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. 

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Bones splinter. That's a fact. The older you are, the more likely it is. You ever seen a chicken bone splinter? It's a lot like that but it's inside your body. You can hear the snap. You can feel the hot fire. You are overwhelmed by the body's warning system going haywire. 

Wounds heal, but they leave a mark. You can collect them. Myself, I am a patchwork of scars and badly mended bone. I am held together with duct tape. A strong breeze might scatter what remains of me. 

Inflicting wounds is a different story. I've done it. I've been there. I think I felt worse than the wounded. My words can be fierce, but, inside, there is a scared kid who never figured out how to stop being scared all the time. He just wants everyone to be happy and to stop yelling.

Some people can rationalize themselves the hero in every situation. I assign myself the villain role. Even when it is not my fault - even when I'm right. I was programmed to manage my emotions with guilt and shame. It has proven to be hard to shake off. 

I wound myself. That's the saddest part. So many of my wounds have been self-inflicted. I always feel like being punished. I have taken stupid chances. I have dared death to take me, and I have been to the precipice. Believe me. I've been one wrong step, one wrong swallow, and one scraped footpeg away from it. I'm not afraid of it. 

I have that going for me. 

It has gotten complicated though. I'm old now, and I don't like to be hurt. I don't like to wake up remembering all the dumb shit I did. All the times I treated my body like it was indestructible. I'm waiting for the other shoe to drop, always. Gotta be some cancer in there somewhere. Or some kind of internal damage that is waiting for an opportune moment. I'd go the doctor and find out, but I have medical insurance through my job, so I can't afford any tests that would reveal anything. The insurance is just for show.

Maybe that's the worst part. I don't like surprises, and I know a big one is waiting just around the corner. When it happens, I hope my family can move on with hope and love. I hope the medical insurance company burns to the ground, too. But mostly, I worry about my wife and kids.

I deserve to suffer for my sins. 

They don't.

2 Minutes. Go!

Some surprises suck. Some surprises snatch your wind, weaken your resolve, or fill you with a thick paranoia. There are also good surprises, but we tend to forget those. I can show you the scars from the bad surprises if you're interested. Some of them are on my skin; some of them are internal.

I've had a few surprises that almost killed me. Either because they were dangerous or because they knocked me so far off my footing that I almost fell all the way down. The scars from those are bright purple, and they throb when my heart beats. 

I can't stand duplicity. Don't kiss my ass while you give me bad news. That's just to make you feel better. Don't try to take the sting out for yourself. I want us both to feel it. That's only fair. 

Saying it's your job don't make it right. Just ask Luke. 

If this is my tragedy, let it be mine. Find your own. Or wait until someone surprises you with it. 

2 Minutes. Go!

It starts with heat. The feeling is tight and hard. It has sharp edges. It doesn't feel good, but it tries to convince you that it does. I don't know if it's universal. I'm just me, and that's all I can be. I am speaking from my frame of reference. Maybe it makes you feel cold. Maybe you feel it all the time. If so, I pity you.

It's poisonous, and it can hurt you worse than you can imagine. 

You have to vent. You have to let it out in little pieces. Otherwise, it will grow. It expands so rapidly. It reproduces itself inside you. You are now a breeding ground. You are a host, and, eventually, it will kill you. It takes a long, long time. 

If you can avoid it altogether, then good for you. Good for you and Mr. Rogers, maybe. Most of us are all too human, with human weaknesses and emotions that poison us from the inside. Mr. Rogers wouldn't like my neighborhood. 

Once in a blue moon, the feeling is washed away completely, but it creeps back in eventually. For me, at least. 

That's how it works in my neighborhood. 

2 Minutes. Go!

They said it would never happen to you, and you believed them. That’s a shame. Critical thinking skills matter. You gotta be able to do your own sniff test. That’s part of life. Problem is, some people don’t. Some people can’t. Some people need to be led to every thought they have. Some people just really need a daddy to tell them how to think, feel, react - or they think they do.

I’m not a perfect person, but I've never trusted what I was told without thinking about it. Still don’t. I live in a country where the Tuskegee Syphilis Experiment happened. I live in a country where bison were exterminated. Because meat. Because hides. But also because it fucked with indigenous people and their ability to live autonomously. All those things can be true at the same time. And you don’t have to take my word for it. Think about it. It fits a pattern. Decide for yourself. 

I’m not looking for disciples. Never have been. I hate it when people kiss my ass or accept what I say at face value. That shows lack of engagement. That shows apathy. That shows a craving for simplicity, and I know that life is not simple - only simple people think it is. 

One of the reasons that punk rock meant so much to me as a young man was that it was a community full of people questioning everything, rebelling against any authority that was strictly for authority’s sake. That shit was church for me, finally surrounded by people who thought like me. 

So, maybe it’s hard sometimes, but it is the only thing that can save you. Unless you want to be spoon fed. If that’s the case, there are plenty of people out there with spoons and questionable intentions. 

Open your mouth as wide as you can. Try to ignore the taste.