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Wednesday, February 20, 2008
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Category: Writing and Poetry
High Contrast--Literature of the Digital Evolution
February 19, 2008
Hello and Welcome!
Today marks the triumphant return of High Contrast--Literature of the Digital Evolution! The last year has been very hectic for me, but I am finally settled enough to begin work on this Magazine again.
There are likely to be a few changes--the first is that I will not press myself so hard to get an issue out every single day. Twice or three times a week would be a bare minimum, as I foresee, but this will vary based on the amount of submissions I recieve.
I have a tremendous backlog of submissions I have recieved over the last year--anything that was recieved before midnight on New Years, 2008, will be eligible for the 2007 Anthology. There is no definite time for the release of the Anthology, but I will post details as soon as I have them and they are concrete.
I will be spending the next few weeks trying to get back in touch with all of our past contributors and benefactors--hopefully we will all be one nice cozy family again real soon.
Anyone you know who may be interested in reading or contributing poetry, short stories and artwork to the magazine, please refer them this way!
Enjoy and as always, your comments are highly appreciated!
Michael J. Bernard 
Shredded Grain of Dignity
by jenny.g. 
seeping in and down, the clear white clouds, turn tainted brown.
pity, it was such a tragic event, all is now lost that was once found.
and these fucking hypocrites turn their heads to me, whispering words of ludicrousy.
they haunt my dreams and bind my feet and burn me with their eyes of heat.
and pelt me with their words of hate, telling me lies of lifes new fate.
this fucking world goes round and round, flinging life into the ground.
led by lives with tarnished sins, that bind us to the graves we're in.
and, one by one, perhaps we'll see, that life is now what it was never meant to be.
demon eyes, peering in, beating down on doors of sin.
righteous ones, for who they might be, are blinded by the sight they see.
this fucking world, that spins, that groans, is bitter by the life it's shown.
this fucking place, this fucking show, there's so much more than what we know.
forgiveness yeilds like quiet defeat, sullen in the lives we greet.
and this fucking world, it goes round and round, keeping sin where life is found.
Emptyness
by Heather Avila 
emptyness
sign away your life
"No" means nothing here
this pill is your ticket out
all hope lost
more pills
spinning downward
addiction
why isn't this working
fill me with lies and false hope
i eat it by the handful
i'm not happy
better off clean
or maybe just one more...
Heroine
by John Moro ![Sir Johnathon! [SP]](http://a232.ac-images.myspacecdn.com/images01/119/s_263637be8f9eb8f4fd3d2912bd7aa817.jpg)
hes been gone for hours
in the world hes made in his mind
no one can seem to reach him
to him theres nothing left
the pain is gone
his eyes in the back in his skull
his whole body is cold
consumed by the deadly fire antidote
in his thought hes on top of the world
but in reality, he sinks into a deeper hole
in his mind he is soaring through the sky
but he just lays there
motionless
speachless
solid
hes soaring until he hits a wall
a wall he can not get around
he goes back
but to find another wall as well
searching for an opening
the walls draw closer
tears run dow his eyes
the walls draw closer
he cries out form his soul
but everyhting goes black
the walls are done closing in
his body numb and cold
in his dream and in reality
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Saturday, February 10, 2007
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Category: Writing and Poetry
High Contrast--Literature of the Digital Evolution
February 10, 2007
Hello and Welcome!
Today I wanted to display two of my all-time favorite classical poems, and two essays by two of the most profoundly influential writers I have encountered up until this point.
Michael J. Bernard
http://fargoneworld.blogspot.com
THE TYGER (from Songs Of Experience)
By William Blake
Tyger! Tyger! burning bright
In the forests of the night,
What immortal hand or eye
Could frame thy fearful symmetry?
In what distant deeps or skies
Burnt the fire of thine eyes?
On what wings dare he aspire?
What the hand dare sieze the fire?
And what shoulder, & what art.
Could twist the sinews of thy heart?
And when thy heart began to beat,
What dread hand? & what dread feet?
What the hammer? what the chain?
In what furnace was thy brain?
What the anvil? what dread grasp
Dare its deadly terrors clasp?
When the stars threw down their spears,
And watered heaven with their tears,
Did he smile his work to see?
Did he who made the Lamb make thee?
Tyger! Tyger! burning bright
In the forests of the night,
What immortal hand or eye
Dare frame thy fearful symmetry?
1794
Sonnet 18
by William Shakespeare
Shall I compare thee to a summer's day?
Thou art more lovely and more temperate:
Rough winds do shake the darling buds of May,
And summer's lease hath all too short a date:
Sometime too hot the eye of heaven shines,
And often is his gold complexion dimm'd;
And every fair from fair sometime declines,
By chance or nature's changing course untrimm'd;
But thy eternal summer shall not fade
Nor lose possession of that fair thou owest;
Nor shall Death brag thou wander'st in his shade,
When in eternal lines to time thou growest:
So long as men can breathe or eyes can see,
So long lives this and this gives life to thee.
1609
Power Corrupts the Best
by Mikhail Bakunin
The State is nothing else but this domination and exploitation regularised and systemised. We shall attempt to demonstrate it by examining the consequence of the government of the masses of the people by a minority, at first as intelligent and as devoted as you like, in an ideal State, founded on a free contract.
Suppose the government to be confined only to the best citizens. At first these citizens are privileged not by right, but by fact. They have been elected by the people because they are the most intelligent, clever, wise, and courageous and devoted. Taken from the mass of the citizens, who are regarded as all equal, they do not yet form a class apart, but a group of men privileged only by nature and for that reason singled ouit for election by the people. Their number is necessarily very limited, for in all times and countries the number of men endowed with qualities so remarkable that they automatically command the unanimous respect of a nation is, as experience teaches us, very small. Therefore, under pain of making a bad choice, the people will always be forced to choose its rulers from amongst them.
Here, then, is society divided into two categories, if not yet to say two classes, of which one, composed of the immense majority of the citizens, submits freely to the government of its elected leaders, the other, formed of a small number of privileged natures, recognised and accepted as such by the people, and charged by them to govern them. Dependent on popular election, they are at first distinguished from the mass of the citizens only by the very qualities which recommended them to their choice and are naturally, the most devoted and useful of all. They do not yet assume to themselves any privilege, any particular right, except that of exercising, insofar as the people wish it, the special functions with which they have been charged. For the rest, by their manner of life, by the conditions and means of their existence, they do not separate themselves in any way from all the others, so that a perfect equality continues to reign among all. Can this equality be long maintained? We claim that it cannot and nothing is easier to prive it.
Nothing is more dangerous for man's private morality than the habit of command. The best man, the most intelligent, disinterested, generous, pure, will infallibly and always be spoiled at this trade. Two sentiments inherent in power never fail to produce this demoralisation; they are: contempt for the masses and the overestimation of one's own merits.
"The masses" a man says to himself, " recognising their incapacity to govern on their own account, have elected me their chief. By that act they have publicly proclaimed their inferiority and my superiority. Among this crowd of men, recognising hardly any equals of myself, I am alone capable of directing public affairs. The people have need of me; they cannot do without my services, while I, on the contrary, can get along all right by myself; they, therefore, must obey me for their own security, and in condescending to obey them, I am doing them a good turn.
Is there not something in all that to make a man lose his head and his heart as well, and become mad with pride? It is thus that power and the habit of command become for even the most intelligent and virtuous men, a source of aberration, both intellectual and moral.
1867
Neither Victims nor Executioners
by Albert Camus
Yes, we must raise our voices. Up to this point, I have refrained from appealing to emotion. We are being torn apart by a logic of history which we have elaborated in every detail--a net which threatens to strangle us. It is not emotion which can cut through the web of a logic which has gone to irrational lengths, but only reason which can meet logic on its own ground. But I should not want to leave the impression... that any program for the future can get along without our powers of love and indignation. I am well aware that it takes a powerful prime mover to get men into motion and that it is hard to throw one's self into a struggle whose objectives are so modest and where hope has only a rational basis-- and hardly even that. But the problem is not how to carry men away; it is essential, on the contrary, that they not be carried away but rather that they be made to understand clearly what they are doing.
To save what can be saved so as to open up some kind of future--that is the prime mover, the passion and the sacrifice that is required. It demands only that we reflect and then decide, clearly, whether humanity's lot must be made still more miserable in order to achieve far-off and shadowy ends, whether we should accept a world bristling with arms where brother kills brother; or whether, on the contrary, we should avoid bloodshed and misery as much as possible so that we give a chance for survival to later generations better equipped than we are.
For my part, I am fairly sure that I have made the choice. And, having chosen, I think that I must speak out, that I must state that I will never again be one of those, whoever they be, who compromise with murder, and that I must take the consequences of such a decision. The thing is done, and that is as far as I can go at present.... However, I want to make clear the spirit in which this article is written.
We are asked to love or to hate such and such a country and such and such a people. But some of us feel too strongly our common humanity to make such a choice. Those who really love the Russian people, in gratitude for what they have never ceased to be--that world leaven which Tolstoy and Gorky speak of--do not wish for them success in power politics, but rather want to spare them, after the ordeals of the past, a new and even more terrible bloodletting. So, too, with the American people, and with the peoples of unhappy Europe. This is the kind of elementary truth we are likely to forget amidst the furious passions of our time.
Yes, it is fear and silence and the spiritual isolation they cause that must be fought today. And it is sociability and the universal intercommunication of men that must be defended. Slavery, injustice, and lies destroy this intercourse and forbid this sociability; and so we must reject them. But these evils are today the very stuff of history, so that many consider them necessary evils. It is true that we cannot "escape history," since we are in it up to our necks. But one may propose to fight within history to preserve from history that part of man which is not its proper province. That is all I have to say here. The "point" of this article may be summed up as follows:
Modern nations are driven by powerful forces along the roads of power and domination. I will not say that these forces should be furthered or that they should be obstructed. They hardly need our help and, for the moment, they laugh at attempts to hinder them. They will, then, continue. But I will ask only this simple question: What if these forces wind up in a dead end, what if that logic of history on which so many now rely turns out to be a will o' the wisp? What if, despite two or three world wars, despite the sacrifice of several generations and a whole system of values, our grandchildren--supposing they survive-- find themselves no closer to a world society? It may well be that the survivors of such an experience will be too weak to understand their own sufferings. Since these forces are working themselves out and since it is inevitable that they continue to do so,there is no reason why some of us should not take on the job of keeping alive, through the apocalyptic historical vista that stretches before us, a modest thoughtfulness which, without pretending to solve everything, will constantly be prepared to give some human meaning to everyday life. The essential thing is that people should carefully weight the price they must pay....
All I ask is that, in the midst of a murderous world, we agree to reflect on murder and to make a choice. After that, we can distinguish those who accept the consequences of being murderers themselves or the accomplices of murderers, and those who refuse to do so with all their force and being. Since this terrible dividing line does actually exist, it will be a gain if it be clearly marked. Over the expanse of five continents throughout the coming years an endless strugle is going to be pursued between violence and friendly persuasion, a struggle in which, granted, the former has a thousand times the chances of success than that of the latter. But I have always held that, if he who bases his hopes on human nature is a fool, he who gives up in the face of circumstances is a coward. And henceforth, the only honorable course will be to stake everything on a formidable gamble: that words are more powerful than munitions.
1946
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Friday, February 09, 2007
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Category: Writing and Poetry
High Contrast--Literature of the Digital Evolution
February 9, 2007
Hello and Welcome!
My brief writing "17" was published today in Dogmatika, click Here to read it!
I encourage you to enjoy today's High Contrast--Literature of the Digital Evolution--and remember, feedback and encouragements in the Comments Section is always appreciated!
Michael J. Bernard
http://fargoneworld.blogspot.com
The Botanist's Romance
by Stephen Mead 
Everything is so bewitching,
filled with the particular light and silence
I crave most. Everything-----
a dazing blanket,
the radiance so peaceful
its softness surrounds.
At least this is the way it seems to me.
Exhilarant, gleaming and smiling,
content to myself,
I pace the clean corridors and drift
like an angel past these plant's feral rows.
As though held aqueous, under a spell,
such herbage is lush with an earthy
sensuous fragrance. It flowers thin
and incandescent as something grown
beneath a forest's emerald roof.
Of course this ceiling is slanted though,
and clearly yellow with the light
specifically designed for such greenhouses.
It can't be found anywhere else.
At first the luminosity is dense.
But gradually flowers bloom and consume it
with an ungodly racket.
Their petals smudge my eyes like ashes.
Their stamens are the nucleus
from which all living things glimmer.
At the tide's peak the moon collaborates.
Then their moisture content is at its height.
Then they are one with both sea and moon,
having nothing to do with me whatsoever.
An inferior beast, they think I use up their air.
I'm bothersome to them as the moths
their petals resemble.
Those moths pick and batter away
at the blossoms to eat the one they're most like.
I tell you, they seem jealous, as am I.
I, like the moths, am a lunar casualty
to this chaos.
Daylight comes. Again green enters.
This brilliance should be enough.
But desire remains.
Waste
by Corinna Underwood
The light spilling over the window sill
reminds me to turn over
before I see it pool in the sheets
where emptiness lies.
Each morning I am beside myself.
Shadows are newly poured
around my face and body
filling all crevices
and hardening to crust.
Afternoons only defer nightfall.
Movements are matchsticks
snapping with flintless tinderness
until I splinter.
And from these pieces
grow thornflowers for a desert.
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Thursday, February 08, 2007
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Category: Writing and Poetry
High Contrast--Literature of the Digital Evolution
February 7, 2007
Hello and Welcome!
I encourage you to enjoy today's High Contrast--Literature of the Digital Evolution--and remember, feedback and encouragements in the Comments Section is always appreciated!
Michael J. Bernard
http://fargoneworld.blogspot.com
Here Comes the Rain
by Kristen Chorba 
Here comes the rain, another storm
Another time to feel alone and torn
You hide the clouds to make the rainbow seem real
It sometimes seems you don't care if I feel
Anything at all…
How hard I always fall…
I thought that maybe this time it would last
But again it ended…you are always gone so fast.
How could I have been so wrong
To trust you all along
And think that everything was going so well
And how is it that I can never tell
That you are planning to leave
Right after I begin to believe
The tangled web of lies you've spun
And there it is; the heartbreak's begun.
You never change
You never change
Why do I always think you will?
You never change
You never change
To you I'm just some cheap thrill
That lets you talk me into these lies
You'd think that I could see it in your eyes
That all along you thought I was a fool
How ever could you be so cruel?
When all I really wanted was for you to care
And maybe even for us to share
Some time together where we could be
Happy, being together just you and me.
But again I've fallen and I was wrong
I cannot let you in for long.
I know what you want, wait, no I don't
But I cannot let this happen again; I won't.
From the beginning you had my heart
But now I'm learning, I have to start
Being brave and being smart
And learn to place you apart
From the people who do care
And the people who are really there
And while it is hard to set myself free
I am worth more than the misery
I let myself feel when you walk away
Leaving behind not even a day
That I don't wonder what went wrong
And why again this didn't last long
And what you're doing and who you see
During the time you are not with me.
Goodbye
Goodbye
You cannot stay
Goodbye
Goodbye
Please be on your way
Your memory will not fade fast
But hopefully, soon, at last
Thoughts of you will wane in my mind
Because the only thing I can do is leave you behind.
Getting on with my life, getting on with my day
Without you is the only way
I can follow my dreams and be who I wish;
Because, in the end, you were too selfish.
Poem to a Poet
by Tiffany Poole 
I want your soul to
Span the skies, you
Told me
And instantly, images
Were provoked to
Fly –
Your effect like
Gale winds on
My prose –
Each word
Straining
To your depth
And tripping over
Unlaced phrases,
Ambling awkwardly over
Alliteration to
Reach
The length of your lines.
And stanza to stanza we
Two-step,
My fingers flying
Across the page
Because your heart is
Reading every line.
As your glance touches
My expression,
Visions explode
Of meter and rhyme:
Heartbeats,
And rhythm serenading
Words upon ream
After ream.
You look,
And write back –
Tickling the
Corners of my lungs
By exhaling my
Name,
And I breathe in
Your rolling
Hello.
What ink and
Wood could not
Create,
You do.
Each phrase laden
In honesty,
Verbs in rhyme
Rewinding
In my mind
From first sun to
Cool moon.
Your pen is paused and yet
Space and time is
Filled
With verbiage
Unable to be penned.
Each yawning soul-gap
Made fat
By invisible vowels
And consonants.
Just gibberish
You say, and yet
Your nonsense is
Pressed
Into my back pocket –
De Bergerac in denim –
Cloth too think to look beyond your
Meaning:
For in your eyes
Your words are there,
And in your
"Delightfully attentive"
Smile,
And in the hands
Moving liberally across the
Page to write those
Words
To me.
Meditation
by Kristina Wood 
Glimpses of the pale moon,
Out too soon...
Never waning,
Never running from the faces,
Who wasted the lives...
Of the faceless,
Graceless,
Impatient...
Looking into them I can see,
The emptiness I once knew,
How my eyes turned from brown to blue.
Look up at the blue sky...
Dripping its grace and radiance upon us...
Throwing my soul upward,
And touching the clouds.
Inside...
I am touched by them.
They penetrate and melt through me.
They be me,
They see me.
All at once the world is blinding bright,
And in an instant everything goes black...
I am inside me,
Inside me I am free.
I breathe in...
And all is silent.
I inhale the peace of the earth,
She sees me and waves...
I exhale all of the turmoils of the self,
I let go of all pain...
Now I am free.
Inspiration
by Casey Jones 
Somewhere
Hidden deeply,
Held captive by time,
The construct of thought,
A belief,
Begins with a faint tremor,
A choir of fantasy,
Singing sweet suggestion,
With comfort,
Then contemplation,
Continual and residual,
Infancy and adolescence still echoing,
From high above,
We wait,
Staring down into this canyon of possibility,
We have not forgotten,
Everything still remains,
Assessed facts,
Collected fictions,
They are our truth,
Our circle's reflected depictions,
Maybe even our souls,
It is who we have become,
Then who we shall be,
Acceptance of finite fortune,
Beginning with the faintest of tremors,
The energy of idea,
The power of creation,
Then with compelling thunder,
Dynamic inspiration.
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Wednesday, February 07, 2007
|
Category: Writing and Poetry
High Contrast--Literature of the Digital Evolution
February 6, 2007
Hello and Welcome!
I encourage you to enjoy today's High Contrast--Literature of the Digital Evolution--and remember, feedback and encouragements in the Comments Section is always appreciated!
Michael J. Bernard
http://fargoneworld.blogspot.com
"It is only those who have never known love, who think they do not need it...And it is only the foolish among us, who think they can survive without it."
-Robert Brian Newbill (June 30, 1969 - July 3, 2006) Hartselle, Alabama
Quick Death Take Me!
by Theresa Cecilia Garcia-Newbill
I
In the solitude of the sea
white winds bid a warm depart,
the desperate flapping of wings
fervid with zeal, compelling air
with power, intimidating ordinary
men raw, snatched one last gust
with breathless abandon; winged-clipt
sea gull, silent seasons steal the moon
in the casement of Orion's glittering
form. I loved you well, where you once
dwelt tender upon our journey, your
forever yours, my forever mine, all
that our souls contain.
II
In those last days, you were the poet
the romantic chanticleer who brought
down for me a waning, brilliant orange
sun that shone away social thirst I once
had felt from earliest days, evaporating
my fear indicating "There is no danger here."
I followed your glance
so tender and dear, taking my chances with ease.
A promise of love slipped from tethered wanting
to a sea of joy and fulfillment.
Together we hovered along prolonging
a moment in history,
praying time would simply make it stop for us.
III
But Time's enchantments ceased and through a
gateway She betook you. To hell with blasphemy!
Why would thou give the gift of life and love
only to take it away?!
Cruelty is thy name!
Time is thirty seven, his rocky domain!
I stand here in the rain
smite upon Her Runic stone, at a lonely cross
where bye-roads meet
red faced with anger among a multitude of headstone
grass, facing the tidings that hath slain the day
and praying with persistance and sorrow
to have quick death take me!
No Fear Through Warfare
by Chelsea L. Mulzac 
Thoughts from the past try to rear its ugly head
I can't look back I must walk with the living and continue to forsake the dead
Run back to my old ways, God forbid
I have shall persevere because I am a child of his
So many decisions to be made and things to let go
Some days I got answers and then some days I just don't know
Wolves in sheep's clothing hang around in packs
Trying to catch me slipping hoping that I fall off track
Surrounded by a heap of shams who still wonder why I don't claim them as fam
Counterfeit smiles filled with deceit and beguile
Nevertheless, my radar sensed the crew and though it seems to be many
I fret not, because me + God make plenty
Loneliness tries every now and then to tease me with the fact that I'm single.
Whispering in my ear, You're never gonna meet your mate if you don't get out and mingle." Yet past landmarks remind me of what I had and what I don't want seconds of
Therefore, I wait on the Lord, stay optimistic and will only embrace a man who truly loves
Single parenting is in a league of its own
Taking care and raising a child ain't easy
Yet still I manage to make my house a home
Trust and believe I too will benefit from the doctrinal seeds that have been sown
Daily doses of knowledge keep my mind ahead
After applied knowledge, wisdom does her thang
Oh, yeah! My spirit is well fed
Revelations from my battles shoot me up the ladder
Insight from Gods word makes me fatter
My spiritual bank runs over; truly, God's way is enriching
Those who can't relate; sorry to say but u suffer from malnutrition
Backstabbers and vile doers a conviction for you is secure
Your defense is of no avail
With God on my side
There's no way in hell that evil will prevail
The fervent prayer of the righteous availeth much
And in case you haven't noticed; God's anointed can't be touched
You've been defeated and rejected
Life without God is just too hectic
Might as well, bow down and respect it!
After the Cataracts
by Scott Frady 
Matisse saw the world. With slow eyes
He wandered the earth and drew its pictures
With colors, pigments
Sediments and layers;
Intricate like spider architecture
Delicate, naked
Studied and captured.
Jackson Pollock saw dots and
Bill Gates found them useful
Making pixels words, creations from the void;
Granting permission for mediocrity on a global scale,
Instant pudding poetry, devoured
By a million bytes .
The voices of the dead
Don't bother us anymore, because Warhol has triumphed with his soup cans and love of plastic.
The prophets today speak in xylophone tone;
Their words a sweet tune in the king's ears.
But ironically I saw Bob Dylan tonight in
Black and white, his songs are in slow motion,
Baby blue singing a dirge;
A funeral march that leaves us
Itching to change the channel.
The curse of poetry is upon the world.
We are given obscene imposters,making their
Concession to the loss of language
The lack of subject.
Constipated in mind
Dissipated in sight
And lost in their obscurity.
The curse of poetry is
Obscurant burial
A death by attrition,
By slow degrees of drowning
In all the billion words
Passing through wifi,
Until at the right time,
The couplets and iambic pentameters,
The free verse, the beat generation,
The Romantics, The lefty, pinko utopians
Bubble up Like spring water
Cold, startling,
Killing all numbness;
An end to false summer
A good cleansing snow.
The tadpole caught today
Is nothing like the pixel frog.
The frog that went a'courtin' is
Nothing like the animatronic turtle.
We can laugh but cannot feel.
The clear eye of the poet sights the
Quarry of our souls and takes the stinging arrow from his quiver to strike the heart of the beast;
Who has mistaken life with eavesdropping,
Feeding on self-perpetuating crime, Never bothering to
dust for fingerprints;
No smudges on the floor, no handprints on the walls;
Nothing that reminds us of caves and paint that lasts three bibles long;
The preferred medium being water color,
The fade and feint slight of hand
Disappearing dry chalk waste
Leaving us the color of empty.
We Regret To Inform You....
by Shiara MacCrasik 
You stand tall and straight and proud – nameless shells in dress uniform.
Your hands don't shake and your eyes don't waver. It's your duty to inform
the father, the mother, the sister, the niece – family members that love him, and wait
for him to come home, tall and proud as you are, his head held high and his back straight.
But you know he won't. Now you have to tell us."We regret to inform you," you say.
"Your son, your brother, your uncle, your friend, was killed in action today."
We knew it as we watched you approach, but hearing it makes it all real.
We cover our ears, our eyes, and our hearts - no defense against the hard steel
of your message – the one from the "We" that your uniformed group represents.
Truth settles in, years after you're gone, but it still doesn't make sense.
He was twenty-one, but in so many ways he was just a little boy;
His sister's angst, his father's pride, and his mother's tears and joy.
"I'm doing fine," he wrote to his mom. "We're doing good things," to dad.
But to Sis he wrote, "I want to come home and have what other guys have.
I'm scared out here. The war's going to start. The bullets are soon going to fly.
I have a bad feeling. I can't shake it off, but for you and the guys I'll try.
"When I come home, I'll to go to school and make something of my life.
I'll meet a girl –someone you'll like – well, I hope – and make her my wife.
"I do want kids, eventually, a boy and a girl – like us.
Yes, I know they'll fight all the time. They'll outgrow it – just like us.
"I love you, Sis, never forget. See you, Gary," his letters were signed.
Then your "We" came along and shattered my life, told me he'd left me behind.
You regret to inform me – I'm sure that you do. I regret being informed.
Copyright @ 2006 MacCrasik
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Tuesday, February 06, 2007
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Category: Writing and Poetry
High Contrast--Literature of the Digital Evolution
February 5, 2007
Hello and Welcome!
I encourage you to enjoy today's High Contrast--Literature of the Digital Evolution--and remember, feedback and encouragements in the Comments Section is always appreciated!
Michael J. Bernard 
Suburbia
by Gerald Daniele
Four kids three cars two pets and a wife
Five-bedroom estate-it's a wonderful life
Suburban escape from the gun and the knife
Looks like the American Dream
Dad's drinking and driving from work every day
He pays no attention to the bills he won't pay
Just go to the Go-Go and watch the man stray
Things aren't quite as they seem
Mom sends the kids off to the bus every morning
Then goes on the Net and spends with no warning
On Dior and Coach and Lennox and Corning
Yeah things are really great
In a room sits a daughter with no self-esteem
She'll give you a hand job for coke or ice cream
Her acceptance is based on 10 cc stream
And they all make fun of her weight
Their squeaky-clean son, a professor of rock
His black light turns on as he dead bolts the lock
Supplying the drugs to the rest of the block
He's this close to suicide
And then there's Timmy the littlest one
The result of a night when they had too much fun
He never was wanted from the time he was one
He's in for a bumpy ride
Four kids three cars two pets and a wife
Five-bedroom estate-it's a wonderful life
Suburban escape from the gun and the knife
Looks like the American Dream
Sane Man
by Alex W.J.P 
I'd sit quietly in the corner of my room
Over the creeping shadows of the winter's bloom
In a cardboard city under the wide, vast blue
With a boiling coffee and some sweet music too
Looking at my plastered pictures of Lily
It's alright for some but to me a triviality
There must be something more
I know that life's not this much of a bore
It was the first day of summer that I donned my coat
Taking to the road with perhaps too much hope
Tramping over the bittersweet undergrowth
The stench of Mother Nature bore all I could cope with as I headed South
Towards the winds that blow cold, hard and fast
Where benevolent warmth might idly last
While my loves would look into the ether aghast
Is it really that bad?
Around this way it's like one of those pop-up books
All the animals in the Ark arise before me so I can take a look
Their words on the walls are as clear as a midsummer's day
They're made of plastic, paper and glue so there's so much I can say
Yonder on the hazy horizon I spy a house
Its windows shut tight to keep the missionaries out
There's more colour in here than there was all about
I'm in with a shout with a spouse without eyes or a mouth
In the kitchen there's an unending conveyor belt
A procession of enough well-refined coffee to make your heart melt
All the hopes, dreams and truths I've ever wanted are clearly spelt out
My headstrong desires clung to me like a shroud
But still the wind and rain claw at my stained-glass windows
There's time enough for other such stuff to follow on behind
Everyone lodging with me pays rent in faithful adulation
Though I can't help but wonder if there's too much surface to these salutations
After a brief stop I packed up and deserted that little nation
It might have been a well-meaning invitation
But yet I chose to take back to the road all alone
I donned my coat, my cute little bow-tie suit and hopes and I started back home
Where I know I'll be forgiven my insolence
Where walls draped with white flags will mark the end of my absence
Some might say it's better to throw caution to the wind
But it swept me off my feet before I could even begin
In this warm bed I'm lying in
I feel like a sane man again
Although I might dream of what fire awaits within
Somewhere down the line is a deep hole to bury me in
Possibilities
by Aleathia Drehmer 
We spent the day living like the Hopi
on a reservation in the desert.
We shot bow and arrow,
ground corn on a mortar,
made our own tortillas,
patiently crafted candles
by the fireside.
We built adobe bricks
and watched them bake in the sun,
we made sand paintings
with the understanding that the
Earth Mother could take them
whenever she blew her breath.
At night, we walked with the candles we made,
through a sacred, open air temple
that was simple yet enveloping
shaped like two half circles embracing.
The candles lit our faces,
young and burgeoning with hope
and blind to differences.
The moon spun a silver hue
over the ground when we all blew
our candles out at once.
We stood there with the sense
that we could feel the lives
of those who passed before us,
and when we all lay under the
expansive night of stars,
we reflected on the possibilities
of a future where the wealth of one
did not mean the poverty of another.
Feel It For Life?
by Jean-Pierre 
If I were to, God forbid,
Pass away and no longer live,
Would you mourn me forever?
Or would you mourn me for now?
Would you be crippled as a mother losing her baby? A father losing his son, best friend, and protege?
Tell me how....
What would you seek, what would you do?
Would I just be a memory that you no longer hold onto?
The feelings, the emotions, the teachings that I would have instilled,
Would you make that the foundation for our kids lives to build?
Would you walk every moment of your life almost unable to breathe?
Would you see me with one wish, and ask me to never leave?
Would you regret wasting time, and not becoming my wife?
Tell me if you would feel this pain for life?
If you were to, God forbid, never again be able to live,
My heart would be gone with nothing left to give,
For our kids I would be strong, but inside I'd be dead,
My spirits would have to breathe air into my body to provide simple direction to my head,
If you were to go, God forbid, so suddenly I wouldn't see,
Understand, please, listen very closely,
You are my vision, my ears, my nose, and only vein,
You are the many vital organs that make up the heart and allow it to remain,
You would be mourned, and cherished in every and any way,
I would not for a moment allow your soul from me to ever go astray,
Days would be long, nights would be even colder,
Seeing our daughter in you as she grows older,
I would kneel to you everyday at your grave,
Proposing to you over and over and asking you to forever entrust your life with me,
I would pray for that one wish of you to miraculously return,
I would feel for life our love, and never allow its beautiful colors to churn,
To capture you and hold you so close once again.....
You, to me embody love, mom, wife, honey, my best friend.
©Jean-Pierre 2007
The Haunted Guitar
by Jon Gordon 
It hung in the store window. A large red semi-acoustic guitar with one tone control missing and three pick-ups, two of them humbuckers and the middle an open magnet type. It looked ancient. The tuning keys were faded silver and large. The neck looked ok, and there was a six-position tone control on the upper left of the instruments body. Danny Crossan had a pocket full of notes, and a new guitar was exactly what he'd wandered over to the southside looking for, at Al Burnside's guitar store where he was, after 18 months or so, something of a regular customer. There were other instruments in the window but the price was right and with a touch of cosmetic alteration it'd do just fine for the show Danny was working on. Something with a bit of character, a bit of flair.
Danny walked into the cluttered, airless shop. Guitars of all types were arranged in racks across the floor, hanging from the walls and ceiling. Acoustics, electrics, expensive vintage models and budget priced copies of more expensive models. Al was behind his counter, with Rufus, his elderly alsatian dog slumped in a corner behind him. Only ever seen him move once, thought Danny – the dog, that is. Al looked up from a magazine he was reading.
'Al, how are you? I ain't been here for a month or two, did you sell that gold strat?' Al grinned. 'I took it home and gave it a respray. It's up on Ebay right now. Are you still interested?' Danny shook his head. 'Not so much the strat but I am interested in that red semi acoustic in the window. What's it going for?'
Al grinned again. 'You're the first customer to ask, I only put it in the window this morning. I would've put it on the floor but I'm running out of space so it's in the window for now. Matter of fact, I can sell you it but it needs a bit of work or at least a clean. I only collected it last night. Want to plug it in?'
Al brought the guitar from the display, held it up and gave it a brief strum. ' I can't really tell you very much about it but we get them like this every so often, older stuff I'm not so sure what I can do with.' He connected it to an amplifier and handed it to Danny, saying 'in its present condition, about a hundred and fifty, plus a bag if you need one'.
Danny pulled over a seat and took a plectrum from his coat pocket. It was in tune, if a bit quiet. Playing some warm-up open chords and working the tone and volume controls it was quickly apparent that the guitar had more than one style to offer an experienced player. Alternately sharp and smooth, the neck hadn't worn out so badly and when Danny turned down the treble and added about two points of reverb, it boomed like a full-bodied acoustic. An expensive one. As an exercise Danny began playing a song he'd written years ago, when his first proper band had looked as if they might do something other than occasional bar gigs, the song that was the b-side of that 100 copy vinyl single they'd recorded (and broken up over when no-one could agree who was paying for it). 'Broken Rules' was a song he was still proud of.
I forgot who I was yesterday/ I remembered you but you never say/ what's gonna happen and what just won't/ and don't ask me cause you know I don't .....
'I'll take it, with a bag'.
Danny got home to the one-room flat he was attempting to turn into a recording studio, sort of. There were two 4-track recorders on the floor, two other guitars, one a bass, and a keyboard which had a choice of rhythm tracks which he could demo songs with. Anything more complicated could get done in a proper studio. It was doubtful he'd ever get anywhere near a full-size 48 track again though, like he had with The Heatseekers. They'd gained enough interest to get some label interest although looking back that was perhaps the only interest Polymorphic ever had in them. It had all sounded pretty sincere and if it had gone through, then there might've been something in it for all the band, instead of just the drummer who went off to join another of the label's outfits and got his picture in the music press once or twice. 1989 had been quite a cool summer though, what with one thing and another. A lot cooler than 94.
Danny ran a shower and made out a plan for the rest of the evening. Do some food, clean the guitar up, give Ben a call at the studio for next week. The new songs were coming along alright. Some reworkings of older material and about four new numbers. If he got the gig with Ben's platform night that'd work out just fine, the open mic tryouts had gone well enough. He dried himself off and walked back into the living room.
There, with the bag folded neatly beside it, was the large red guitar he'd just bought. Danny blinked slightly, thinking he hadn't taken it out of its cover or if he had he didn't remember doing it. He picked it up and started to strum a few chords, checking the neck more closely for imperfections, wear and tear, any cracks or obvious flaws in the instrument. Feeling a bit inspired, he put the guitar down and switched on the stereo. Probably the only copy still in existence of 'Last Machines' b/w 'Broken Rules' by the Bay City Robots, and Danny put it onto the turntable, like he did every couple of months. It sounded like it always had: flat, tinny, underproduced and definitely a product of its time. And Danny knew every chord change, every hiss of the background tape, for that matter every scratch on the vinyl as well as he knew anything. Except what that mumbled voice said at the end of 'Broken Rules'. He'd never found out if it was a band member or the studio engineer or anyone else that'd been there on the day, but it had started an argument that'd ended the band entirely. The record crackled to its end. Suddenly, the red guitar slid down the wall and landed with a hollow chime. Danny jumped to his feet and quickly placed it more carefully against the wall, as if that could've stopped it falling in the first place. No upset neighbours this afternoon, fortunately.
Later that evening Danny took both himself and the guitar over to Ben's Budget Studio, with a view to trying out some of the new songs through a full PA system. There were a few bods around the pool table in the studio lounge, and Ben himself in the office. Danny walked in just as Ben put down his phone. 'Any chance of a late booking this week?' 'There might', Ben said without looking up from the thick black folder in front of him, 'so long as you pay upfront'. Danny handed over some paper and coins and walked into the smaller of the two rehearsal rooms. Everything was set up for a full band rehearsal and it took a couple of minutes to set up his instrument through the PA system, but after that everything was just as it would on the night, save for a lack of audience.
Halfway through the second number the studio door swung open. Danny stopped playing and half-shouted 'hey Ben, wasn't that enough for two hours!' But it wasn't Ben who was standing in the doorway. A stubby figure in a thick overcoat walked into the middle of the room. Possibly in his sixties, definitely over 50 and a little unsure on his feet. Almost entirely bald and with a chin beard to compensate for this, he stood looking at Danny with bleary grey eyes. Danny started to say 'I've booked this room already' but the stranger said, a little loudly, 'I know that guitar, son'. Danny let the instrument slide to his side, wondering exactly what was going to happen next. 'I said, I know that guitar.' He waited for a reply. Danny thought quickly. Al wouldn't knowingly sell anything hot. Would he?
'I bought it today from Al's store and I paid nearly two hundred for it so if you've any problem with that I suggest you take it up with Mr Burnside, and I don't appreciate you breaking up my rehearsal either so before I get you thrown out of here ....'
The stranger put his hand up. 'Listen to me son, I know that guitar. You look at the back of it, right down beside the strap fitting, and you'll see there's a couple of small marks right there. Those are someone's initials, and do you know whose they are?' Danny shook his head. 'That guitar, that guitar you're holding in your hands right now, it belonged to Albert Warren.'
He paused for effect.
The name Albert Warren rang only a very dim and distant bell with Danny Crossan. Some name from the early 70's, sort of a blues rock type who'd made three or four albums before ... well, Danny really didn't know enough detail to make any connection between the guitar he'd just bought and some half forgotten 70's muso. 'A bit before my time, mate' said Danny, and added, 'I got this from what I would describe as a reputable source and it's a decent enough instrument apart from one or two cracks, and I should add I've every intention of keeping it so say what you've got to and I'm sure Ben can phone you a taxi'.
There was a sudden silence, then Danny asked, 'you're not Albert Warren, are you?' The stranger shook his head. 'He married my sister in 1975. I never liked him much, what with the long hair and those grubby clothes and you don't know what, and it was me that got arrested when I tried to get that guitar back from him because it wasn't his,' and he started to shout ' IT WAS MY DADS'. Trouble. Danny felt himself moving, subconsciously, to the back of the room. The stranger continued, 'that was one of the very first electric guitars in this country and it belonged to the Bernie Maxwell Orchestra, of which my dad was an original member. One of the biggest dance bands of their time, they were, and when they broke up in 1961 my dad brought that ' he gestured towards the instrument 'back to our home as a souvenir, which is where it stayed until my sister Margaret married that bloody hippy!' Before Danny could say anything more he continued 'and no I don't want it back, it's a worthless piece of slapboard, but you mark my words son, one day that guitar will cause you more problems than you know how to solve'.
With that, he turned and walked from the room. Danny looked around blankly. Who was that ignorant piece of crap and how had he got into the studio? After a few minutes, he walked out of the studio and into Ben's office.
'Hey Ben, did a little old bloke in an overcoat just walk past here?' Ben shook his head, saying, 'there's been nobody.' If he'd left the building he must've done. But Danny went back into the studio. And the guitar was gone.
The very next morning the body of an elderly man and a broken guitar were found on the pavement outside Ben's Budget Studio. Apparently he'd fallen off the roof.
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Saturday, February 03, 2007
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Category: Writing and Poetry
High Contrast--Literature of the Digital Evolution
February 2, 2007
Hello and Welcome!
Maybe because I am not very intelligent, but for some reason I have always had the hardest time spelling "January" and "February" correctly, consistently.
Today is Groundhog's Day, so let's all hope that Puxsatawney Phil see's his shadow---if that's what means the winter is going away, anyways...
We've got a really solid line-up today, one that I am most proud of. Long in coming, Karl Koweski joins us with "Breakwater". Harmony Yucuta, Dee Servance, and Peter Keomanyvanh give us different glimpses of this troubled world we inhabit.
I would like to say that I have been following Mr. Keomanyvanh's work for coming up on two months, and I am very proud of the development he has shown----When I think of his work, the first thing I typically think of are poems like today's "Tibetan Prayer", and his previous poem "Boom, Boom, Boom", but he has shown a much wider range recently with poems such as "Was She an Angel" and "When the Sun Rises".
Eulalie Cholmondeley has been collecting material from various online resources on some of the Poetic Masters, which goes along the lines of what I have been preaching lately (READ! Read everyone, read everything new and classic, but most definitely READ!). Her articles on Ezra Pound, Arthur Rimbaud and Sylvia Plath are most highly recommended. Ms. Cholmondeley is quite a prolific writer, and her blog is absolutely bursting at the seams with poetry that I enjoy quite a bit (and don't comment on nearly enough).
Past contributor A.D. Winan's has been posting quite a few poems in his blog, and his most recent "One too Many Poets One Too Many Poetry Readings" is also highly recommended.
I sincerely wish I had more time to read, comment, and then promote the various artists who I have come to enjoy reading on an almost daily basis. I look forward to reading many many other people, but because I am usually so stretched for time I don't leave comments nearly enough. Don't be surprised to see "kudo's" from me much more often than actual comments.
And, as the hippocrite that I am, I leave you with the obligatory message:
I encourage you to enjoy today's High Contrast--Literature of the Digital Evolution--and remember, feedback and encouragements in the Comments Section is always appreciated!
Michael J. Bernard
Breakwater
by Karl Koweski 
if you remain in your car
all you can see
is the breakwater.
ragged chunks of concrete
pieces of rebar jutting out
like mummified fingers.
Lake Michigan lays there
a dead ocean
indistinguishable from
its mortuary slab.
smell the embalming fluid,
a noxious mixture
of detergent and petroleum
byproducts pumped in
by the refinery and
the surrounding mills.
after climbing the breakwater
and finding a smooth boulder
of concrete to perch on
I watch the February storm
approach from the northeast.
the sky and sea seem
to merge creating a
seamless shirt of the world.
ten years gone
and nothing really changes.
Chicago still glimmers to
the west;
the distillation towers
of Amoco refinery sulks
in the east.
and all I ever succeeded
in doing this last decade
was killing time.
I murdered ten years
so cleanly
I didn't leave so much
as a witness.
Time to Wake Up
by Harmony Yucuta 
Now´s the time to wake up,
time to shout,
tell the people you meet
what you´re really about
no time for hiding,
no time for shrinking
gotta show the world
what you´re really thinking
cos the frequency is rising
the frequency is rising
the power is rising
the power is rising.....
things are gonna get even more surprising
cos time is quickening
change is quickening
no time for slackening
face the mystery,
the biggest events in recorded history!
don't want to miss out, miss the show
who knows how long we´ve got left to go?
cos Pachamama´s angry,
Pachamama´s crying,
she can only forgive our disrespecting so long.
for once we´ve
trod on her, spat on her,
tore her up, cut her down
smothered her, poisoned her
forgotten that she´s even there!
what can she do but rise up, rise up
shake us up. spit us out,
get rid of these parasites
who always think they´re always right!
who never use their eyes and eyes,
too blind and deaf from all their fears.....
so here´s the last chance lottery,
here´s the choice for you and me,
can we change how we´ve lived so far
evolve to who we really are,
come together, use our powers
stop thinking that the world is ours!
for we hold more magic in our hands
than we can possibly understand
until we wake up, open our minds
leave the old ways of fear and boredom behind
cos what you think, you create,
whatever you love, whatever you hate,
and you decide your destiny
whether you´re trapped, whether you´re free,
you chose your parents, do you know why?
you´ll see yourself if you stare in their eyes,
life´s a joy, life´s a game,
deep, deep down we´re all the same,
i´m your sister, he´s your brother,
don´t like the game?! well, choose another!
you choose the players, you choose the rules
don´t blame me if you´re surrounded by fools!
that´s obviously what you needed right now
to learn your current lesson, somehow
cos life´s just a process of evolution,
evolution is revolution!
cos if we change the way our minds run
we might just change the way the world´s run
learn at last to respect the Mother,
learn to embrace not to kill our brother
join with Pachamama as she is reborn,
hold our heads high, see a brand new dawn.
instead of cowering in the dirt as the earth shakes in anger,
hiding in out homes as the weather gets stranger,
well you can´t hide forever, you got to make a decision
are you going to wait until the waters have risen
and washed you away?
are you in, are you out
It´s time to wake up, time to shout!
A Second Chance
by Dee Servance 
We are a blind society
Cloaking ourselves inside every day vanity.
Walking through the world
As if the problems of other humans
Do not exist.
Covering our faces
With the shadows of simple things
As we hide behind imagined unrealities.
We ignore the real and tell ourselves
The horror is not there
Making it an afterthought, saying it's not true.
Lying to our hearts as we banish the sorrow to a corner
Or a dark space that we pray can cover
Or diminish all that shouldn't be there.
But it is there. I's everywhere.
Surrounding us, encompassing us
Foreboding and looming
Over everything and anything, seeping into every space
Throwing itself into our faces
Brushing against our skin.
Grasping on until we can not breathe.
Forcing us to see, pushing us to realize
That it is there.
Standing beside us, breathing upon us.
Silently praying
Desperately crying
In front of us.
Begging for light
Hoping for a hand of a sign that it's all a lie.
Wishing that it wasn't true.
Simply asking for a second chance.
Tibetan Prayer
by Peter Keomanyvanh 
Interviewer:
So, China has claimed Tibet to be a part of China and the United States
Has no official position on the crisis.
Chinese Insider:
Yes, yes, China illegally claimed Tibet as a part of them 40 years ago.
And America is actually our biggest supporter as we try to enslave the world.
Here, let me show you a few characters in this tragic comedy:
The Villager:
"I'm on the border of China
Praying in a Tibetan temple of Buddha
Living poorly because I got to be ready
The path to enlightenment is never steady
My people is starving for freedom
But the Chinese government is too heavy
My people build this country on compassion
Too strong for the New World Order to fathom
So they try to break us down in evil fashion
The monks and nuns being tortured
Destroying me, waiting for my departure
The baton to the head and electric shock to my creed
Even the Dalai Lama starts to bleed
So I sit in the temple and stay my position."
The Chinese Henchman:
"Give me your money, give me your watch
That's your religion? Give me the chains
I'll beat up your body, and then fry the brain
So when you try to speak, no words come out
Tie you to the chair, and put your religion in doubt
It's too easy to just kill you and leave you to rot
So I electrocute your tongue rather than use a gun
I beat you with the baton until you can't run
The monks and nuns that I see are nothing to me
No one is coming, where is Buddha when you want him to be."
The Chinese Leader:
"Never mind how our country expanded
What if I told you that Tibet is a part of our land?
How I secretly overtook the country as planned
Illegally usurping their power 40 years ago
So China gained more power with my hands
Millions of my people living like slaves
But it doesn't matter, as long as they behave
Taking Tibet is not for my people to have
It's to rule without a citizen raising their voice
And live under the master, eternally in a cave."
The American Leader:
"Of course, the policy to slaughter Tibet is strong
But I lie to the public saying, I don't know what's going on
Terrorism is just the new communism for today
I put fear in the hearts of my people as they are in dismay
Restricting their freedom, stealing their freedom
So one day, we too, can become a land of communism
The Chinese envy the manipulation our media uses
And I envy the oppression that their government uses
Tomorrow, the new terrorism will be realism
People live in a grand illusion, and I hope to keep it that way."
The American Citizen:
"Oh yeah, where is the country of Tibet?
I think it's somewhere in Asia
Oh really? Next to China and India
Who is the ruler of the country Tibet?
I thought the Dalai Lama ruled in Nepal
My ignorance put me in this box inside
I am a patriot but waking to my demise
I didn't know Tibet is integral to freedom for all."
The Villager:
"I sit here steadfast as I start to pray
I make sure China never sees the sunrise,
And their land slowly starts to decay
From here to the infinite, I see with my eyes
The world for what it is in black and white
Hegelian dialectic controlling the population
Making us live in the darkness and never in light
But the path that I take will lead to emancipation
The road to enlightenment leads me to action
My people's will is too strong for this slaughter
Innocent, buried in a casket, Chinese fashion
So I dig for the truth and do not waver."
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Thursday, February 01, 2007
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Category: Writing and Poetry
High Contrast--Literature of the Digital Evolution
January 31, 2007
Hello and Welcome!
I would like to apologize that I haven't had the time and energy to spend writing my introductions lately, but I have been quite backlogged at my job, and in whatever free time I have, working on the final touches of my book of poetry that will be coming out in March.
I would like to welcome Shellie Weaver and Poetic Seraph back---they were both early contributors in HC's infancy, and welcome newcomers Eulalie Cholmondeley and RJ Looney.
I encourage you to enjoy today's High Contrast--Literature of the Digital Evolution--and remember, feedback and encouragements in the Comments Section is always appreciated!
Michael J. Bernard
Struggling to Know
by Shellie Weaver 
This search seems meaningless
and its hard to find
my way to you.
I keep watching
the stars only to find
a mustard seed
carried by the wind.
Its missed
the harvest and f
a
l
l
e
n
among the thorns.
Into the unknown
god of Athens,
alter inscribed.
Who are you?
Revolution is dead
by Poetic Seraph 
A century of dwelling in my mind and it's still the blind leading the blind
Doors open only so doors can lock and secrets stay in darkness where memories stop
I know myself, so I tell myself I'm nothing like that stranger
I claim to fly amongst the angels in heaven, while I'm surrounded by demons
So ugly, only shadows can be their cell
Discussions, fights, debates
Familiar me and estranged me, we contemplate an escape
To go both ways and never meet again
Cuz if I know myself while not knowing myself, where does truth begin
Where does truth begin and will the lies ever end
Does truth belong to familiar me, does estranged me commit the sin
Or does familiar me commit all sins and blame the other me
Can I be a devil and a god in one skin
Is the devil not a god, fallen out of the sky
To god we pray, but we get the devil's reply
Don't get me wrong, I'm not religious, I might be supersticious
Cuz human minds are so delicious and their traditionalized behaviors so nutricious
Their life goals so ambition, their achievements so propitious,
The man made concept of time has them so expeditious
But their tru intends are malicious and vicious
Born so innocent, a mask put on our faces
Devide human kind in races from different places
Different language, different habits, different style
Different hairdo, different clothing, wearing the same smile
We fantasize to socialize certain issues in our lives
We socialize to fantasize about what our life provides
If I have this car and I have this house and I have that phone
I'll be socially accepted, I'll be broke, not one dime left
But I'll actually believe that I feel right at home
In a house that I will never own, cuz I got a loan
From a man that the friend of a friend's cousin's sister's husband's second daughter from his third marriage in another state has known
But as u can see, I fit right in this community without financial security
Owning very expensive surety, just in case we ran out of money
On the day of the bill's maturity
U stare at me staring at u while seeing and judging and remembering all the things u do
Cuz if I focus on u, I don't have to focus on me
If I'm too occupied with how u live ur life, I can full conscioulsy ignore to look and see
That I live ur life cuz I have no life of my own
As a child I rushed to be an adult, now I'm full grown
As an adult I long for the rturn of my childhood
Not having to worry about how to atone
Not having to deal with being alone,
Waking up one day to realize my own children are grown
Having children of their own, being raised in a broken home
We no longer believe in a family as the cornerstone of this society
We believe in property, hypocrasy, bureaucracy that we call democracy
While it's nothing but autocracy cuz all the riches keep going to an aristocracy
And we, the people, continue to live in poverty
So I ask u: where's the revolutionary in u? Where's the revolutionary in me?
Maybe he hustled and made a couple of G's
Found his way out of his painful circumstances
And came to peace with his obsessions for material neccessities
Maybe the day he made some money, the revolutionary deceased
copyright 2007 Poetic Seraph
Los Angeles
by Eulalie Cholmondeley 
star sip drinks in fabulous bars
nimble with their casualness
you lost your ghoulish pride
driving to the shore your
brain's orgasm devour yellow young
you hang from damnation cliffs
fingernails break and you soar
weeping in sneaky cars
strolling hollow fair subtle
twilight kisses the toy bridegroom
the jewelbox is a hopeless picture
teaching narcissist's to read garbage
buildings contempt their dignity
The Word
by RJ Looney 
"What's the good word?"
he said...lip over rim
the trick of sunlight
caught the drop of coffee
as it magnetically encircled
the heel of his cup
Walter put it down on the table
back in the ring
it had called home
for 30 odd years
bacon frying and eggs, too
I turn to look out the window
at trucks and cars passing by
on the snow-covered highway
"Reckon it'll snow anymore?", she asked
to no one in particular
the bacon pieces flipped
in excruciating slow motion
over the dancing griddle
the eggs offered their sunny smiles
the rest of us
were just too damn cold
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Wednesday, January 31, 2007
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Category: Writing and Poetry
High Contrast--Literature of the Digital Evolution
January 30, 2007
Hello and Welcome!
I encourage you to enjoy today's High Contrast--Literature of the Digital Evolution--and remember, feedback and encouragements in the Comments Section is always appreciated!
Michael J. Bernard
As I Sit
by Laura E. Wallace 
As I sit and hear my mind
And think of all the things I've seen,
And realize that my life's been driven
Converted in every way and mean.
It gives me so much reason to ponder
I think of how my blessings greet me
God reaches for me; it's such a wonder
Why has He been so good to me?
Life has hit me with some stumbling blocks
Sometimes I fear they will mow me over.
God has always been my most solid rock
When I let go and let Him, my battles He takes over.
The greatest lesson He has taught me
One I've learned that takes all my heart
Is loving everyone unconditionally
Trusting in him totally and never in part.
How blessed am I to bear my trial,
A fruitful lesson I cannot deny….
The awesomeness of His strength to my avail
His Grace and Mercy within me lies.
As I sit and hear my mind
And think of all He's given me
I have to give Him all the praise
And know that he will pilot me.
© 2004 Laura E. Wallace
Say A Prayer
by Suzana Torres 
With each opening line and with each different verse,
We bring to light a decline and a theory in reverse.
With a single word we open a world of aggravation,
And with a mess of lines we open our eyes to a new sensation.
And with Hollywood reels stealing scenes from a story,
we catch bits and pieces of soldiers living on no glory.
And with blood we shed light to the gory scenes of today.
And here we are repeating our lives like a song on replay.
So we represent the hustlers and them mangy thugs.
And we repping the gangstas and make way for new drugs.
We're philosophical with violence and keep the gun cocked,
With a shot rang out the silence and all the doors were locked.
Sleepless nights await the living dead.
And with a headache pounding loudly in her head.
He sank to his knees, cupped his hands and said a prayer,
With both eyes closed he wished the world could care.
Now picture this, a little girl without a doll at her side.
No one to hold her close and tell her why daddy's died.
Her mother has gone to work with tears fallin' from her eyes.
She knows that these streets are full of regret and hateful lies.
She tells herself that she could've handled it better,
But with a baby girl and no money this dump was better than ever.
And it all started when she opened the door and got a letter;
Her husband was dead but the government would be grateful forever.
Killed in the line of duty, it so coldly read.
But he promised to come back, she blandly said.
And with a look at her daughter and several tears in her eyes,
She brushed a kiss upon the letter, she had to be strong and say good-bye.
Sleepless nights await the living dead,
And with a headache pounding loudly in her head.
She sank to her knees, cupped her hands and said a prayer,
With both eyes closed she wished the world could care.
Now stop and take a second, maybe two or three.
We represent the blessed that remain free.
Sometimes we close our eyes on the evil of the world,
We hold off all the lies told by the people of the world.
But when both eyes open, say you see the world in new light,
Lend your voice to a good cause and join the global fight.
Nation fighting nation with casualties on both sides.
It's all just a power struggle with no change in the ride.
If we yell loud enough maybe one day they'll hear,
Until then we'll work on it year after year.
We'll clean up the streets and make way for a future,
We'll stop Global AIDS and give us all a future.
Working together we'll make it day by day,
With love and dedication breeds a different way.
Sleepless nights will always await the living dead,
And headaches will always pound loudly in our heads.
So just sink to your knees, cup your hands and say a prayer,
With both eyes closed just wish the world could care.
narcolepsy?
by Harvey Jackson 
everyday is shorter
every moment is less appealing
the skies are grey and dark
and my skin is sapped of feeling
questions go without answer
my mind is no longer here
the light is fading
its okay though
the darkness leaves nothing to fear
laying here
cold and quite awake
dreaming of things that will never be again
sleep sleep sleep sleep
is it all I really want to do anymore?
have i become so detached?
deprivation of nothing at all
i need something
then again
maybe i
think
too much.
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Tuesday, January 30, 2007
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Category: Writing and Poetry
High Contrast--Literature of the Digital Evolution
January 29, 2007
Hello and Welcome!
I hope everyone had a good weekend, mine was fine and mostly restful.....Got a couple household appliances that were desperately needed, and the opportunity to read over a manuscript that a family friend is working on. I also purchased the 2007 Poet's Market, and will be featuring markets in this ezine that I think would be of interest to the majority of our readership. For you professionals, however, I would say just get your own copy and locate those places that sound of most interest to you.
Which brings me also to my point of thought for today---Most of what editors, other poets, and academics will tell you is that you should read at least ten times as much as you write. As poets, it is a good idea to not only read the classics (Shakesphere, Homer, Dante, etc), but contemporary poets, to know what is really alive and in demand in today's market. In reading through the Poet's Market there are many names that come up time and time again, and I have made it my personal mission to become more informed as to their techniques, styles, and experiences. I have too often molded myself on artists and movements that were in vogue long ago, and lacked discipline in learning about current styles.
I encourage you to enjoy today's High Contrast--Literature of the Digital Evolution--and remember, feedback and encouragements in the Comments Section is always appreciated!
Michael J. Bernard
Asperger's syndrome
by Byron Yatch III 
I've been, blessed with a curse, cursed with a gift.
Seems everything I needed never seemed to be noticed.
I was born different so I could never be the same.
Even when I got good, I never got to play the games.
Always picked last except for when it hurt.
People pushed me around and left me in the dirt.
Was it worth all the pain to become what I am?
I shouldn't complain, but you people dont understand.
All I needed was a hand, someone to follow.
But the path was blocked and the light wouldnt show.
So I wandered alone, abandoned and abused.
Couldnt figure out what you wanted, damn you got me confused.
But I refuse to lose, in this game I love to play.
You may not believe me tomorrow but listen anyway.
Cause I've got things to say, and people to meet.
The ones who faced adversity and snatched victory from defeat.
If you could see what I see, with these eyes of mine.
You'd truly comprehend what it means to be blind.
But I dont mind, to me it's just another decoy.
I feel like god's playin with his favorite toy.
Before I deploy a final trick up my sleeve.
All I ever wanted was to be heard, not decieved.
Pieces
by Panagiota Felecos 
The haunting sound of the howling wind
Surround me on this dark nite
I feel a chill that cuts me to the bone
The perfect elements to match
My emotions, raging and violent
I can feel the force of the wind in my room
Feel the presence of gloom
Eerie and full of doom
My shelves begin to shake
A vase falls and breaks
I go to pick up the pieces
And glass cuts into my skin
The pain somehow a release
I watch the blood trickle down my flesh
Watch it form a pool on the ground
I can hear the storm building outside
Feel it rage within as well
Another piece of glass pierces my skin
I close my eyes and savor the pain
Listening to the falling rain
Then I realize its not rain I hear
Just the sound of my own tears
Haunting and howling like the wind
Violently I begin to shake
As I feel my soul break
Piece by piece like
The vase on the floor
Shattered.....cutting me to the core....
©2007, Panagiota Felecos, All Rights Reserved
Jealousy
by Paullette Merritt 
Whirling, swirling, calling my name…
Rising, falling, the voice is the same…
Seeking to know, can she be tamed?
A whisper so soft and gentle she has…
Like the soft kisses of the mistress…
Or fresh snow on sweet meadow grass.
She looms in the distance dancing, peeking…
Never loosing sight of the one she is seeking..
A cleaver disguise, for her beauty is fleeting.
Ever so innocently she comes from behind…
Waiting and watching for the opportune time…
To send me her poison and sicken my mind.
She begins in my spine with a gentle prick…
In a matter of time as the earthly clock ticks…
I have fallen once more a slave to her tricks.
Now in the shadows her face changes shape…
To reveal ugliness I had forgotten of late...
She wants one thing, to create my fate.
Seeing her clearly it is silence I seek…
To gather the defenses I have learned to keep…
My mind is the sword and victory I will reap.
Her reason for coming prominent in my sight…
I will win this battle before I say goodnight…
Weighing it out I know she is just not right.
She comes at my thoughts I must clear her out…
In silence I hold her and scream and I shout…
You are not welcome here, get out, get out, get out!
Protecting my mind, my feelings, and thoughts…
Is important for the new love life has brought…
For I am the one who allows myself to be caught.
I hold her out at a distance and look at her face…
It is one I desire in my wholeness to erase…
I see you and set you free to the vastness of space.
My lovers face comes into my mind…
His sweetness and gentleness he is ever so kind…
Undeserving was he of the thoughts I did find.
When jealousy strikes she is swift and fast…
She stems from patterns we learned in the past…
When stung you must rid yourself of her fast.
Her thirst is for heartache, anger, and walls…
With no real proof that these are valid at all…
On the reasoning mind, not jealousy we must call.
Happy Anniversary to you, my dear
by Jennifer Coyle 
14 years ago today
I walked in - you looked my way.
Brought together on a friend's instinct
right away we felt a link.
I tried to convince myself: "friends only"
though away from you...it felt lonely.
Such passion I did see
when you strummed your guitar and looked at me.
You make me laugh....you've made me cry
your touch can always make me sigh.
I love that we can communicate
what we treasure - all that we hate.
At times it seems we never agree
each others view.....we fail to see.
We've learned by now, to just get past it
in the larger scheme, it's but one facet.
Our children definitely can drive us nuts
singing and laughing; "You said butts!"
Their love, however, can make our day
when all they want is to please, and play.
Our life up to this point, it can be said
is precious in not knowing, what's ahead.
The words I hold most dear, from you
is hearing you say; "I love you too."
The Life of Katz
by Richard Grayson 
He is born and grows up. He marries Catherine, his childhood sweetheart. They live in Greenwich Village as he doggedly pursues an acting career. He gets a bit part as the doctor in a production of Cat on a Hot Tin Roof. His next role, Dogberry in As You Like It, catapults him into theatrical stardom. He and Catherine regularly put on the dog and dine on expensive steaks at The Cattleman. On spring afternoons they walk all over New York until their dogs hurt and they have to take catnaps under dogwood trees in Central Park.
They have a baby, a son, and move to Brooklyn. Catherine insists the boy get a Catholic education, but Katz cannot abide dogma and hates Father Malley, that hypocrite in the dog collar; still, Junior has his first catechism. Father Malley likes to hit the boy with his cat-o'-nine-tails. Junior becomes a strange, withdrawn child. He is forever going around their new house with hangdog looks; he spends hours in the backyard, dissecting caterpillars.
Katz tries to be a father to his son for his wife's sake. He takes the boy to Yankee Stadium to watch Catfish Hunter pitch but gets angry when Junior puts catsup on his hot dog. Junior says he would rather be home writing some doggerel or in the library, bending over the card catalog or reaching for some dog-eared book. "Doggone it," Katz tells his wife, "there's no reasoning with that kid."
Meanwhile, his own career moves in a new direction: playwriting. The results are disappointing; after five years, he has two dogs and one turkey to his credit. The audience subjects him to catcalls. His life goes to the dogs. He can't even get small parts as an actor anymore. Catherine is unsympathetic. "It's a dog-eat-dog world," she tells him.
He takes up with a chorus girl, a cheap floozy who plays cat-and-mouse with him for a while. One dog day afternoon, they come out of a motel together, and Junior, walking home from school, spots them. The father categorically denies everything, but his son does not believe him. Finally Katz admits the truth but tells Junior to let sleeping dogs lie.
But Junior lets the cat out of the bag, and Katz is in the doghouse with Catherine. She leaves him, taking Junior to Catalonia , where a catastrophe occurs: on a catamaran on the Mediterranean , on their way to the Catacombs, there is a terrible accident. They both drown. Neither knew so much as the dog paddle.
Katz breaks down at the funeral when he sees the two coffins on the catafalque. He is taken to a mental hospital. For eight months he is catatonic. Then who should come to visit but Father Malley, whom he hadn't seen in a dog's age. The priest has mellowed with time and helps him get over the cataclysmic events of his life. Katz grows old. He is sent to a nursing home in the Catskills. He develops cataracts. He becomes senile. Dying, his last words are: "It's a dog's life."
Father Malley presides at the funeral. "Odi et amo," he says in his eulogy, quoting Catallus. "That's life," a mourner says as the coffin is put into the ground next to the other two graves. "Whether you're an underdog or sitting in the catbird seat, you end up in the same place." "Requiescat," Father Malley says.
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Saturday, January 27, 2007
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Category: Writing and Poetry
High Contrast--Literature of the Digital Evolution
January 26, 2007
Hello and Welcome!
I'd like to welcome you to today's issue of High Contrast--Literature of the Digital Evolution. We've got a few treats in store for you; The return of Tim Majkowski, whose first inclusion in HC recieved a tremendous amount of acclaim, One of the most highly visible artists here on Myspace, Larry Wilson, who most of you will know as dapharoah69, The King of Erotica, and most excitingly, the debut of Trinadadian artist Janique Baker, whose penname is simply "Erotica", and Jenn Bouwman.
Mrs. Baker, born in 1981 in Trinidad & Tobago, is uniquely gifted in that she has a beautiful voice and is an exceptionally gifted dancer as well. Her poetry speaks to the young people of her generation yet it still is potent enough to make mature, more older persons think. We look forward to seeing her upcoming collection of poetry, "Then to now", become available. Stay-tuned here for more details and information on an article I will be doing soon featuring Mrs. Baker.
I hope you enjoy this issue as much as I did in it's creation---always remember, our artists love and appreciate comments and feedback!
Michael J. Bernard
Clouds
by Larry Wilson, dapharoah69 the King of Erotica
Wind is like a soft
Finger, wiping
Away my tears as if Im
Air, galloping like
Gentle white horses
Destroying storm clouds,
Taking the black,
Becoming one with them
And out comes the black stallions.
Yet I stab the clouds
when I reach for the sky
and they dont bleed.
Wheres the blood?
Wheres the pain?
I feel for them,
I feel the pain.
Im soaked with blood;
Thats metaphoric with rain.
My clothes cling to me.
Like bees on honey.
I reach for the sky
And get nothing but wind.
Sensor Me
by Janique 'Erotica' Baker
Sensor me I'm young
Inexperienced, dumb
With all my qualifications I'm dumb
And you don't give a sht about my opinion
You know better than me and can't learn from me
Who is me to tell you it is "who am I"
Sensor me I'm young
Sensor me I'm female
I must learn the custom to hold my tail
Tightly between my legs and exhale
Silently in the background, act frail
Leave nails in my flesh evicting blood
I must obey you and cook for you
And clean up after you, but most importantly of all
I must shut up! Don't nag, you need to think
Sensor me I'm female
Sensor me I'm black
And everybody no we black people good wid we hands
We must learn trade, do as you say
Get the lest needed passes to get the cleaning wok
All I does talk is ole talk, repeated talk, heard talk
Nothing original in my head, no facts I read
I could barely read anyway – so I must do as you say
Doh start no business I go buss.
Yuh break mih down early yuh see- to save mih the tragedy
Of exclaiming bankruptcy
Sensor me I'm black
Sensor me I'm poor
It's best I beg door to door
And what I get I went looking for
Cause people does choose to be poor, by what they did before
So doh study me, ignore me, I'm a fantasy, imaginary
There's nothing to learn from me
Before you know it I'll be crazy so now
Sensor me I'm poor
Sensor me I'm a model
I'm skinny and pretty; and these knowledge can't accompany
There's no skill or intelligence in a pretty, skinny body
All I study is what not to eat, and how to apply moisturizer
Seem familiar? Read it earlier? Heard it from another?
Stigma…
Stigma
You know me before you see me
You sensor me before you meet me
Cause one person say something stupidly
You earn the authority to sensor me
You might be amazed, dazed, put in a phase
If you were to blaze a new path through the maze
Of stigmas and gaze into my face
As I spoke and you actually listened,
But this poem is all a waste
Since you know better than me
You probably didn't hear me
Being too busy
Censoring me
Looking for more
by Tim Majkowski 
Love sits silently waiting.
Wanting nothing.
Watching.
Who will be your master.
This clever disguise,
misled by trickery.
Desire.
You want flesh.
I offer you
soul.
Divine love's reasoning.
You are not content
with love.
You are not comfortable
with soul.
You want it all
but
I am
all there is.
I
wait patiently
wanting only to surrender.
My offering,
this love.
Here with you.
Too blind to see,
you go out
looking for more.
POET, HEAL THYSELF
by Jenn Bouwman 
penstrokes on paper,
toothy grain soaking up
the glut of my mind's suppurations,
my words gliding across the page.
contentment whelms inside my heart,
as all foibles, fears and uneasiness
slowly seep from my aching head,
down through my arm,
past my fingertips,
and into the inkformed words
before me.
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Friday, January 26, 2007
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Category: Writing and Poetry
High Contrast--Literature of the Digital Evolution
January 25, 2007
Hello and Welcome!
Another exciting issue jam-packed with new voices awaits us, and a new poem by long-time High Contrast supporter Wesley Hackenberg!
Some of you might notice a change in how I arrange my "Top Friends" on the profile page---at first I was rotating through and placing the most recent contributors on the Top Friends, but that has become too laborious of a task.
Also, "back issues" are now listed in the "Books" section.
Thank you for your support and remember---Our artists always appreciate COMMENTS!
mB
What Do You Think of Me Now?
by Wesley Hackenberg 
And you will know me by my critical words
I judge, I forsake, Im greedy and rude
I'm selfish and I have a "dont care" attitude
You think I give a damn what you think?
Probably not
Live your life, and I will live mine
If you dont like me, Im okay with that
You think Im an ass? im fine with it
Slap me around, teach me a lesson
It will only feed my hungry aggression
You wonder where I learned my behavior
My mother considers me a total stranger
Its true, point the fingers as your heart desires
Blame the innocent for my burning fire
Because your accusation of bad influence is true
It all came form you
Terzanelle of Two Day Road Trip
by Cameron James 
We inhaled forest fires with our lungs.
The only help to quench some young mind's thirst,
Drown in the sound waves of strained syllables
Messages heard to those already coerced;
The anticipation rehearsed. Honey Brown
Helps quench my eager young mind's thirst
For the moment the stage to darken. The crowd
Sparks like an Armageddon thunder cannon;
Their motions rehearsed. Another Honey Brown,
My feet tap the ground, singing without a care
About crack city rockin', homeless and spangin',
To fight like an Armageddon thunder cannon
In a whirling circle 'til the notes stop playing.
Legs heavy, my waking thoughts focus on
Songs on crack city rockin', homeless and spangin',
The road trip's over, I sink into my bed
To inhale forest fires with my lungs.
Legs heavy, my nodding thoughts focus on
Drowning in the sound waves of strained syllables.
Time Dancer
by Lori Kiszka 
Shadows from the past follow me, chase me...
The elusive memories of a time and age gone by.
Tangled particles of my being search for a home.
I am today. I am tomorrow. I am yesterday. The
Fabric of time propels my journey. The knowledge
Of eternity guides me. The melody of forever dictates
My dance.
The echoes of loves lost and won again whisper their
Secrets in my ear. I am lost, yet I belong everywhere.
I am loved, yet I am alone.
I gave birth to the sea. The sea gave birth to me. I am
Human, yet I am unique, answers to questions not yet
Revealed are my life's blood. My purpose I seek.
What mysteries have I yet to uncover? What tune have
I yet to play? What surprise will uncover itself for me at
The start of each new day?
What wisdom does a leaf hold? What song does the sun
Sing? What awaits me tomorrow? Time...The answers will
Bring. Unshackle me, my old friend time from the bondages of
This cage and set my soul free once again to sing. Let my soul
Dance upon forever upon the wings of a star. Let me find the
Answers that have escaped me thus far.
The Day
by Kinyera Mwaka 
The day I planted my seed
The day I looked forward to what I created
The day I looked at the storm that swept away the seeds from the ground
The day I got up and decided not to give in and go again
The day I did exactly what I intended to do
The day locusts came and ate my crops
The day I doubled up my production more than I ever imagined
The day nature and life alike came angrily, trying to knock off what I did
The day nature and life got exhausted trying to knock me
The day I gathered my plentiful fruition with the last smile Copyright © 2007 Kinyera Mwaka All rights reserved.
Dance in the Trees
by Jenny Lei Baird 
ordained in this perfect world you hold me in, i am stuck behind bars of my past. and the present time in which i reside in, is tainted with the shadows my future will cast.
this potent dream of reality has somehow mingled with the imaginary. and with every step my mud embraced feet take, i seep deeper and deeper into this world that you make.
and i am searching. searching on this sullen mission. i am up against a canny thief. i am up against myself.
and through storming skies and a root filled ground, i feel my way with hands that i strung and bound.
the sky is dark with quaking vengeance, the moon is covered by my own bleeding hand. and in the golden mist of these dancing trees, i alone forever stand.
and stuck here in the middle of this forest, with these trees that reach into my mind, i grasp onto the branches to pull myself up, to leave this ground and my past all behind.
and your face comes back and it haunts me. leaves visions of life my eyes can not stand to see.
and your face whispers words of gross serenity. of sanctity and harmony, all objects of life that were never me.
and you offer me all of your fortunes, you offer me the stars in the sea. but you don't understand why i hide here, up in this old forgotten and ugly tree.
you live here in your world of beauty. your world of love and your world of wealth. but i can never come down and forgive you, because in your reflection i see only myself.
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Thursday, January 25, 2007
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Category: Writing and Poetry
High Contrast--Literature of the Digital Evolution
January 24, 2007
Hello and Welcome!
I would like to start off today with a tremendous THANK YOU to Jon Sanders, who has been an invaluable help since the first days of High Contrast. In the last 24 hours he has sent us a wealth of new contributors, and I see many great issues ahead.
Also, today is my wife's Birthday, so I wish her a wonderful birthday and hope it will be a special one!
I woke up late this morning, so today is going to be one of those frantic, never-get-in-the-groove sorts of days, I see it already.....
We've got two new pieces today from long-time friends and contributors to High Contrast, Amee Boswell and Len Erickson, and pieces by several new voices I am excited to showcase. So I welcome you to today's issue of High Contrast--Literature of the Digital Evolution!
Michael J. Bernard
Flames Wash Away
by Len Erickson 
There's a burning inside me that consumes past tramplings
The fire consumes the darkness, turns pain into ash
Sunshine came through the windows of my soul
And since that day, I can't remember without you
The flames of the sunshine fire lap at my heart
Unleashing a torrent of song, flowing out of me
Like a river emptying its contents into the sea
Your eyes are the illumination of what I could be
I gaze into them and see a glow of love from deep within
They look upon me and give me hope for tomorrow
I see them and I am refreshed, given new faith
Your smile gives me strength to continue this path
To travel with you beyond forever and further
If I have to go that far it would only be an instant
A small hash mark on the timeline that is my love
For you give me someone to live for, a future
With you will be my dreams come true, my desires
Satisfied my longings contented my truths found
My love, my life fulfilled
Do not despair as I am consumed by the fire that
Roared to life inside me I will relish the warmth,
Cherish the heat languish in the bright white light of
Sunshine's fire I am reborn in the process of being
Consumed by this oh so beautiful inferno my soul is
Taken from me and united with its match my
Heart is scorched with the brilliance of you and my
Love glows white hot in our passionate blaze
Wounded Spirit
by Amee Boswell 
His silence is more powerful than the intensity of my desire,
Every minute I wait wondering, what more could he require?
The seemingly never-ending sound of the ringing in my ears,
Is leaving me no choice, but to confront my fears
Am I less than other women who are so effortlessly adored?
I think not
But still, I am ignored
I thank God for the strength of my bones,
For I lack the strength to stand, when I feel so completely alone
Anger, sadness, fear, & madness all play a part in my self doubt.
This emotion is the one that truly makes me what to scream and shout
How could I love a man who breaks my spirit, the same spirit that he once fell in love with? I know he loves me, why is too much to ask to simply hear it?
"Bows to the strong one" someone once said to me,
Where is that woman, Could she still be me?
He has been inside of me more times than a few,
He left his seed, now my child is gone too.
What more could I give him? What sacrifices could I make?
The answer is simple.
Nothing, my spirit is all that is left to take.
Wounded as it is, it is mine!
It is precious, and it is fragile and it ages like the finest of fine wines. At this moment, I take it back, and my spirit will be just fine!
A Father and his Son
By SJ Sinister 
He stands aside and watches, amazed at what he sees.
A tiny image of himself- the offspring of his seed.
Before he knows a year has passed, his child is now afoot.
Testing, tasting, exploring- the how, when, where and what.
His little one is growing fast, already starting school.
The first day is the hardest, for Dad to play it cool.
Anxiety at separation, most common so they say.
For Dad it's even harder, to have his son away.
But soon he does adjust, falling into a routine,
Of school drop off and pick up, and working in-between.
No sooner he can blink, it's graduation day,
With college on the horizon, and no more time to play.
The next four years fly by, in a crazy, hazy whirl,
Now his son is getting married, to a very lovely girl.
Within a year or two, another joins the flock,
Dad is suddenly a Grandpa, babysitting round the clock.
Now the doctor tells him, he has three months to live,
His body is worn out, and has nothing left to give.
He spends the time remembering, his life and gracious son,
Until he takes his last breath, and joins his Dad, beyond.
SJ Sinister/Copyright/2006
Sorrowful Sailor
by David "Ziggy" Koran 
To you, the land locked sailor
Who dreams at night of the sea
Of travelling the seven blue wonders
Of wandering the world, living free
Who wishes for the mighty blue ocean
Who longs for the wind in your hair
Who smiles at the stars on the water
And the warmth of the sun's brilliant glare
Take heart in your dream, forlorn sailor
Reach again for that wide, waving blue
Tomorrow you'll awake to a breath of salt air
And discover that your dream has come true.
Words Unfinished
by Jeff Allen 
Chasing the last suns ray,
Sand sticking to skin,
Replacing absolute dismay,
Darkness falling again,
Days collapse into night,
Dreams wake reality,
Subconscious insight,
Anger subsides in me,
Drunken words destroy meaning,
Emotion with no bridal,
Its on you I have been leaning,
Train tracks, engine stall,
Older now, less naive,
Complacently stuck in repeat,
Hoping for reprieve,
As we all dance with defeat,
Layers lift to expose,
Regions settled un-imposed,
Taking what you can,
Before the fear grows,
It is all there to be had,
A delicate moment in between,
For what we already had,
Words hiding from what they mean.
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Tuesday, January 23, 2007
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Category: Writing and Poetry
High Contrast--Literature of the Digital Evolution
January 23, 2007
Hello and Welcome!
I'm very excited about today's featured Fine Artist, Katsi Y. Ortiz, of Puerto Rico. I highly encourage you to check out her further works by clicking on the link at the very bottom of today's issue!
In other contributor news, Cinn McRickson has a new single out of his song "Martyr", which was featured several issues back as a poem. Click on This Link to hear Mr. McRickson's new song.
Without further ado I present to you today's High Contrast--Literature of the Digital Evolution!
Michael J. Bernard
What is Enough?
by John Calilo 
When I thought I couldn't give anymore
Your presence shook me to the core.
For others I had to force my smile
For you it never faded for awhile.
With beauty I couldn't imagine
Nor capture with words I've written
I can only hope to show you
That you're the angel I knew.
So when it seems more than enough
I still won't give up
I'll show you the kind of love
That god shows from above.
No matter when you turn to me
A greater love you will see.
I'll give you all you'd wish for
Be all you need and more.
So as God waits eternally
I will wait for the day you choose me.
My Own Path
by James Holy 
I travel my own path,
I roam and I wander,
I choose the road unwritten,
to take me further yonder,
I follow no foot steps,
barely see in front of me,
but still somehow I seem to know,
it'll take me to where I want to be,
so here I flow in the direction I seek,
there's nothing that can slow me down,
and when I reach my destination,
I'll leave a mark there on the ground,
for whoever stumbles upon my path,
so that maybe they will see,
I wasn't following anyone,
I was just trying to be me. Violence by Dawn Lianne Nyholm  Childern crying People dying can you hear the whole world sighing Death by violence evils alliance In the city streets are suicide riots Familes torn by hatreds thorn The start of satans regions born Life is so demented How can we invented
such twisted ways that god intented
Copyright ©2006 Dawn Lianne Nyholm
Trancscedental
by Demos Yannikos 
misplaced by hate
feeling the fury of fate
the only thing i need
to rise above
to be a blue flame...
is a trancscedental game.
i hear Atman calling
every time i close my eyes.
independant surrogate of the soul
this path has taken its toll
need the grounding.. to disappear;
thinner
into
the air.
the rising of the ego
from my intrinsic self
selfless; finding us,
feeling the divine soul.
"Nature" once again takes hold
for it the blood of my life
an antidote to strife.
the unity
the truth
the goodness
set in space from a solitary embrace
the mind wanders
but the mantra remains the same
PEACE is a priori
found only within.
i view the phenomina
and extract its essense
hard to comprehend the bend of the mind
focus is essential to the find
concentrated attention of comprehension
to abate all apprehensions within a contemplation
release of tension
discharge of pain
deliverance of death
within a deep deep breath.
altered state of conciousness
to shift all paradigms
in the moment
to hear the higher power
and see the synesthisia of my soul
The Artwork of Katsi Y. Ortiz 
 Pasion Xpreso
 Varda
 Caraira
 Desintegracion Antigravital
Katsí Y. Ortiz studied and obtianed a BFA in Fine Arts at the University of Puerto Rico, Recinto Universitario de Mayaguez in 2004. During that time she participated in various student art shows within the university campus and in other places. She then continued her studies at the Fashion Institute of Technology in New York where she obtained an AAS in Applied Science - Fashion Design in 2006. At present, she resides in Mayaguez where she continues to develop her work.
To see more of Ms. Ortiz's work click Here!
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Tuesday, January 23, 2007
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Category: Writing and Poetry
High Contrast--Literature of the Digital Evolution
January 22, 2007
Hello and Welcome!
I've been brainstorming on ideas that I think would be good to expand the concept of High Contrast, and you will begin to see several of these take place in the next few weeks.
I had always intended to feature Visual and Graphic Artists, and the first of these is on-hand for us today. His profiled piece of art is perfect as it is the same sort that inspired me to latch onto the name "High Contrast" so many years ago.
Also I will begin to spotlight various online publications that I respect and encourage you to submit your work to. There are also many, many resources online for poetry that I will occasionally spotlight.
The biggest thing that I can tell you is this: READ! I spoke with a few poets over the weekend and it is odd how many of us write and feel the deeply motivated need for others to read, recognize, and comment on our work, yet we don't necessarily reciprocate this into the world around us. I'm not talking about just commenting on other people's poems and blogs here on Myspace--rather, a wide appreciation for the evolution and history of Poetry (or whatever your chosen artform). I know in my own art that I tend to find it easier to create works of art of which I am proud when I have been also in the process of absorbing and appreciating the artwork of my peers and forebearers.
So, toward this end, I will be on occasion featuring classical and widely-regarded contemporary poetry so that overall we can all, in the few minutes we spend with High Contrast--Literature of the Digital Evolution each day, gain a greater appreciation not only for where this Evolution is taking us, but where it has originated from.
The following is a weekly column written by Ted Kooser, Poet Laureate of the United States from 2004-2006, that I will be including in HC-LotDE for now on.
I'd like to send extra thank-you's to my friends who I have spent a good deal of time talking with this weekend who have helped me to expand and develop my vision of HC-LotDE. Again, thank you!
Michael J. Bernard
American Life in Poetry:
BY TED KOOSER, U.S. POET LAUREATE, 2004-2006
I'd guess we've all had dreams like the one portrayed in this wistful poem by Tennessee poet Jeff Daniel Marion. And I'd guess that like me, you too have
tried to nod off again just to capture a few more moments from the past.
Reunion
by Jeff Daniel Marion
Last night in a dream
you came to me. We were young
again and you were smiling,
happy in the way a sparrow in spring
hops from branch to branch.
I took you in my arms
and swung you about, so carefree
was my youth.
What can I say?
That time wears away, draws its lines
on every feature? That we wake
to dark skies whose only answer
is rain, cold as the years
that stretch behind us, blurring
this window far from you.
Reprinted from "Lost & Found," The Sow's Ear Press, Abingdon, VA, 1994, by permission of the author. Poem copyright (c) 1994 by Jeff Daniel Marion, whose most recent book is "Ebbing & Flowing Springs: New and Selected Poems and Prose, 1976-2001," Celtic Cat Publishing, 2002. This weekly column is supported by The Poetry Foundation, The Library of Congress, and the Department of
English at the University of Nebraska-Lincoln. This column does not accept unsolicited poetry.
The Art of Andrew Henry 
 Untitled
 Geminus
 unfinished
Andrew Henry (1975)
"I like the freedom of starting a piece with no planning. The piece then takes its own form either from a shape, a line, words or a figure. Once started the pieces quickly become a work of precision and about dedicating time. Repetition (both in each piece and across my art) is important to me and the reason for the precise and detailed nature of my work. The time needed to complete the works allows for a lot of thought on my behalf as well as a great deal of patience– as time to think is precious in our crazy lives. There is a lot of detail to view in each piece. Therefore I am interested in the thoughts of the viewer of what they feel the pictures mean – if anything at all? The point is viewing the picture has allowed the individual to take a moment and think.
All drawn by hand with pigment ink, pencil and coloured ink on A2 cartridge"
--Andrew Henry
Starting Over
by Melissa R. Mendelson 
As the dim light of the television
silently keeps the night
from stealing the remains of today
from my waking moments,
my mind wanders back
to the search
of finding the blank page,
a new chapter of my life
for I am tired
of living the same story
year after year.
Nothing has changed,
but everything is different.
Yet, here I am
standing in yesterday still,
and my heart grows tired
at the thought of being trapped
within the arms of the past.
It's time to start over.
It's time to write my story.
Yet, when the book opens,
all I see
are the words of a life
still spinning in the same circle.
Where will I find the blank page?
Is the future asleep,
hidden under the veil of night,
and will all my dreams
be consumed with reliving the past?
With the pen in hand,
I flip through the pages,
hoping to find it,
somewhere to begin again,
but the search leaves me tired,
forcing me back in bed.
Now, the remains of today slip away
as night comes to close my eyes,
and as the television's light
lures me to sleep,
I hope to awake
to the end of this chapter,
where my life begins again.
Copyright 1-19-2007
Don't Make Me Take You Out for Pizza
by James A. Tropeano III
The combination of Benzodiazapans, alcohol, and stress can be a violently lethal one. This was a fact my friend Bern would find out the hard way. To say Bern is anti-social would be an understatement. You see, Bern is your typical introverted artist. A brilliantly talented introverted artist. He also happens to be one of the most passive aggressive people I've ever encountered in my life. He rarely if ever is the initiator of conversation or an avid participant in conversation. He's sort of a keep-to-himself type. Now don't get me wrong , if you know Bern, and he's kind of intoxicated, he will talk your ear off. He's also one hell of a maniac when he's been drinking all night. A fact you're about to read all about in the following pages.
At the time of this tale, Bern had been making his way as an
apprentice tattoo artist. He had studied under a fellow colleague of ours named Sidro. The relationship between Bern and Sidro always had and always will be a rocky one to say the least. On the night of this incident, Bern had his usual quarrels with Sid about why he wasn't being paid more, why he was basically Sidro's shop bitch, and an assortment of other gripes he had with his teacher. What better way to
kill the stress of the day, than to pound back a bottle of whiskey, and pop a handful of Zanex. Sounds like the perfect cocktail of stress relievers right? Wrong! If you've never tried the combination of Benzos and alcohol, I'd advice strongly against it. The combination for some reason often, if not always, sends the user into some form of
berserker rage; a fact we all were about to see first hand.
On this night, I was down at Bernie's. Bernie's is a sort of punk rock meets hip hop crowd Mecca in Columbus. This is a place you don't go to for its stunning interior decor. It's a basement bar. To say dive, would be the understatement of the century. The floors have layers of grime dating back to the bar's founding day of business. Air reeks of a strange mixture of stale booze , raw sewage, and cigarette butts. The place literally has all the ambience of a back alley. Just walking in and out of the bar will leave you with that dirty feeling you just can't wash off yourself. It's the number one spot in Columbus to hear indie bands of just about every genre. It is a virtual launching pad if you will, for many of Columbus's Hip-Hop acts, not to mention the largest variety of beers at bargain basement prices you'll ever find in Columbus or anywhere else for that matter. So what better
place is there for our crew of misfits and dope-fiends to call our home away from home? Any normal place on campus would surely have banned us for life . I was there with Verbs and Self. We'd been up for the past three days smoking speed and needed to come down, way down. So what better way to get some much needed sleep than to drink ourselves into oblivion? Verbs is a strange beast to say the least.
Think Doctor Gonzo meets Walter from The Big Lebowski with just a smidge of homo-erotic behaviors. Verbs and I are a volatile cocktail of personalities. We are rarely if ever allowed to venture off alone together with no form of supervision. This is where Self fits in the equation. You see Self always has and always will be the voice of sanity in the group. If not for Self we would probably have landed in
jail for the rest of our lives or at least several dozen times over the years. It would have been on charges of everything from arson to miss-use of a giant pig on wheels. Two loose cannons with no supervision are two too many!
So there we were, standing off in a corner drinking rum and cokes, and doing key shots of speed in the dimly lit shadows of Bernie's, when the bartender started to approach us with this puzzled angry look in his eyes. Fuck! I thought some bastard had narced us out. Probably, some fiend who I had denied a bump to. I'd castrate the fucker before we left, I thought. I could tell Verbs was on my wave-length, and surely we would have the offender's family jewels in a mason jar in no time. But I was wrong. There would be no testicle trophies on this night. The bartender had come to tell us a maniac covered in blood was trying to order a drink at the bar, and claimed to know us. He then explained he couldn't serve any form of booze to this nutcase, and since he claimed to be one of our acquaintances, It was up to us to get him out of there as peacefully as possible. So off to the bar we went, only to find Bern looking like a member of the Manson Family. His clothes were torn, and he was covered in blood from head to toe, ranting on in a strange violent semi-comprehendible tongue about bastards and whores. One look in his eyes, and you could tell he was deep into the back of beyond. A savage place I'd been many a time before personally. But with a little coaxing, and the promise of a pizza from Self, we got to him to leave the bar with us, but not before he cursed the bartender, and seven generations of the bartender's family for not serving him a simple drink.
Once we got Bern out of the bar, it was time to find exactly what the hell had transpired that evening. He then told us his tale of woe. It seems he and Sidro had one of their infamous arguments. This fact along with the Benzo and booze cocktail, had turned Bern's normally passive nature on it's ear. It had transformed him into some psychotic Mr. Hyde bent on mayhem, and destruction of anything and everything. He decided, what better way to express his rage with Sidro, then to destroy their house. We later discovered, he'd punched and kicked almost every window out in their home, mutilating his arms and legs. He also smeared his blood all over the walls for good measure. Verbs would later say , " This place makes Sharon Tate's house look like Disneyland," once we finally viewed the carnage.
We then all piled into Self's hoopty. This automobile was a maroon colored, mid 80's piece of Detroit engineering, that drove like a white-walled boat, because of it's total lack of working shocks, struts, and brakes . A true rolling scrap heap of American know how! Bern was like a Tasmanian Devil in the back seat: frothing at the mouth, slinging his blood all over the car, screaming in that strange violent drunken tongue about how we were all bastards, and whoremongers. He kept this tirade up until we arrived at Hound dog's Pizza. He only calmed down, once Self threatened not to buy him his precious pizza. It's strange how the threat of taking something as simple as a pizza away from a totally out of control drunken maniac, has a way of temporarily bringing them back to their senses, even if for only a brief moment. Now believe me, Bern's moment of sanity was a brief one to say the very least.
Hound dog's Pizza is a twenty-four hour pizza parlor. This is the perfect establishment for a bustling college town such as Columbus, Ohio. Because hunger knows no sect, click, race, or creed, on any night you can find a strange assortment of people there quite late These people range from bubble-headed drunken co-ed's, getting a bite to eat after a night of wasting daddy's money binge drinking and participating in wet t-shirt contests at one of the many campus bars, to OSU football stars cruising for drunken groupies up for late night gangbangs and sodomy, There are fraternity boys satisfying those late night cravings they get after a hard night of homo-erotic hazing rituals, and slipping Raphine's into co-ed's drinks, and pseudo-intellectual all-nighter study groupies wearing berets, smoking clove cigarettes, hopped up on Café Americanos & biscotti, arguing about Faulkner and Nietzsche. Then there are the strange gothic couples who's faces looked like pin cushions with strange self-dubbed titles like Madame Melancholy and Lord Despair, Dark Master of The Abyss, complaining how their upper-middle-class parents and society just couldn't be capable of feeling their plight. Let's not forget the bottom of the barrel dope-fiends with wild shifty eyes such as ourselves. The walls of Hound dog's
Pizza are covered in fantastic graffiti murals of the Hound dog's Pizza hound dog. The murals depict the hounding as an eight armed pizza eating deity and a leather jacket clad Elvis Presley-esque hound dog. The pizza isn't the greatest even though it is served thin crust style. This is kind of like eating a Ritz cracker with pizza sauce and toppings piled on top of it. But hey! At 3:00 in the morning, it may very well be the only place open to extinguish fiery hunger pains at such an ungodly hour. The seating ranges from booths with large King Arthur style tables of the round to typical rectangular dining tables. On this particular night we chose a King Arthur style table. So there we were, Three bug eyed tweakers and a reject from the Manson Family ordering pizza at two something in the morning. Our waitress took our order without even batting an eye. Like I said, this was a twenty-four hour eating establishment on the campus of one of the biggest party schools in the country, Odds were she had seen it all, in her time working there. So the four of us were probably the fifth such group of deviants she'd had the misfortune of waiting on that evening. With our pies ordered, drinks delivered, and our cigarettes filling the air with toxic clouds of smoke, we began to talk. The conversation consisted of Verbs and I, joking about everything from the fat guy in the corner with two large pizzas to himself, to Bern's situation and the way he looked at the moment. Self on the other hand, being the voice of reason he is, was trying his hardest to console and calm Bern down. No sooner did the pizza arrive at the table, did the unthinkable happen. Bern had been talking wildly with his hands flinging blood all over Self, and his pizza. Self had asked him several times to please stop. When Bern didn't comply with his request he simply blasted Bern right in the mouth (much to Verbs and my own disbelief). We jumped on the situation rapidly, getting both of them outside of the restaurant as quickly as possible. Upon getting outside Bern had started his craziness up again, and attacked Self in retribution for his punch in the mouth. Neither Self nor Bern are much of the fighting type. So Verbs and I thought, "Why not let them duke it out? What damage could they possibly do to one another?" This happens to be another instance with hindsight being 20/20. I found myself to be wrong because the fight that began would be a vicious battle. At one point, the two combatants wound up fighting on the hood of a Hound dog's patron's car. When the owner of the car came out in protest, Verbs and I insured him not to worry. for that model of Saturn automobile had dent resistant body panels. We began demonstrating this by kicking the whole passenger side of his car repeatedly, only to find out this wasn't the model with dent resistant body panels. The owner of the vehicle then tried to pull our two battling comrades off of his vehicle. Verbs and I, not being too big on outside interference, then preceded to chase the poor bastard around his vehicle. Somehow he managed to get into his car and take off, but not before we kicked the other side of his vehicle in. With this, we then decided it would be a good idea to separate the two of them before the pigs arrived.
Verbs secured Self in his vehicle, and drove off, leaving me to deal with the rabid Mr. Bern on my own. He was now an even bigger bloody mess. It seemed Self had split his eyebrow open. His blood was rapidly pouring out of the wound that looked oddly enough like the lips of a labia. So with Bern nursing his menstruating eye-vagina, we made our way across High St. and on to Hudson. Bern screaming at the top of his lungs, how we all were useless bastards, and how dare Self touch him! He also managed to kick every trash barrel, newspaper dispenser, and lawn ornament we encountered on our walk over. I must say, I tried my hardest to calm him down. This did nothing but turn the bastard's rage on me. He then preceded to scream at the top of his lungs about how a person lacking any moral fiber whatsoever had no right to tell him how to act. He then began screaming about the fact I cooked amphetamines for a living, and was a scourge on society. With this I could take no more. In Columbus every house is given a large green plastic dumpster to put trash in for the convenience of the sanitation department. So I told Bern since he was acting like a piece of trash, I was going to treat him like a piece of trash. I then preceded to pick him up, and throw him head first into a garbage bin, and shut the lid. This only made him more insane. He began screaming about my character and what he'd do if I didn't get him out of the dumpster immediately. So after a couple minutes contemplating on the situation, I ran up and kicked the barrel over. Bern and the rancid contents of the barrel spilled out onto the street. At this time, we happened to be about a block from his house. This was going to be one hell of a homecoming I thought. You see Bern, Self, and Sidro all shared a three bedroom house together.
Bern's rage quickly turned from me, back to Self once we entered the house. " I'm going upstairs to smash that fucker's turntables for smashing my face!" Bern screamed at the top of his lungs. Then he darted for the stairs, leaving a blood trail behind him. Like a big game hunter, I followed the wounded beast's blood trail. It seemed Self had already prepared himself for the retaliation, and was armed with a meat cleaver. Self was standing in his bedroom doorway with the meat cleaver cocked back ready to split Bern's skull in two like a fresh melon. By the time I made it to the top of the stairs, Self was swinging the cleaver at Bern wildly and yelling "Jimmie get this fucker away from me before I kill him." So once again, Verbs and myself were forced to separate them. As I escorted Bern down the stairs away from Self he did the unimaginable. At the landing of the first flight of stairs, descending into the lower level of the house, there was a window. I say was because Bern then preceded to kick the window out. He crashed halfway through the window and was now hanging by the middle of his torso about ten feet off the ground. "Holy fuckin shit you fucker! What the fuck is your major malfunction?" was all I could say as I pulled him in the window. He was now an even bloodier mess than ever. By this time both Self and Sidro were screaming at me to get this lunatic out of the house. So of course, the task of finding something to do with the rabid beast was left to me and me alone.
There was no way I could bring him to the hospital for some much needed stitches. They'd surely take one look at him in that condition, babbling about bastards, whores, whoremongers, meat cleavers ,and amphetamines, and commit him on the spot. I may have even had to explain how I came across the strange fucker,and that was the last situation I wanted to encounter with a head full of speed and liquor. So, much to my dismay, I took him to my home. Once I got him to my house, we sat on my front porch and I tried to calm him down the best that I could. I got him a glass of water, and just when I thought he'd finally calmed down, the fucking bastard takes my glass and hurls it out into the street. The early morning silence broke like the glass shattering on the asphalt. With this, I'd had it and told the fucker I was the only person at that moment who gave a fuck about him. If he didn't calm down that instant, I'd make him fend for himself, and he could sleep on the porch like the dog that he was, but not before I beat him within an inch of his life. With these threats, Bern then weighed his options and decided to calm down. I then let the bastard sleep in my bed so I knew he'd have nothing more to flip out about on this night. Then I went to lie on my couch hoping the bastard didn't bleed to death in my bed.
I didn't get too much sleep that night; it was more of a dreamlike state of mind. I was kind of floating in an out of the land of the shadow people. A delirious dream like state where you are conscious, but at the same time, the subconscious seems to be controlling the conscious. Due to the extreme sleep depravation and fueled hallucinations, you actually see people who are shadows. They are strange translucent beings. They seem to have no real distinguishing features other than size and shape like a shadow. Hence the name, shadow people. My visit to the this strange land was a quick one. No sooner than everything began to fade to black, I heard his voice "Jimmie you got to get up and take me to the hospital now." Son of a bitch! My visa to the land of the shadow people had expired. I was quickly whipped back into this realm of reality." Ok I'm up! I'm up! Jesus fuckin' Christ I'm getting up!" was my angry retort to Berns badgering.
The OSU hospital is a fine hospital where interns get to practice tying sutures into drunken, frat boys scalps. Well, that seemed to be the most popular case of that day. The place looked like it was filled with victims of a riot. There were at least ten cases of people who looked the exact same way Bern did. The place looked like they were hosting a Manson family reunion. It was littered with bloody white baseball caps (the trademark hat of the OSU frat boy). I just had to know what the fuck happened. After a little investigating on my part, I discovered a riot had erupted between a frat party and the would-be-crashers of that party. When the frat brothers told the crashers that they were not welcome, one of the would -be -crasher's smashed a bottle over one of the frat boy's head. The battle that then ensued had been an epic one. I gathered this bit of information from one of the ones involved. I bet those interns sewed at least five hundred stitches between the lot of them. Bern alone, I believe, had at least twenty-five total once they finished sewing him up.
No sooner did I finally finish with Bern, Verbs called to tell me Self didn't escape the battle unscathed. He'd shattered his thumb socket somehow and was having it screwed together as we spoke at that very moment. So the great pizza incident, as it came to be known, left both combatants hospitalized and scarred for life. So now to this very day when any of the above parties are in a dispute with each other, we simply say "Don't make me take you out for pizza!"
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