yourself it ain't the truth. 

Ten years now. Ten years of gritted teeth and frustration, watching the ideals of the country get shoved into a Christian Nationalist blender. Ten years now thinking, "what the fuck will Trump say next?" Ten years fearing violence in our communities. Ten years hoping that people will wake up, and things will get better. 

Ten years from now, he'll be dead, and I'll be fifty years older than I was ten years ago. What can you say about Trump? He tried to be a star, but he'll end up in stripes. Sounds patriotic to me.