Certain

[Certain]

Certain


Also known as Tha Talent, aPaul, Calloused, Scattered Ashes, Vaudeville, Certain Serpent and other things.
Active from late 2000 to early 2005, intermittently active from 2006 through 2010 and active again from July 2013 to the present.
Posted on most of the major textcee boards, making RhymeNReason and Netcees home and RapMusic, D12World, ProjectRhyme and UrbanProwlers regular stops, but this work is all from time as Certain, since 2013.

[Certain]

Open Mic (solo)

Thrilla
Posted on June 19, 2016

This fucking pugnacious pugilist. Stalking the ring like
he owns the damn place, walking with swinging grace
and moving with fluid nuance. Shaking up the world,
one combo at a time, one dishonorable decline.
Evasive — duck and curl. Tuck and hurl punches
like they’re nothing. Striking something deeper in the fabric
of our emaciated nation. We needed his madness.
We needed his graceful degradations, steeped in a tragic
figure of an unforgettable age. Shaking with rage, to
shaking with the creeping lens of sadness.
The pagan, he waits. Sold his visions to false prophets.
Sold his image to cold profits. Sold his limits to our audience.
Kept us engaged. What more can we ask for?
Our Louisville Slugger, The Greatest, one vainglorious bastard.



Amtrak Depot, Penn Station, New York.
Posted on March 24, 2015

Crusted corners of eyes sweeping the room,
strained by the fluorescent lights' deepening gloom.
We're fucking glowing in sadness.
Track delay, explosive reactions,
with coffee and body odor corroding the transit.
And we're bundled.
It's cold outside. We're stuck in the sweat pit.
Funneling frustrations through each thrust at the exits.
The mad scramble. It's love at first neck twist.
She wore leather boots and kept her head down as she texted.
Avoid eye contact, part of the (dys)functional checklist,
along with keeping track of belonging,
but none of us should be here. We're passing along.
Vagabonds of the moment. Glum cast of despondents.
She wore a winter hat, revealing a flash of her blond head.
Amanda. Might be her name. Looks like an Amanda.
The scrum reduces us to ticket numbers, turnstiles and bar scanners.
Book readers. Nook readers. Newspaper glancers.
With the turn of each page, no escape and no answers.
The seats are padded, yet the backs jettison any attempt at rest.
Still Amanda coils her boots under her leggings to stretch.
We're two hours late, discussing the weather but stuck inside,
refreshing devices in hopes of finding another ride.
Security points. Don't pet the dogs. Please step up and right.

"Now boarding":

Amanda, my love,

good-bye.



(You are all nothing but) CHATTEL RAP 1
Posted on Nov. 4, 2014

Welcome to my showcase, my masterpiece.
Insurrection? Your whole race tastes mass defeat.
My heart is from a cold place, a lab complete with the coding for retractive teeth.
Your souls are left exploding at the pastor's knees if I even get a notion of your blasphemy.
I'll mold your thoughts with codeine and gaseous speed so that you overdose and nosebleed as you gasp to breathe.
I'm an overload of proteins, amino assassin's creed,
Styx swimmer, devoted heathen with a dash of Jesus,
and if you provoke a ghost or demon, you'll face the wrath of me.
I was first seen in the groves of Eden, with a grasp on Eve.
That's Certain Serpent. Shotguns kick back at the sight.
I read the future in patterns of light.
Like roaches, they scatter and hide,
but I'm tactless, a savage defined by my most massive of minds
and followed by a hungry horde of ugly whores and scavenger-types.
They shall know me by the trail of blood,
there's no period. I fill ovaries with a pail of come,
while most of you are lonely and will fail at love.
Holding close to rosaries won't derail my run, as I send shots through broken screams that never sail. They hum.
I am the shadow reason for your pessimism.
When the cattle bleed, it's time for exorcism.
Talking back would seem to have your head go missing,
and the last to laugh and tease found their anal cavities were beset by fists and the cast-iron release of a Texas Christmas.
So to battle me wasn't your best decision.



No cream, no sugar.
Posted on July 30, 2014

There's a moment when the barista calls my order (a large coffee — no cream, no sugar) that gives me this pleasurable sense of superiority over my fellow man. In that instant, as that midlife crisis asshat unsheathes a straw for his caramel-hazelnut frappuccino with a chocolate drizzle over the whipped cream topping, I think to myself, "What a faggot."

The following moment is when I hate myself most. So the man enjoys a sweet treat on his way to work. He's probably making more than me. He probably goes home to a couple kids and a wife who, though past her prime, still smiles when she sees his minivan pull into the driveway. Maybe he has a sense of purpose. Maybe I could be more like that guy if I drank a caramel-hazelnut frappuccino with a chocolate drizzle over the whipped cream topping and retreated to my dad-mobile with a Steely Dan album cranked to level 8 out of 20.

Maybe I could quit with the self-loathing and Joy Division knockoffs for a second. Am I better for listening to Echo & the Bunnymen? Can you impress someone when you're too aloof even to talk to them? The bags under my eyes suggest that coffee is more for getting energy than because I enjoy the bitterness. But don't I? What am I even going to expend that 365 milligrams of caffeine on, anyway? Another day of listlessly writing for no one in particular and trying to make it through a career that seems short on cash and long on insecurity.

Besides, it's an iced coffee.



Let fig baby down.
Posted on July 15, 2014

Tabulate everything I owe. It still wouldn't equate. Couldn't we shake and bring the rope back to this frozen corridor that we've existed in. Missing witnesses to everything we envisioned then. Stood as we ate the fruit of the poison apple tree. Passively. Retroactively. Grasping me. Is this still happening? Falling back into old habits'll make you die slow. We're better off with separate time zones. We're better off with nothing left but sudden death. Overtime goals. And we're working overtime. Separate. It never meant anything. Except everything. Except settling for nothing. Evergreen. That's boring. Meddling past torments. What could we be? Except a couple of fools, stumbling around, breaking the rules on rap forums.

I never meant to hurt you. But I never regretted it. Settled for messages. Private. Evidenced testosterone and prevalent gloss cologne. Sentiments. Overtones. I'm sober. My mouth is dry. Knocked over an ounce of rye. Shot glass but it never shattered. Severed matters with bare hands. But you were the empty cup. I was the puddle. Surprisingly muddled.



Stakes.
Posted on June 11, 2014

I'm a broken record, skipping pebbles across the pond.
A rebel who lost his cause, stubble accosts the jaw.
Debonair? Probably not. Neckless turtle conforming to shell.
Dormant; swore it was hell but cursively mourned it myself
in letters that never meant anything until they served as a portrait befell.
Blazing arrow, regifted but misguided, tortured, repelled.
You pulled that excuse out of your ass. Of course it would smell.
I enter to a coroner's knell. But this isn't about death.
I promise, this isn't about death. I promise.
I've written my bounced checks.
This isn't about death.
I promise.
Did I mention I'm a consummate liar conquering rhythms without depth?
Feel that bass drop. That's a fish. It wriggled from our nets.
Now we're all going to starve. But this isn't about death.
We're turning over in comfortable linens in our beds,
trying to get the tuck right as we fidget and count threads.
But maybe there's more to this than digits and loud sex.
No, that can't be right. Let's revisit the crowd's bets.
They want exquisitely loud sex, with gymnastic contortions,
and gold-wire coat-hangers for more-dapper abortions.
Let's recast our extortions as the economy forces a trickle-down,
but when I ride with the chrome, there's no horses or triple crowns.



Transatlanticism.
Posted on April 7, 2014

Nervous fidget. I'm here. You're here. We're here.
And as worst fears evaporate
I calculate turns near.
Do we run?
Run together. Run away. Run forever.
Come December, we'll hibernate in the tundra desert.
We'll snuggle under sweaters.
Something. Nothing. Hunger sets in.
The apple of my eye or the gum I stepped in?
We're moving fast. We come in sessions.
Love as weapon.
Bellicose.
Your smell of rose aroused.
We tumble, breathless.
We.
We waited and
yet still seem so young and restless.
The buzz of a hundred texts.
Selfie and emoji are in Webster's now,
but I just figured out how to relate to you.
But I just figured out how to escape into your graceful hue
as we chase rainbows.
Reach out and touch.

Me. You. Us.



SOCIO-ECONOMIC RAMIFICATION: CHAMPAGNE IN A PAPER CUP
Posted on April 3, 2014

Jerry woke at 6:10 a.m. day by day
and made his way to the bathroom to brush his teeth and shave his grays.
Jerry moved at snail's pace at first but soon found speed with shower's help
and kissed Sue and powered out to work where he would drown himself.
The paper-pushing passed the time, he'd say, and Jerry didn't mind the laze
of every stitch of dry malaise if he could head off by 5 most days.

It's 3:42 p.m. Friday, and Doris stops by Jerry's cubicle.
"Jerry, Mr. Roosevelt would like to discuss some news with you.
Please go to his office as soon as possible. Thank you, though, hun."
Doris had a Midwestern perkiness and breasts to hang your coat on.
So Jerry stopped on his latest report and made the trek to Office 6,
the biggest on the floor, but still three down from top execs.
Mr. Roosevelt was on the phone but hung it up when Jerry arrived,
and ushered Jerry in with a silent sweep of his arm from left to his right.
"Jerry, thank you for coming, and so promptly, I might add."
With the gaudy office light, Mr. Roosevelt's eyes were coffee in a wine glass.
"You've been with us for 16 years and know this company back and forth,
and in that time, you've handled business with a certain tactful course.
But now, in last resort, I have to do what — crap, ol' sport —
I don't want to have to do this, but it's time you pack up fort."
No laugh. No snort.

Jerry stared at the floor for minutes, contemplating mortgage payments
and Terrence's tuition. And that new roof. And, of course, his parents.
They would need support and caring soon. Instead, defaults would come.
Jerry stared at the 12-foot window and imagined a vaulting jump.

Instead, Jerry put his pictures in boxes and gave away his stash of pens.
Jerry said good-bye to Nancy and George but mostly lacked the head
to offer fake farewells to people Jerry didn't really like or dislike.
So he stacked his books and bobble heads and hiked to his ride.
The Camry felt cramped as Jerry jammed his stuff in the back.
There's that muffler again. There's that sputter on gas.

Jerry pulled into his driveway and sat in the car for a few.
trying to pull together the words to explain this garbage to Sue.
When he walked in, the lights flickered on. "SURPRISE!" in a great erupt.
The banner said, "HERE'S TO THE NEXT 50!" in colorful display above.
And Susan came to him first, with a kiss and champagne in a paper cup.



Dinghy.
Posted on March 29, 2014

The lake is made of crystals.
It shimmers to the touch but mostly
goes undisturbed. Too often
left to its own depths and the contents that consume it.
That it consumes.
The lake stares back
some nights
with the moonlight and the chirps of crickets
and a thousand tears filling its oversized puddle.
It's reaching out. It's flat. It's drowning,
and there's no one there to
throw that life preserver from the abandoned pier.
There's only the lake.
And me.



Paragraph style.
Posted on Dec. 16, 2013

Obnoxioucrat. Literarary litterer.
I glittered when I wrote this. Unfocused.
Would you like socks with that? Red or White?
I've got you dead to writes.
Spray bottles of insecticide to infect the hive,
but pests survive.
She came with the crescent thighs. Hurry up with my damn crescent rolls.
She came undressed with eyes. Uglitoris with the scent of mold.
I'm sentient. Subterfuge centerfold
in this week's edition of Playpenthustlajuggs.
Pitch a tent.
It's cold, so don't forget to start a fire.
Unlike Truman, Day, China, Ray or DiMaggio.
Laced in Versace, though I just learned what's a Bugatti.
Ghost.
Lugging a saké toast. Rugby or hockey pose?
Smile for the proof that I'm not morose.
Known to lock and load, so don't get cocky, bro.
The block is hot, better call the fireman.
Got brews? I'll swallow entire cans.
I'd shake on it, but you didn't wash and dry your hands,
you fucking animal.



Scrambled.
Posted on Dec. 11, 2013

I've cracked a few
eggs
in my time.
They were about the size of
your eyes.
And they never really meant much to me.
And they never meant much to me.
And they never meant much.
And they never.
I never.
We weren't more than that, those bubbling eggs
on the griddle's surface,
popping and sizzling beneath the bacon's
fat.
Breakfast is the most important meal of the day,
but it's dinnertime.
And the toast is burnt.



We're all dying, anyway.
Posted on Aug. 14, 2013

I'm a machete-wound tourniquet with the petty, rude earnestness
of heavy-boobed surrogates who envy dudes' perkiness.
Close my clip out. Steady, true, murderous. Frozen pin bout.
Heavens' blue firmaments holding Poland Spring's spout.
Exploded ink fount. Called to write my passages over rig towns
Walter White nefarious. Sober wig out in coffin-sized chariots.
Close my clip out. Altar rites. Marry us. Halter-bride fairy dust.
Broken-wing angels often fly clear of us. Joker ring, mangled.
Votive Spring candle. Only thing handled was hoping she'd cancel.

I'm a faceless shadow of death. Escape the cattle call.
Vexed, strafe with paddles. Incest. Change the battle log.
Crescent-moon habitual. Death and gloom, the visual.
Press it smooth. Best refuse metal tools for victuals.
Urbane elitist tested through the rituals but remained a deist.
Strange completeness strained the preachers, Cobain and Seacrest.
Cannon-fodder byproducts spray the bleachers. God'll try profit
but stain his T-shirt with the logo of ample-bodied sly foxes.
Trample hotties. Rhinoc'ros. Sands. Mogavi. Time Cop.
Cigarette-burnt fingertips. Lift the dead bird, Icharus.
Bigger heads burn quicker. Slip the sick their meds. Turn into us.



Disengaged.
Posted on Aug. 10, 2013

My friends are happier than me. So fucking magically complete.
We're on the same side of the fence, but their grass is always green.
I try grasping hold to last afloat, but tragically, I sink.
A practically obese 20-something still trying to grapple with his dreams.
Take a gasp and hold it deep. Release. Even smoke will fade.
And I've already choked away half my odds to procreate.
These bitches pose and wave with diamonds the size of herpes blisters.
Duck-faced, perfect picture. Raise your glass and burn your liver.
I'm fucking happy for them. Or at least I'll take my turn, deliver
the kind of worthless sermon heard in wedding toasts and bourbon whispers.
Never mind those nervous whimpers coming from the corner stool.
I'd rather be alone amid a hundred drunk and horny fools.
I breathe the muck and sordid gloom. Escape, a sunken, torn recluse.
Alone again, I stumble toward another sullen, poor excuse.
Alone again, I need to reprioritize.
But when I sleep I feel the horror slice deeper than reaper's sharpened scythe.
Awake. I keep one darkened eye on the pillow lying next to me.
It's empty. It's lonely. It's jealous.
I hide my empathy.



Underappreciated.
Posted on Aug. 5, 2013

My spark plugs are blown. Is someone home?
I'm trying to get my life up and goin'.
From dusk 'til gloam, I'll bust my butt and roam,
trying to function alone
with nothing but a crusted bone and this fucking poem.
Ready to cut a throat like a young Capone.
Trying to better my reach as I work to touch the throne.
Predators creep ahead of the weak, but I serve and protect.
So let's settle this beef with a murderous bet.
Yes, I'd prefer to the death. I'm winning either way
and would certainly get the perfect event if the tourniquet bled.
I deserve some respect, yet I work and I sweat
and take the perks of each check to the Perkins for eggs.
I'm always here, Mr. Dependable with the irreversible debt
and a landlord who isn't curbing the rent.
About to burst with regret.
Would that nervousness end with a funeral?
No one ever forgets the beautiful.



OK, Cupid.
Posted on Aug. 1, 2013

I hog both armrests at the movie theater.
I'm a moving sleeper who rudely steals sheets after using reefer.
I scribble indiscriminately in my looseleaf keeper.
My shoes are usually sneakers that match my blueish T-shirts.
But if I move to meet her, I'll probably look the part.
And if her eyes are blue and deep, she'll probably hook my heart.
I'm open book to start, unlike these awful bros,
but that doesn't mean you shouldn't take off your clothes.
I scoff at profiles with broken grammar,
but I'm too much of a dope to hold any ho to standards.
I joke at random. My broken handle on social dynamics
makes it difficult to hold your hand when mine is soaked with man-sweat.
I'm embarrassed to be on here.
I have friends in real life, too,
but they're happy, while I'm ... on here.
I haven't had sex twice in the same week in six months.
And though I can whip up something about tryst love, let's face it:
I'm mostly here to get my dick sucked.



Astroglide.
Posted on July 26, 2013

The walls are bubbling. Water damage,
it could all come tumbling down.
But before I can stall my stumbling,
I fall. The bumbling clown finds his first laugh.
The mindless words snap with ease,
but beliefs are a timeless burlap
to store your sorrows in, so find a church fast.
Pour the porridge into three bowls of different size,
and watch as the pretty blonde robs these bitches blind.
If you did survive the grits and grime, you'd probably look at God in a vivid light.
But I haven't had shit to fight.
I'll gather a spliff and write about madness that visits nights
and weekends. My sleep ends when I get home from work.
Bemoaned, I turn over in bed, but stone-sober I fled to cold-shoulder events.
I'm thrown over the edge by vicious bitches. Alone at church,
this apartment is my only perch.

And I've got to hang my hat somewhere.



Awake.
Posted on July 20, 2013

I never much figured myself for a ghost,
but transparency apparently develops alone.
I'm an open book, hopeless crook enveloped and stoned,
melodramatic and one hell of an addict.
I've leveled with loans,
but I'm better off broke.
My method in madness is wrestling sadness,
desolate moans caressing my throat as I'm stressed and I'm battered.
But you'll never quite shatter the rest of my hope.
I incessantly coax my head to the stone
but the sleep never comes, the eye sockets turn to gum.
Chewed up and spit out like the rest of this dump.
I'm buried by nothingness, confessing to none,
writing letters in Notepad,
the computer fan hums.
And the capillaries in my eyes start to burn as they burst.
I'm not depressed. I'm not depressed. I'm not depressed.
Take a turn for the worse.

Turn off the lights.

[Certain]

Open Mic (collaborations)

Big Apple fanatics. with Mike Wrecka
Posted Oct. 15, 2014

yo
im the awesomest , no one could rhyme better,
im the boss at this, call me Mr. Steinbrenner,
the interlocking letters, atop my New Era,
were forged in a melting pot with true pressure
bow in the presence of greatness,
this dynasty keeps giving gifts, its been so damn gracious,
if you come round here , repping other places,
Ill break your legs like Lawrence Taylor did while wasted,
face it, you lames are just so damn basic,
94 proved, winning is contagious,
refuse to lose, that's how your supposed to live,
go hard on the block, like Charles Oakley did,
when its time to battle, I got unlimited ammo,
as I go to the pen, its Girardi, Mariano,
game over, never sober, love to catch a buzz
taking more shots than Alex Rodriguez does,
am I coming off hyper?, need to mellow out?,
naaa Melo aint out, he just re-signed and bought a bigger house,
and to my rivals , just know that your hate is wack,
cause in the end, I come through, like jeter in his last at bat,
no matter where im at, this passion will never die,
cause till the casket drops im representin NY

I have 27 rings on my middle finger. Feeling specious,
killing speakers with my "luckiest man" chilling speeches.
So clear your bleachers. Certain's known from Flatbush to Bronx.
The islands are mine: I've got Long, Manhattan and Staten ensconced.
Flatten your brims like a quarterback sacked by Yumeniora.
When the madness begins, I retract and come back as a human horror.
You're out of your league. Go back to the minors,
Me? My cash supply is something like Paul O'Neil's bat supplier.
The Cap's retired, but I'm Brett Gardner, getting on first with ease.
Stealing a base, your girl and Curtis Granderson's job security.
The fuck are you thinking? Train's moving. Ride or get off it
or I'll have you passing out faster than Calderon in the triangle offense.
My swagger rivals obnoxious, strut in and boast a grimey gaze.
One look, cowards'll stutter like John Sterling for most of '98.
Sublimely great: The Sultan of Swat, Colossus of Clout.
Smalls'll be taught in all I'm about: calling my shot and watching it out.
Stopping to pose. No autographs please. All the kids want to be me.
Broadway's best: They let me drunkenly kiss married women on TV.
And you? You're nothing to see, please. You're a bastard, a sad urchin.
With delusions of grandeur, you're a bad person — practically Chad Curtis.



Witnessing serpents. with Witty
Posted Aug. 26, 2014

There's only darkness.
Periorbital coils terraforming my face.
The stereo's on. Cliff Burton, tearing chords on the bass.
Death metal brings life to this gloaming.
Striking a tone in my serotonin. Pulsating break beats
that we convulse to. Rain bleeds down the glass,
a mirror into your undulating nape's crease.
Eyes shut.
Aluminum taste creeps onto the tip of my tongue.
Dripping with rum, we're better off skipping the rungs
and falling flat on our faces, swollen from restlessness.
Absolved through our penitence, sorrow and reverence,
but we'll never sleep tight with tomorrow's experiment.

I've read all the text of Jesus, does God possess the thesis?
Or does one hypocritical verse mean all the rest is specious?
Insomnia releases me from the matrix
But makes me wonder out loud if the code's real
I know I can dodge the bullet
But still sweat drips from my brow to the cold steel
He has a grip on my shoulders and a knife in my back
There's no light on the path when you're fighting the past
As I'm searching through my playlist in the hope of finding a track
That will cause my mind to relax, I'm feeling frightened, abashed
Lighting this weed, no point in fighting this grief
When I'll never overcome it, I'm a slave to the lies and deceit
Strangely finding intrigue in how my mind has betrayed my soul
I don't pray for gold, I pray for just one day to escape the cold
That decays my bones, feeling much older than my age
In real life I'm quiet, I'm much bolder on the page
Crippled by the weight on my shoulders from the rage
As I beg my mind to readjust....now here goes another phase
I change addictions like underwear, addicted to nothing but addiction itself
In my youth writing was my life, I felt like diction was wealth
But how can I make people like my writing when I'm sick of myself?
So I write a few lines upon the page and then it sits on the shelf
Because I can't decide who I want to be, it's ridiculous...help!
I feel like a prisoner but the prison's in stealth
Only I know it exists, it's only me who sits in these cells
All because a bitch told me she'd be with me in sickness and health
And then taught me that people really only think of themselves
Insomnia speaks to me, he tells me she cheated me, he is my only friend
I have to stay awake, because together we will never be alone again.

Embers bleed. Coals repent. The fire speaks to lonely men.
Retired, weakened. Lies and preaching.
Wires weaken, fold and bend,
but this marionette remains high-strung and tightly wound.
I'm lost. I might be found. But it won't be by a righteous crowd.
It won't be by a burning bush. First we took the light from town,
then we walked along the path, jotting every sight and sound.
But nothing ever mattered.
Nothing but your broken promises.
You dust me off with top-button scoffs and cold-shoulder politics.
Kisses soaked in collagen. Dismissive, but I fled before it.
The sun rose. The chain bridge crossed the river to a better morning.



Champagne. with Malachi
Posted Aug. 23, 2014

Plat plaques in my grasp, what more of could I ask?
Rap on my back and shit aint even spraining my spine
Shits reallly been straining on my mind
How now Dimes just aimin for my dimes
Used to be I couldnt find a quarter of they time
to spend but now Prophet got signed like a check
and this brown skinned Penny's scent round my pent startin to make sense
but fuck it tho...
Shit still aint changed
Still tryna stay sane or maybe play sane n maintain
Still tryna lessen the stressin, countin my blessings
but its hard steppin in the Right direction when you Left in depression.
Depressing how the press and the media just gettin greedier
to catch a nigga slippin, envision me trippin
On a mission to see me go missin, but shit it was written
so know I dont stiffen nor listen
i keep distance from these vultures, fake as sculptures
That only speak to wet they beak but was countin sheep
when I was beneath my peak but deceit is whats expected for certain
Serpents lurk and slither, watching my figures like anorexics
urging for me to get withered out the picture
They get scissored out it quicker
but fuck it tho I aint had shit handed to me but malice
MY palms been calloused
I practiced my practice and went from Styrofoam to chalice
Now departed from apartments I go home to lavish
but still cant find room for balance in this palace...

...15 minutes later...

Squandered a heap, the hardest defeat is looking back.
Smart on the streets. Booked with rap, carved up the beats
but never quite built a presence. Time filled the crevice.
Now marking my dreams as past lives. Flashlights
only make it harder to see as the darkness sparks my deceits.
Lying to friends, trying to find time to make ends.
Studio called me last week. Asked for my card and my key.
Locked out of the game, discarded. The final pretend,
threw my chain off a bridge. Watched it sway in the wind,
but the weight on my neck stayed heavy. Patience is thin.
Career emergency brake. Unnervingly pace
around my studio apartment, imagining the way that it ends.
Paying the rent when your coffers are empty,
after paying for friends to order lobster and Henny.
Burnt up. Burnt out. The latest greatest emcee to disappear.
They say, "It's criminal what the game did to you,"
but who's the victim here?



Meth is everything wrong with this world. with Figurative
Posted Aug. 16, 2014

FIGURATIVE
Meths been a bitch since his parents split
in a terrible car crash. they were ripped in half.
the carnage..
Meth cried till his eyes were red as his bleeding puss
though the red seeped in his features, leaving him with this... evilish look.
like a devil or a demon clown. can you see it now?
a sobbing, heavy breathing, stout teen getting the reach around.
degrees emanating from his fire crotch fry entire blocks.
his pubes aint even red. its just the chaffing from his nightly walks
in trash bag suits. what an ass hat. proof
that he's pussy to the bone's what the cat scan proves
such a class act douche. he's got a library card
that he keeps in his ass because his dumb ass cant read

CERTAIN
Redheaded stepchild. Literally. Meth is the worst bitch.
Adjectives can't capture this nerd, but let's settle for "worthless."
It all started where it always does, trapped in the closet,
Meth tries to match his carrot-colored pubic hair with fashions from Target.
He went to school in an traffic cone, bespeckled in orange,
and blamed the wardrobe for why he was heckled in art class
rather than taking a look at his sketches of penis envy.
"I just like drawing dicks, Dad!" The sex was demeaning, empty.
He took tips at the truck stop. Glory hole circuit, becoming the best,
Two at a time. One in the mouth, one in the left, all while thumbing his text.
Yeah, he won Time to Kill IV midgag with a thumb in his rectum.
First he got the money from all the sex. The power? Knucklehead blessed.
But with that fat fucking freckle-face, even crackwhores want none of that Meth.



Torture papers. with trap and Lars
Posted on Aug. 3, 2014

an unstoppable force captured the essence of my being
so i chartered a course & masked the questions that were reeling
in my thought process, released my heart in jest
expressed the need to exceed past the dark arch-es
on a torn parchment, my own blood on the quill
i wrote immense rage on the pages still my love ran still
named them the torture papers for its obvious reason
deranged in the brain for the remaining season
battled tremendous odds, yet maintained the same even
shows the length i would go to withstand demands of treason

I'm not an obvious sort. Cobbled together half-heartedly
some thoughts from assorted sordid cartographies
of this map through your arteries. I'm trying in vain.
Lying, deranged but finally, unsightly we gain
something more worthwhile than fighting again.
And it isn't worth waiting nine months for life to begin.
I want feel everything. I've never healed. My wounds
are just the first part of my black hole of a soul that'll keep you consumed.
I'm done. There's nothing left in this shell of a person.
The sun won't rise until my pride has settled for certain.

My ever-so-perfect imperfections make up who I am
as well as confirming my ascendance to becoming a man.
When one can look at their past and not gloss over mistakes
as something that saddens them,
but of the progress they've made.
No-one's to blame. Life's morbidly short.
The road that you've taken was yours to explore.
So cause a furore every once in a while,
ignoring conformity. Wake up with a smile.
Do something your wildest dreams couldn’t imagine,
- interrupting the silence and disrupting the balance.



Neighborhood. with Split Eight
Posted on Feb. 5, 2014

The leaves are brown now.
The smoke twists from chimneys and lips.
Our feet crunch across sidewalks, embracing how dimly they're lit.
We know these streets, spinning and flipped.
The broken seams of parochial dreams driven to shit.
Jessica Hardy's home. Crimson, her kiss. We envision its bliss.
We move in silence, our jaws tight with simpering grins.
We know these streets, the left turn onto Braddock Lane,
and how if you pass the Rays' fence, their Doberman Tazz will play.
Mr. Ray — he asked for "Wayne" — would laugh and wave,
but we know these streets, and he's sad most days since Gloria passed away.
There's no one here now. Newspapers on the lawns.
There's no one on these streets except us pacing through our yawns.

We ruled these alleys, and dead ends, from bicycle pegs.
Manhunt. GameBoy Advancing from curbs, with a tally
of lifes left, wailing excuses like life vests to hurl in the wind.
When it rained, we commuted through droplets,
and for the world we bought that if you stopped then you got wet.
Contacts have split, been lost or decayed. I'm playing my numbers.
It's raining page to the cover. How many half-lives still tune into listen?
Neighbors refinish for funeral sit-ins. We're all due to revisit.
Whose funeral is it? We've grown into strangers playing lawyer,
or doctor, and then resume after Christmas. Is it a boy or a daughter?
Dated her once. Boy met a girl, left his moves in his pocket.
Cold comes and uncurls like the showers, or potholes on Cottage.
You don't have to stay for much longer.
Mr. Kinnon's washing Chris's toys in the carport. We must be shitty adults,
Playing pretend is an indoors affair, clinking empty glasses
and again when we let them fill up.
Who are we, on these empty aves, to admit we indulge?
No one mastered the pattern of sympathy,
just counted along from flash of the bulb.
Pity's a fashionable fault. I'd rather get lost
in the attic, unpacking the vault of pennies and cars,
Oxfords, spiderwebbed silky black scarves,
to spin stories that shop through the shelves
in old bedrooms of friends.

Every street sign on Elm has been taken by horror fanatics,
or was it the collarless vandals?
Incorrigible bastards broken by the same streets we know so well.
Bringing in pictures of My Dog Skip for show and tell.
Pedal-pushers. Peddle-pushers. We spoke in Braille,
feeling out the situation. Eloping failed. You can't leave.
We don't know the highways like the back alleys.
Time waits for no last rally. Buzzer-beaters uncompleted
leave us hunting Jesus through these byways, pitch-black valleys.
There's something in the air.
It's Jeremy Martin smoking in his parent's garage.
Another careless facade.
Another street we've walked barefoot to god.



Confidence in ooze. with Vividlyvague
Posted on Dec. 14, 2013

VIVIDLYVAGUE
A departure from the the larva's ascent...
For one to grow so, I've shrunken by large and harvest resent-
ment for counterparts in arts I've, over time, decided neglect-
ing. Bent. But equally as starved of affection,
That I seek it from the peanut gallery in charge of inspection.
Introspection is the writer's reflection...
But what of pretention? The spite of inception?
A father famed and drifting. childless, respected.
The unfortunate offspring in the shadow of legends.
Posturing in mirrors, gesturing sessions...
Overcompensation in company, but separate
One is rarely expected of, or selected
as dad would,
Because on November 1st, the second skin is a shedded fit.
Fuck a lame's incepid conception. I'm not irrelevant.

CERTAIN
I've been more trigger-happy than usual lately,
with luminous hatred consuming my faceless identity
until I'm fruitlessly pacing.
I want to be better, too.
It's prudent to straighten your tie before a job interview.
Cheeks betray impossible youth. Eyes betray nothing.
Pining for trust. Sighs became dust in the wind.
Lies became push-pins,
tacking up accomplishments.
Shacked up, reading back issues of The Economist.
I'm harmless. Yes, I advocate disarmament
but spew homing missiles latching on to targets and
passively regard death as a passing fad, a martyr's rest.
But you're all I've ever wanted.



Paragraph Precedence with CopyPat, Lars, Split Eight and Darth Yoda
Posted on Oct. 30, 2013

i want to do something lighthearted. with lots of rhymes and stuff.

Copy:
Did somebody say…
Lighthearted with lots of rhymes and stuff? My mics started, its cocky time, whatsup? I write varnish with glossy lines and brush you mild artists with monotonous styles that suck. I’m like farmers, my chop is prime when I cut, my mic harvests in bulk supply what you love. I’m multi rhymin this up, I’m Dull combined with some Bwah, and Vulgar lines for you Brahs, emulsified when I bust. I ultraviolet you fucks like hotel exposés. This son is blinding you chumps.. oh well, get some rays. Coattail texters stay riding my thick cape. My flow stay Texas, way I fry you in this state. The brightest to spit waves, the title is sick. Spray tidals amidst lame writers who drip H..Two Oh, you know that my style is a big lake. Submerging so deep like I’m diving with fish eggs. I’m kindof a dick eh? My flow is the soggiest. I rhyme in a big way, the whole enchilada shit. Your flowin is on the fritz.. leaky faucet style. I’m blowin the nozzle tips, leave you sopping style. Reading Copy’s files like swimming in flood plains. Leave ya body dyed from the drizzling blood stains.

Lars:
Freedom costs a price, I'll give you my months pay, to leave me off the right of the wilderness. Drunkscape. I'll even offer twice what you were wishing for, cuntface. Fishing for someplace instead of compliments in this digital upgrade we're heading nonetheless. I convalesce with Cherry's Darlings in rotten bedroom-esque apartments. I've lost my head and Penny Farthing but what the heck? Lets get it started. I’m Boba Fett, the deadly marksman atop the deck ya fledgling starship offing heads and pressing targets. I’ve got the stench of every carcass and rotten eggs filling my nose. I’m plotting deaths, thinking of home & what I left. Glimmer of hope dithering slowly. Living alone isn’t as rosy as my palms are. I’m nosy as an aardvark. Blow me, I’m a lard arse who stays loaded up with Mars bars, blowing dust with rass clarts and known for hustling card sharks.

Certain:
I'm too compulsive to miss an apostrophe. Get off of me. I've got a dismissive discography, giving bitches shit for their witless phrenology: medulla oblongata weak. Preach, brother. I see Yoda in the street hovering with speech bubbles like Batman. Adam West. Bang zoom. I've got unique tumbleweed deep puzzles to keep smothering weak-muscled emcees under me. Shatter chests. Bang zoom. King-sized master bed swag, too. Let me plaster that crag-tooth bitch with a right hook. After, I'll cuddle up with a nice book. Black president. Whites shook. Track residents with spy crooks. Wax endless yet my ears are clean. Weird with schemes, medium rare but completely raw. I'm decent y'all. Speeding off with prosthesis clogs. I'm nothing less than a ouija God trapped in a genie jar.

Split Eight:
I don't know what I'm facing, but I'll still go super-saiyan. Do a mean Vegeta, lethal and brainless when I steep in deep focus and apex. Trade up my homies, steam cook their faces, lemon-law with citrus arrangement, capers and codeine. That shimmery shine is simply the greed in my iris. I'm an aikido goliath, chain locks, spit keys and arm-bars. I don't bow at the knee for encore pleas, I crowdsource, pressure-point deep in thugs who freely bound forth, like stretching knees for olympic parkour. Fifteen thou logarithmic foot-pounds of torque. Slipstream, carve curves, in tidal-locked waves of jugular blood spurts. Final fantasy, I fucks with the sunburst.

Darth Yoda:
Want to know the reason I'm speaking so oddly and write? I'll let you in ona secret. (he's) Uniquely ungodly at times. You're a leaflet. Precariously perched on this tree. To me you're a branch or a vine. Styles golden. Money doesn't grow in the wrong tree you're barking up, riep. Most critics critiquing call me a genius, compared to Einstein cause' Neitzsche is harder to type. Technique is an embodiment thesis, get sparks to ignite. Cryogenic telekinesis. Embodying Jesus, reading Psalms 2-through-5. Your highly facetious style in speak, is beneath in kilometers, I'm. A philosopher. A novelist poet, wound in conduit, unbeknownst. No theologian known to man could understand why I ordered sculptors to sculpt by hand my monolith with me hunched over as if I were blowing gas. I'm just morbid. I like to call myself an existenchalist. With just extra credentials and better rhythm and a blatant disrekierkegaard to existentialism. You probably looked that up cause that's not how you spell regard. Hellish. Afar from most wouldve fell and departed their souls from the body them held them and helped them support, during birth, from the womb I ordered a c-section of course, so the doctors and nurses would presume they could start the remorse, and use every curse word rehearsed, cause they delivered this embellishing serpent to Earth. You don't spank me, I spank you, using my umbilical cord. I'm a ungod. Use a scrub nurse as hostage. Mom passes out from the blood-loss. Fuck a mental, this is a metaphysical ward. Burn about 1/3rd of the hospice. Cynical warlord. Using bibs to cover the corpse. Murder the Gerber baby. & when they stitched her up everyone in the room would remember the scars.



Sometime. with PancakeBrah
Posted on Sept. 8, 2013

Certan then Pancake, Alternating

Sometimes I sleep in my queen-sized like the Vitruvian Man,
sheets coming off the corners from this toss-and-turner moving again.
I'm untucked. Loosely pretend like I'm unspooling a thread.
I'm undone. But my sweaters don't sing,
they itch and require dry cleaning.
And I always preferred Pinkerton for its broken-wing butterfly screaming.
And I always rehearsed dry-heaving at my suit-and-tie meetings.
I plan to die dreaming. I prefer no one be there to wake me up.
My security blanket fort has tank support and paintball guns.

Sometimes I feel the weight of she in a mattress.
I explain to a shadow the root causes of a hedonist practice,
with phantom cigarettes perched in the curves of my ears,
with all these nervous arrears trying to apologize for the seeds of her malice.
This whiskey drag is for you. And the next one, too.
Reflect on a reflection, the mind creates a passion sex won't do,
another misstep towards perfection, that I dance for you
in lockstep practice, the motion of forlorn enchants a fool.
Wake up and hope for a new refresher course in each sunset,
already nostalgic for the regrets I haven't done yet.

Sometimes I awaken in the foggy morning sun amid a choral hum,
leaving whispers on my pillow from last night's absorbent rum.
My eyes are boarded shut. My windows open to the allergens
carried in by the same prairie wind that led the carol sing.
And you're never here. You've avoided me and my pollenation,
as though it's my choice to be empty, hollow, vacant.
I leave your mug out, with stains on the rim circling like vultures.
As I percolate, my nerves escape:
Two creams, one stir from brain convulsion.
But the coffee's never hot enough to burn my morning hopelessness,
and the bed beckons, calling for a return to snores and loneliness.

A smattering of blacked out jots and missives,
non-specific, aimless, scribbles about 'haunted visions'
Sometimes emasculated, nonsense awkward glances
Midnight coffee dances, Marlboro read and over-saturated
In this half-awake session with a glass on my tongue as a weight
Every spoonful weighs a ton, forgetting the sun is at stake
Empty tundra, procrastinating, hoping the thunder abates
Spent all this time adrift only to find there's nothing special under the wake
Searching for depth with my restlessness as a barrier
It's a weakness, masquerading as character

The bottom drawer of my bedroom dresser is empty.
So am I. Oppressive, resenting my coalescing stressors and envy.
Every day I pull the shade down on my mirror,
and I can't see myself anymore.
Answer myself at the door. Fancy myself for a whore.
These tantrums won't help, but the single-malt Scotch might.
The main goal this evening is to tickle my balls right.
The main goal most evenings is to fall asleep eventually
and dream and see the world for a better place than it's meant to be.
Retracing what's left of me, finding nothing to hunger for,
and I'll awaken again tomorrow cold, clutching my comforter.

Depression hits compressionless. I could sniff those grams,
but instead I drink those ounces. I'm no 20th century schizoid man.
I'm not special, I'm just writing in lithographs and pictograms
I'm not unique, I just enjoy slipping past the mission plan.
Sometimes I get drunk. No, all the time I get drunk,
I spelunk into funks, enjoy the heartburn
of sipping flasks, a tipsy man,
and not giving a fuck when the next card turns.
sleeping until noon, asking if something is up.
I'll wear an ill-fitting cardigan today, why not
You can wake. I'll just try to champ the championship of dry wrought.

Sometimes I wake up cradling a seven-fifty milliliter,
with the cap on just enough not to spill on my already-filthy T-shirt.
Sometimes I don't wake up at all until the a.m.'s turned to evening,
and my nervous feelings curdle into fervent, worthless seething.
But I'll never break these habits. The fox can chase the rabbit,
but talk is just a language for the lost who pray on Sabbath.
And I've already found God, but she left me like all the rest.
I fall depressed in Autumn's nest. My whole life is awfulness.
It's fucking whiny. Catcher in the Rye. Holden steady.
I'm playing Jack. Two of a kind. And it's time to fold already.

I'll sleep to acoustic versions.
And wake up to a dead laptop.
My bemused diversion.
The sun it rises, it can't stop.
I'm not as deep as I get.
I'll write words about dreams I can't make up.
I sleep, then wake up. With regret.



Where are we? with Split Eight
Posted on Sept. 4, 2013

SPLIT EIGHT
Symmetry abounds in the city street surroundings,
for now I live for me. Found between infinities, puddle-deep drowning ashore.
Loud for me is sound asleep, subtlety is a crowning mountain gorge.
I hear you crumbling as you called. My rearview is all fogged,
Crawled towards the backseat- before the crashing of orchestrated
aural cavity reports, catch these sharply aborted faces..
before their spirits will live on.
Mortally, fractally, distorted.
"I'm sure we'll make it." Actually or not.
It's more here, less it's gone.
its basic anatomy- inadequately recorded.
There's no meaning to court from de facto importance.
There's no fleeing the glimpse, manic photo rewardance.
Homo Too Sapiens, beating the spineless chimps
as glowing new radium displays (chromed cesium Timexes)
read a quarter toll, pay it forth, since each little change
is too late to delay. What time is it? Late. Sleep it away.
As a whole, the notion is violence-less,
but in its environement nature is as nature decides it is-
-I'm a man of many a modicum of non-inclinations.
Bad erotica finder comma odd fascinations, buyer-product of conglomeration,
Gattaca, monocoque carbon, fiber-optic exoneration.
Nice to be sad as-salamu alaykum. We all fall prey to our east.
And the night is silent enough. ZzzQuil, my voicemail has finally peaked.
So. Peaceful. These finer points... point to nil.
Still. To each.
Enlightenment has lightened up, gotten more hospitable
for all of u (sic) patience. Multi-omnivore autonomization.
Decay and degrade. The sign of things to come, riding the waves in,
Dry off your paws as you sink em in for any drops spilled in the basin.

CERTAIN
Apostle of complacence whose appositives are baseless.
After swallowing my patience, I'm Doctor Octagon stomping on blue flowers.
Give me OxyContin vapors for my nostrils as they bleed
into my obviously absorbent polycotton T-shirt.
I'm a Watchman with superpowers,
and my Target is the big box.
Harnessing the madness of touchscreen apolocalyptic Kid Rock
leaking through the asbestos into hardly guarded wigwams.
I'll take an orange soda-gin, mom. Mix it in my favorite cup
and add the tar and cocaine in while I sliver off to play with guns.
This emaciated vagrant knows breakfast ends at 10:30,
and lunch usually doesn't happen at all.
Slow drip. Sodium Pentothal. "I had the loneliest pedagogue.
She'd expose me to metacogs and hold me while getting off,
but I wasn't fucked until now."
The valium's in the fridge. The Magnum's in the cabinet.
The Trojan's stealing information from data on your tablet.
Saturn's rings are masking the lack of happiness in space
because we all know those fucking aliens are catalysts of rape.
She's a destroyer, like in Battleship the game,
with three holes to stick your peg in, and no passable escape.
But we're all aftermarket slaves, asking for a wage with no passion for the day.
And we can't exploit the rapture if we're captive to our pain.
So let's act as though we're brave instead of cuddling our sorrows.
Because the sun might not rise on one of these tomorrows.



Going in Circles with CopyPat
Posted on Aug. 30, 2013

I've been uninspired, forcing smiles through my grinding teeth.
There's a set of empty pill bottles trying to find some sleep.
But I'll keep shaking, prying tops off with a drooling hydrant lockjaw,
and the only cure: to get my rocks off and into my grimy sock drawer.
It's fucking pathetic, no point crowning a pretense.
Life got flipped, turned upside down and drowned in the deep end.

I be in town every weekend, I’m way too lazy for hot springs
And just lounge in the evenings, ’cause chasing ladies’ exhausting
I aim to fake I’m belonging but it’s surely mere jokes
And ain’t the same with the parties cause I’m thirty years old
And now that I’m the boss I don’t want no changes so..
How can I be lost when I got no place to go?

And I haven't gone anywhere; my life's in stasis.
My time is wasted. Spineless. Basic. Blind to faces.
These blurred lines can shapeshift.
Every stride is aimless. Horizon-chasing but confined in matrix.
I'll ride the waiver wire, though I'm hopeful to pass through the first cut.
These wounds don't spurt blood, but they also don't scab.

Aimless wonderer… career non-career haver
Makes me ponder with a beer on the pier after
A long day of shit, what a wrong way to live
Jobs make me sick but i just wanna make it rich
It’s just a yearly little chore cause i don’t all the way commit
And the fear of being bored is what always makes me quit.

[Certain]

Assorted battles

Battle Arena: Phrase Topical
Posted on Aug. 8, 2014
Topic: Hoop Dreams
Result: Beat timeless 3-0

Pressing the hardwood, the spindly-armed descendant of Sharman,
spinning with hard turns, flips his wrist with the rim as a target.
Splash. Buckets. Jack tucks his hair behind his ear
and faces up his defender with a stare, refined and fierce.
He's tougher than them. He's got to be.
The white kid with the shot from three who often seems
athletically outmatched by kids with melanin and fast-twitch
who aren't even impressed when he runs drills better than them — backwards.

Low to macadam, the sweat drips off his shoulders and backbone,
sizzling when it hits the blacktop mid-dribble. Cross over and pass them.
Tyrone soldiers with madness, head down as he scoops through the lane
and flips a teardrop over the outstretched arms consuming the paint.
He's quicker than them. It's his only hope.
The broken-home short kid with the chip too wide for his shoulder's slope.
The smallest at 5-1 but balling like Iverson. His anger was managed;
failing in math class but sees the court as a series of angles and tangents.

With the sight of his reach, the envious gasps run rife in the bleachers.
Grown men sidle next to him, perplexed at the size of his T-shirt.
Chisulo speaks four languages and prefers "Malawian" to "African."
His favorite players? Shaq and Tim. But he's new to organized practices.
He's bigger than them. It's how he got this gig.
From a Bamako soccer pitch to the dishonest grips of AAU promises.
Two years in the sport. But they say if he can block these kids,
they'll send him to a first-rate U.S. college on scholarship.

The court's buzzing. Talent overflowing in Springfield Hoophall,
where ESPN cameras soar over the rims, track every loose ball.
College coaches and NBA scouts sit, scribbling thoughts,
when in comes that blue-chip 6-10 forward with the skills of a guard.

He's better than them.



Write Week #4
Posted on Sept. 3, 2014
Topic:
http://i.imgur.com/zH0qS32.jpg
Result: Did not win

We came like midnight mauraders, in the heat of the night.
Scenic. Squeezing you tight. Aimless drifts, speechless requites.
Queasy from wine, we waddled back under the sheets,
as the whips of the waves whisp us away over the tumbling sea.
It's only here that I ever feel.
Seperate people, fingers rapt. Winking laughs turn desperate squeals.
Sinking back, that aimlessness that once defined, divides.
The swaying ship's sways and dips. Unbroken. Resigned to pride.
I'm tracing your back. It's become your face. Slowly but surely,
the cold of the early morning becomes the only thing certain.
Reposed. Ghosts at sea, movements in delicate shadows.
Glimmering as still water. But we're destined for shallows.
And though the precipice narrows, the surface exposes a lie.
They'll find a discarded picture frame. No photo inside.

'Ship, wrecked.



Battle Arena Tag Tournament: Round 1
Posted on Aug. 13, 2014
Team: Coats (with oats)
Result: Lost to Alpha Omega (Beyond and Paradigm) 7-4

Give me complete control over it and I shall resurrect the Battle Arena.

I shall become the Certain of the Text side of this site because right now whoever runs things sucks.

That is all.

You'll never be me. I'm a legend, a champ. You're worthless, dude.
namix practically begged me to mod. He had never even heard of you.
Bey, you used to be respected, revered, even significant,
but you had such an abrupt fade to black it makes Aero look legitimate.
Still Bey’s clearly carrying the team, your odds at a glance are a joke.
Look at the ratio: For every three eyes, you have ONE chance at a vote.
Yeah, we'll be Robin the higher seed, setting off a masterful win streak.
But don't get depressed, Bey. We've already had one Patch hang himself this week.
That persona's projection. No dad, dyke mom — it scarred your rep.
Hate to pull the rug out from under you ... I just wanted your mom to starve to death.
But we all know Beyond won't show, asking his partner to spare some lines.
Jay Z was cheating, sure, but it's Bey who's fucking a pair a' dimes.
And he knows his place. Bey's Alpha, Para's deep on his own list,
so when I blast Omega One, he'll go to sleep with Mike's goldfish.
We'll leave that alpha talk deaded, literally, don't test or try us.
Flirt with fate and you'll end up in the friend zone ... with Zephaniah.



Battle Arena: 10-Line Topical
Posted on July 25, 2014
Topic: If You See Me Again
Result: Lost to dead man 5-2

The air becomes Spanish profanity. A knife's produced.
It shimmers for one hopeless second, slicing through
as the white consumes the table, unleashed, while the staring match
enables a peace, the slightest truce amid careless acts.
One wave of the heat. One chamber release.
Ruckus ensues. Ducking, I move from range of the AR-15,
lying, splayed in between the sofa and wall.
Then, surveying the scene, holding them off,
the enemy enters the frame of my scope, sentenced to die.
But while aiming the blow, I catch a glimpse of his eyes.



Summer Classic VII: Round 1 Reserve Match
Posted on July 14, 2014
Result: Beat Doug Funny 8-4 (but declined a second-round battle)

Doug's a cartoon character, and I'll still gladly take his dame.
No Cali-style hamburgers, but I'm spreading Patti Mayonnaise.
If his pickup lines are as bad as his punches, this fellow's jerking.
The only time you'll see Funny bone is when his elbow's working.
I'm not a mellow person. I've got a gun in the waist; see
that Quailman costume's a bad idea when I'm hunting like Cheney.
This dude claimed he was Bags. Doug, don't lie to impress me.
You could never replace A.C., like when Zack tried to date Jessie.
Your attempts are terrible. Your lines just depress me.
Step to the Götze, one kick'll leave you lyin' all Messi.



Battle Arena: Phrase Topical
Posted on March 6, 2014
Topic: Tomorrow is gravid
Result: Won via Maximus no-show

So I walked into my mechanic's the other day for a token oil change,
and I said — I said, "Mike, I think I've got a broken coil spring.
Can you check the suspension?"
Now I had his attention.
"What made you think you got something like that? It could start in the engine."
I said, "I don't know, Mike. Just seems to shake when I drive,
especially when I hit about 85."
"So you got a problem? Couldn't just be these fuckin' roads now?"
"Well, it happens every time I hit 85, especially when it's cold out."
Mike turns to me, shrugs his shoulders and raises his whole brow.
"So then, I gotta ask — why the fuck don't you slow down?"

...

Broaching cataclysm, we've overcrowded the 36th chamber,
flirting with hangers ready to remove the future, loosely sutured
into the womb. I did consume more than my fair share of Soy(lent) sauce,
so why don't you pour your salt in my wounds until the boiling stops?
Recoil and drop — there's nowhere to run to, baby, nowhere to hide.
Defined by chauvinist times, original meaning: copius pride.
We're spinning heads on swivels but can't axis information,
so prime another layer of didactic insulation.
We carry cancer in our pockets, put the cancer to ears,
breathe the cancer as a toxin as we're answering our peers.
We are the champions of fear but never know what we're afraid of
until that last bump in the dark severs hope and smears our makeup.
But we've got to keep moving: This hamster wheel is spinning with force.
And we've got to keep moving: This wooden foundation is splintered and warped.
So we've got to keep moving: The yellow-brick road's been smelted for gold,
and all we've ever exposed is a series of irrelevant tomes.
(Sort of like this one?) Something like this one,
which is neither beginning nor destination.
When you clear a house for zombies, never forget to check the basement.
And when you sneer and shout and lobby and flail your fists at me,
you'd better be damn sure tomorrow's the most important day in history.



Battle Arena: Story Lead Topical
Posted on Feb. 27, 2014
Topic: You are a rapper or musician getting ready for a concert.
Result: Beat FloSoIll 4-0

Green room inventory:
23 cigarette butts. 36 beer cans, withered and crushed.
3 Chips Ahoy packs, chunky. 1 unfinished Brass Monkey.
1 washed-up rock god, spilling his lunch.
And 1 teenage girl, face down in a river of blood.

Three hours earlier ...

"One more, bro!"
I place my nose squarely over the line and enter.
An inhale evacuates my sinus pressure.
Rise and breath. Rinse and repeat.
Quickly release. Tight fit in vintage-ripped jeans.
I want to show them a time, explosive design.
We, too, were children of music, its fuses corroding our minds.
She came with ... I don't know.
She is there, though. Looking on from the corner.
Looking on like a scarecrow. I quickly notice her hair's flow.
She dyes it blue, the gentle, cerulean sort
that seemed to express a moodiness or youthful extort.
I invite her over. Another beer can hits the wall, empty,
"We're all empty," she says, trying to sound deep, but instead
she's acting her age. Sixteen by the looks. Nineteen by the hopes.
She grabs a cookie. Crosses her legs. Bright sheen on her hose.
I smile back. My daughter's probably 15 now.
(Don't think about your daughter.)
What should I call her? "Babe" is dated. "Sexy" is trite.
"Honey" makes me sound like her father.
(Don't think about your daughter.)

Two hours later ...

Katherine says she's a senior at West High. Her friends call her Katie.
She's legal to smoke and ... thinks menthols are tasty.
She licks her lips. Grabs another cookie.
We're alone now, across the hall.
The rock star gets his own green room, with locks and all.
She's behind me. Runs her 18-year-old fingers through my chest hair.
Breasts bare. More action and less stare.
She flings herself on the couch. I kiss her lips, soft and humid
and the exact same shade of pink my daughter uses.




Battle Arena: Picture Topical
Posted on Feb. 1, 2014
Topic:
http://i.imgur.com/1e0sOUP.jpg
Result: Beat Split Eight 5-2

Cheeks flushed. I've got dirty little secrets tucked away
underneath, crushed.
My humble Venus, something sways,
the trees, brush and leaves gust.
We're on our dune, lust and trust.
Astray. Why do you touch and play?
I've got heartburn.
I've got nothing much to say.
I've got so much to do, but gumption fades.
And if you work hard enough,
you, too, will stop giving a fuck someday.
Baritone creaking. Standing sideways on the broken path.
That's about the time I felt the ocean splash.
Ebb and flow. You're playing with my convulsions,
and my hope has passed.
Every joke and laugh exposes throats to chokes and gags,
and I'm already coughing enough as is.
Scoffing. My crutch dragging.
We climbed mountains together.
Mostly you stood on my shoulders and looked out to the heavens.
Chamomile tea, with an ounce of confection.
No, it's too late. I'm burning the world down.
Turning a girl's frown into a permanent mural now.
Getting my rocks off. Cursively curse the town.
Purging my patience.
And maybe there's another reason to look to the sky when the churches are vacant.
And you? You're nervously pacing.
So take a picture before it all gets turned into pavement,
before tonight is a blur for the vagrants,
before I author my cobblestone opus.

Because I've never looked so pretty,
and you've never bothered to notice.



Fight Night LXXXIV: Round 1
Posted on Jan. 13, 2014
Result: Lost to Allen Knight 3-0

Certain's got this. Allen, you're best leaving.
Knight's stepping four spaces away like chess pieces.
I'm a dedicated wordsmith. This is your second language.
How can you battle when you type like a dyslexic Spaniard?
Check this anguish. I'm bringing the pain.
Diagramming your verses would look like Simon SeversTons' English explained.
Your Fight Night's through, impostor.
This dude won the Grand Prix and is as brain damaged as Michael Schumacher.



Write Week #3
Posted on Oct. 30, 2013
Topic:
http://i.imgur.com/Nw4ZiZj.jpg
Result: Placed 11th out of 12

Battling the open road.

This shit is hideous. It's about time the highway's leveled.
Road has more patches than the Yankees' jerseys after 9/11.
Those lines must have been drawn by kids with autism.
Looking like the highway crew was mid-withdrawal symptoms.
And we're wondering why throughway's empty?
Rocking more craters than the faces of all of the white dudes on Netcees.
There's only one solution: violence. My stompings are fatal.
So when I say I'm hitting macadam, I'm not talking 'bout Rachel.
You're worse than any street I've ever driven, though
Looking like the set from Cars — by that, I mean fictional.
It's not just the picture. I'm seeing how you're awful,
and I'm buying a Chevy Blazer — as a vehicle to off road.
I've driven on the GWB in rush hour and find you inferior.
The last time anyone liked The Streets was Original Pirate Material.



Write Week #2
Posted on Aug. 8, 2013
Topic: "We shall not cease from exploration, and the end of all our exploring will be to arrive where we started and know the place for the first time." — T.S. Eliot
Result: Placed third out of nine

I wore baggy jeans with the carpenter strap.
Harnessed my rap in the parking lot back with the hardest of acts.
I'd hardly react when dinner time came. I'd be late.
Never went starving, in fact, my mother saved me a plate.
She was hard on me back then, on my grades and my weight,
not quite calling me fat, but her thoughts were betrayed in her face.
My eyes rolled. She always worried 'bout college or money.
Mostly college and money. She'd research scholarships for me.
But I was 17. There were cigarettes and chronic to smoke.
Girls to poke. Mixtapes to burn. Parties to host.
I'd heartily coast through senior year. It was clear
my future was shifting gears, all while my eye's in the mirror.

I wear black slacks with the crease and a belt.
Decent in wealth but still scheming to ease up my bills.
Work 60 hours a week on the hill. A slave with no break.
But every few months, I head home. She still saves a whole plate.

[Certain]

Open Mic Cypher entries
Only includes entries longer than two couplets

Posted on March 8, 2015

I once flew too close to the sun.
On broken wings. Rubber factory burning smell.
Exposed as we run, we became hopeless
overdosing on rum and turning sail
into the ocean. Deeper. Colder. Soaking our lungs
in air thick with the dew. Smog. Corrosive and drunk.
We learned to fail.



Posted on Jan. 24, 2015, at ProjectRhyme.com

The cloud blooms. The broken sound room
has a creaking door and a creaking floor
but we've seen more. I found you
underneath the floor with loud hooves
trampling over your scenic moor.
The demon hoards never kept my dreams aboard
when they hit the skies and drowned truths
in quick demise. Because we picked disguises
but never put the masks on.
I used to confound you with quirks and quickly lied
to say I never found you less than simply mine.



Posted on Jan. 21, 2015, at ProjectRhyme.com

I prefer different strokes
to happy days.
A passive phase,
tapping pages out as a flat-earth castaway.
There's no going home,
so pack and wave.
Retractions came, mistakes were made and passion fades.
We're better now. Better than the last charade.
Better than the crash and wane of tides,
taking sides
as we fight about fuzzy memories erased from time.
Patience hides in the crevices of seat cushions,
and we're sharing one. For now.
In the bitter cold of wasted lies and the uncaring Sun.
It'll brave a rise tomorrow. Will you?
Will you dare to run?



Posted on Jan. 21, 2015, at ProjectRhyme.com

You're not much to me. Never were.
Rehearsed speeches unsaid. Jealous nerds
and the temptress with bleach in her head.
Scenic. They said we'd sell our worth
but Jesus had left before we fell to earth.



Posted on Oct. 18, 2014

Timidly, I wore though my broken shoes,
a broken hue, a spoken truth evoked when you
moved here. Moved there. We wrote in clues
desperate for something more than votive cues.
I wanted to tell you I dreamt of another place.
Hammocks. Sandlewood drifting on a summer day.
Fingers interlocking. Touch a face. Once astray,
you're better off now. Stuffed away in cuffs and chains.



Posted on Sept. 2, 2014

Library drifter. Big steps. Avoiding the dead men.
We've broken barriers, but all this consorting upsets friends.
Lothario of Army Road, determined to court 'til the bed dents.
Inflicting irreverance, weed smoke lifting my testaments;
be even a little bit hesitant and belittle the entire experiment.
Cigarettes, coffee, incredulous: Cliché kids destined for worse
than their picturesque parents had. Depressing at first,
but through limited scope, broken rhythms fitting the poems
never quite swell up to the ideal equalibrium dose.
This is the sinner's repose: barrel chest, bloodshot eyes,
broken confidence. An open monument to cold despondence.
Carelessness. The plot dies. The story ends. The pages turn.
The stage is set for the grand monologue. So wait and learn.
Wages earned are wages spent. Day by day, we slave for rent,
but cages break and craves are left unfulfilled in graceless death.



Posted on July 19, 2013

I'm devastating. Revolted sort, salt the earth and scatter your limbs and organs across the dirt. The patterns are quick to morph and at anytime I'll bend a rhyme. Like Saturn's rings in orbit I'm often warped. Speed. Please. End this line of casualities. It's morbid. The saddest scene since Norbit. But I'm 48 hours away from battery with torrid blasphemy. Ignorant? But I'll never sing a chorus. Just let you cower in pain.



Posted on Jan. 24, 2013

This is the non-confessional diary of an empty shoe,
left behind in the vestibule,
set to die as a vegetable.
Spinach. In a can. Wider aisles to enter through
at this grocery store. I'm open. You're closed.
Times align with the crescent moon.



Posted on Sept. 16, 2013

Souvlaki, souvlaki, with pork on a spit and my beef is pastrami.
Shepherd salad and feta, ain't nothing better than olive salami.
It's ill and delicious, I'm killing these dishes: Robert Mugabe.
Flip the pita with tongs, tzatziki spooned on and the sauce is tahini,
and the pairing goes best with the fairest of reds or a vodka martini.



Posted on Sept. 3, 2013

If I ever started a rap crew, I'd call it Puddle of Thug.
If that's not subtle enough, you can get jumped by a slug.
I'm drunk and I'm slumping in love, so my temper's perking,
but I'd rather be touching my pump than your empty surface.
The noise is just that. I can't make out the words.
The slump is just that. I haven't made out with girls.
But whatever. I'm so over sex anyway,
laying here like "whatever," cuddling a corduroy tapestry.



Posted on Aug. 2, 2013

Just wait righ' quick, my brain's buffering crazy shit,
while you're stuffing your anuses with duffle-bag avarice.
This untouchable flame of spit comes from my pain that's flipped
to something more flagrant than Chuck in the lane against a dunk or a layup.
Shit, I'm done with this broken rhyme.
Stuck in a hopeless time, I'm struggling holding dimes.
So buckle up, open wide, get fucked. Yup, we're both in line.
Subtlety's old and dying but if we grope and try
to double the rope to climb maybe we'll stumble out, both alive.



Posted on July 31, 2013

I'm not here to resurrect the dead.
But if that includes hip hop,
I'm here to represent the end.
My present tense is irreverent. After y'all rebels went to bed,
I pressed the keys and found release in peddling pretend.
I swing swords from various degrees
and bring whores vicarious disease.
I sing chords with baritone ***ophony,
so get off of me.
I preach peace but ain't married to beliefs.



Posted on July 27, 2013

Somebody split eight, so I stepped to the fore.
And I'm the type to twist fate into a weapon of war.
When I'm not peddling gore, I'm usually stretching a whore.
Serpent's known for snaking so deep,
I leave uterine vestiges torn.

[Certain]

Writing Challenge League
Record: 6-2, second place overall

Week 1: Double Letter Challenge
Task: L.N.
Posted on July 23, 2013
Result: Beat Gazette 5-2

Lincoln never liked niggers. That shit was politics.
Lynch nooses never loosen, never lift from off our necks.
Lincoln never liked niggers. No signs of bravery.
We're left neglected, sentenced to new kinds of slavery.

If Honest Abe's legacy now were based on truth,
it wouldn't praise the Emancipation as a slave rebuke.
Lincoln neglected those in states that had carried him,
leaving negroes embattled in Delaware and Maryland.
Let's now examine it a little bit closer:
If your boys were Union soldiers, your "boys" still had their owners.
See, letting nervous Kentucky whites keep their slaves
was enough to preserve the Union, if not the human race.
Leveraging noisy abolitionists with a sweeping gesture
was enough to keep the pressure off a peaceful measure.
Plus, those Southern "boys" could lead new militias vs. the Rebs
and leave natty plantation owners wishing they were dead.
This was level-headed navigation in leading nation vs. nation.
Forgive the latent narcissism of a vacant Proclamation.
See Honest Abe was shaping legislative napalm
and expecting us blacks to burn the motherfucking place down.

Lincoln never liked niggers. That shit was politics.
Lynch nooses never loosen, never lift from off our necks.
Lincoln never liked niggers. No signs of bravery.
We're left neglected, sentenced to new kinds of slavery.

Now, Lincoln left nothing changed for certain when he sprayed the curtains.
Later, nascent legislation nixed slavery with purpose.
But the thirteenth amendment left negroes starving on streets,
and Reconstruction left negroes wobbling from trees.
We lacked necessary tools to leverage new freedoms.
If you don't teach a man to fish, you damn well better feed him.
If you don't seek balance, you're walking on a tightrope,
so before long, blacks learned not to turn backs on whitefolk.
Learing nebulous through hoods with mouths, they retook the South
and leveraged negro families out of every wooden house.
Looking North for what was promised, the inner cities beckoned,
linking new populations to a world near Great Depression.
Listing nothing on a résumé ensured a life of labor,
yet the first generation gladly took it over slave work.
But the jobs left nothing, as we filled the prison slate.
First Louisiana, now Chicago — that's Illinois, Lincoln's state.

Lincoln never liked niggers. That shit was politics.
Lynch nooses never loosen, never lift from off our necks.
Lincoln never liked niggers. No signs of bravery.
We're left neglected, sentenced to new kinds of slavery.



Week 2: Diversity Challenge
Task: Mennonites
Posted on July 30, 2013
Result: Lost to Rawn M.D. 4-2

rumspringa /ˈro͝omspriNGə/ a period of adolescence in some Anabaptist communities, including Amish and Old Mennonite branches, in which boys and girls are given greater personal freedom and allowed to form romantic relationships, usually ending with the choice of baptism into the church or leaving the community.

Mary had this sly smile full of faded teeth.
She said she'd pray for me. She said she'd wait,
she'd brace herself for pain but stay for me.
We sat and sang and cried.
We played the beats that we had mastered line for line.
I told her I'd be back.
I touched her arm so gracefully
and sold her on my tact,
full-knowing I'd retract.

Jason had these deep eyes full of blue and hazel.
He'd loosely amble across the bar to the juke-box handle
and pick a tune to mangle in his broken Philly accent.
He joked that it made bad sense to hold me when we had sex
because the closer that our paths'd get,
the forks would sharpen more.
He'd shown me how to laugh and relax my hardened core.
We'd lapse into a TV binge, reality or sitcom,
Saved by the Bell and Flintstones,
everything I'd missed on.

Jason had this brown hair that curled in balls at random.
I'd twirl it all in handfuls
while he worked on drawing mansions.
The architecture firm was my ticket to the city,
and I enlisted in it quickly with a visage nearing giddy.
The internship paid shitty, but it gifted me with living
in a way I'd always dreamed
outside the prison of my pity.
And Jason was my tour guide. We watched the Flaming Lips.
We watched Freeway and Beanie.
We watched Journey and Kiss.
We took journeys and kissed, and our love flambéd the wicks
of the candles that were like a touch of home,
even as they bathed our sins.

Jason had a large nose that betrayed his Jewish heritage
and often came in handy when we fused cocaine and heroin.
The sex was looser, better then.
We'd rave, then use, then enter in.
But phases soon turn pestilent; escapism loses relevance.
The summer was ending.
I'd make my future evident.
I'd stay, refuse the exodus.

Mary had such perfect cursive, sans bumps and depressions.
I'd thumb through her letters
and wonder if ever she'd wondered if ever
I really could love her forever.
Her deportment stayed humble and measured.
I tried to harness the same but kept discarding my mumbling letters.
The targeted pain of hearts when they break
is enough to humble a hector.

Jason had a wilting grimace as he helped me onto the train.
Lifting my black hat to my head, he tugged it hard.
Then he waved.



Week 3: Hypothetical Collaboration Challenge
Task: CopyPat's "Mickey Deez Nutz" (http://netcees.co/showthread.php?t=7707)
Posted on Aug. 6, 2013
Result: Lost to Mike Wrecka 7-2

My topic is a Canadian talking shit about about popping clips,
when he'd be better off stepping soft, skating with a hockey stick.
It's obvious this imposter is no novice in
the form of ominous homicidal postulates.
Yet all it brings is moderate accomplishment in praise from peers
who haven't even slain a deer much less sprayed any AK's in here.
This isn't a phase, it's clear the game we play is based in fear.
Rap's backbone is a crack stone, but its face is the casing's steel.

The boom bap of the bass never upstaged the snare's weight.
But that doom clap of the stray-bullet gunplay couldn't tear fate.
Pursue rap with a straight face, and find dumb taste you can caretake.
This new crap they create ends up bumped out into airspace.

And who is the victim? The usual prison of youth in the system.
We're abusing the visions of 2Pac and Cube, bruising their image.
These crude indecisions lead us to fusing a spirit
of toothless offenses, not putting in context the fuel for their lyrics.
Step through all the pyrrhics. We've created a brutal appearance,
such that "Slim Thug" creates tunes for the children.
It's a brutal religion, but we're immune to its hatred and anger.
Engaged in the graceless disaster of rape jokes, we emaciate laughter.
Facing hereafter, we'll either straighten our act or
continue on clapping the nines and betraying our bastards.

Then again, let's play it all backwards and take in the facts first:
When we're spraying our gats and raping those fat whores,
we're faking. We're actors playing as rappers on an Internet site.
And if anyone doesn't vote for me, I'm ending their life.



Week 4: Legal Latin Challenge
Task: Sui iuris
Posted on Aug. 13, 2013
Result: Beat Innovator 7-0

I remember my first rape. She was 14.
Doused her with chlorine. Chemically burned face.
Pinned her shoulders, then entered and tore space;
I dismembered a poor, chaste girl,
rendered her whore's bait.
Her eyes, unblinking. Her thighs, unflinching.
She stared into the devil's heart. No hiding, shrinking.
And for a moment, as I came inside this victim,
I, too, saw Lucifer's silent grimace.

I remember my first kill, the following month.
We were just locking them up.
They'd throw their bottles and run.
Darkness. Street lights out. I throttled my gun.
One blast. Here was a father or son, shot in the gut.
My hands trembled as I swallowed the sight.
On his jacket was soldered a sign that meant I had collared a kike.
For a second, gave into an ominous pride,
but as the blood poured, I was the one feeling hollow inside.

I remember my first execution, firing squad.
Bind and cuff then line them up and consign 'em to God.
With any rise from the mob, we'd remind them to stop
by holding a gun to a child's head. Their silence was prompt.
As we expired the lot and shoveled their bodies to piles,
the others were sobbing and wild.
Mother despondent for child.
We covered the obvious, vile odor with cigarette drags,
but every exhale left every soldier to pick at his scabs.

I remember the aftermath, the broken illusion
of a man soaked and confused and moping reclusive.
I still think about it, after all the hopeless excuses.
I still think about it, about all the token abuses.
We were totally fused into a system of hate,
emprisoned by our own minds' impotent state.
But I can't gain forgiveness this late.
In all the mass killings and rapes, I wasn't the victim or prey.
I'm not a innocent scapegoat. There's blood on these hands,
death in these eyes in the disguise of a company man.
I'll carry my own cross. Let the wood splinter through.
My sins are truth. This is the price for a Hitler Youth.



Week 5: Constrained Writing Challenge
Task: No adjectives
Posted on Aug. 21, 2013
Result: Beat VERITAS 8-0

"There aren't words to describe us."

The story began:
Boy meets girl. Boy pursues girl. Girl likes boy and allows advances. Then it avalanches. Light cast off the moon. A shadow dances. Bodies dip. Water beckons. Tobacco flashes. Life spins. Life begins. Caught in passion.

The story continued:
Girl grows into woman. Boy doesn't grow into man. Woman quickly gets tired of holding his hand. Boy seeks help from woman — no, not that one. He hopelessly ran. Woman — ours, this time — scolded and banned.

Man:
Her words were barbells on trampolines.
The stars felt like vanity. Like tar melting. Answer me.
My scars swelled. She'd handed me the papers a year ago.
I could see him once a week at most and hope that clearance holds.
The tears had flowed, but my eyes now peered and probed.
My voice had cleared and grown. I hoped she'd hear my tone.

Woman:
His words were fingernails on chalkboards.
He thought he could swig an ale and talk more.
He figured sales were all forced. My purse is closed.
And as his nerves repose, mine swerve, explode.
He says I cursed his soul, but he's the one coughing swears.
I kick him off my stairs. Goodbye. Get lost. Take care.

Man:
Her words were icebergs set adrift, denying my cries of helplessness.
What's a father without a son? Wondering if I, myself, exist.
She's pelting sticks and stones with animus
as if she can handle this. As if she's not in shambles. Bitch.
I'll walk the path toward righteousness until my sandals split,
but I'd like my son to see me trying to be the man for him.

Woman:
His words were sequoias, deeply rooted in soil,
and though I used to recoil, the door opened.
Our future was spoiled, but perhaps he's earned a spot.
Besides, I work a lot, and no boy should curse his pop.
Has he matured? He couldn't worsen but may not deserve this shot,
and there's this lurch I got from the days of circle-dot-dot.

The story ends:
Boy meets man. Boy trusts man. Man loves boy, he claims. Man buys toys and games. Man rides joys and pains. But soon enough, man tires of boy and ploys escape. Man never confronts woman, trying to avoid the hate. Boy never sees man again. Boy doesn't know who's at fault. Boy first moves to call. Not answered, soon he broods and stalls. He cannot understand. Man never grew at all.



Week 6: Imitation Challenge
Task: Boredom
Posted on Aug. 28, 2013
Result: Beat Boredom by no-show

"boredom"
-
-
-
i'm here because i've got nowhere better to go
settled and posted veteran prose, peddling flow
i like the sentiment, though i don't aspire to rap
i write to react, type an abstract for admirement, daps
when mired in crap, i try to relax, grab a beer or rum
pull on my dick till it's clearing cum and I'm tearing drunk
god only appears to the dumb, so i'm killing my brain cells
let loose of fears when i'm done with swilling some pain pills
a villain, an angel, but mostly a laconic waste of space
in my college-age malaise, i often chased a dame
but more often came up lame, so give a loser a hand
this job's for more than one sordid punk whose future demands
are stupid, unplanned and futily useless to man
any improvement's unplanned, as i'm stuck in a hamster wheel
there's nothing that can't be healed with a cup of some chamomile
and the touch of a spry female, but i haven't had that in months
my palms have scabs and bumps, my palms have had enough
so i'm typing some rap and stuff, writing on netcees
fingers light as they press keys, typing out text frees
and hoping to cure this boredom before it finally gets me
-
-
-
"boredom is the root of all evil — the despairing refusal to be oneself" — soren kierkegaard



Week 7: Continous Task Challenge
Task: How long have you been here? Why did you come here?
Posted on Sept. 2, 2013
Result: Beat Defy Gravity by no-show

"Mom, I'm busy! How long have you been there?"
"Just long enough to see you tugging at your underwear.
I think it's time you and your father had a chat."
"Fine, later, maybe. Please get out of my room before I splat."



Week 8: Reflection Challenge
Task: Use challenges from the league to build a verse
Posted on Sept. 13, 2013
Result: Beat Mike Wrecka 2-0

DOUBLE-LETTER CHALLENGE: S.E.

Skipped stones eventually sink, ending their flight
by forming a scummy enclave at the pit of a lake.
Sentenced to write, I came hoping for writs with a stake,
but venting was nice, so eventually my membership climbed
and I was listed with taste, known to dispense with a rhyme.
Servicing entrants with solicitated essays meant to oblige.

IMITATION CHALLENGE: Mike Wrecka

certain found netcees when an old itch returned,
and he quickly developed a rep for his flow-rich reworks,
it had been years since he last champed a topical league,
and these days he was probably better off giving logical feed
but that never was enough for a competitive chap,
so he entered the first tournament he found to better his rap/

DIVERSITY CHALLENGE: Bloggers

I'm an Internet nerd with a Tumblr, Twitter and Virb,
and I criticize words others pour into with vision and verve.
It's just my nature. It's not that I think I'm any better
but I know they're shit is the worst, so I say it with heavy letters.
It's logical, see, and my goal is pushing y'all to improve,
and I'm still hoping to get to one thousand followers, too.

CONSTRAINED WRITING TASK CHALLENGE: No letter O

It'd been three years since my last written raps when I came here,
and I'm glad to change gears and write when I drain beers.
My typing will stay clear. My grammar is perfect.
I'll never be the deepest or best, but I can hammer the surface.

HYPOTHETICAL COLLABORATION CHALLENGE: Genocide's "The State of Text"

I've rhymed with Fracture and Corey. Y'all new text rappers are boring.
Quit you're yapping, I'm snoring, dreaming about the past you're ignoring.
PancakeBrah? This faggot is whoring and leaving me laughing with stealth.
This dude's from oil country, but he's fucking gassing himself.
Above The Rest's a joke concept, but even if I felt it were true,
Namix is above everyone else in his crew.
And zygote, you dingo-fucking bitch with your shitty league —
actually, I've enjoyed the ride these challenges have given me.

LEGAL LATIN CHALLENGE: trial de novo (trial anew)

I come before you today to appeal to your senses.
Reread my battles with Rawn and Mike. Then reveal your penance.
See Rawn came with a shallow verse, while Mike didn't touch the topic.
Don't rush the logic: I should be in the title spot by this battle's turn.
Here's your chance for amends, though: I'm balling vs. Wrecka.
With a verse that's honest and provocative. It's called introspection.
So votes for Serpent seem certain, but things won't change in the nick of time,
since this league was rigged for Mike all along with his simple rhymes.

CONTINUOUS TASK CHALLENGE: When will you leave? Where are you going?

My membership's served with a time limit, for better or worse.
I've already tested my worth against the best on this Earth,
I hope I've shown you a thing or two, but I'm an editor first,
so this writing thing's simply me trying to stay invested in words.
And I'm about to be stressing with work, so I may disappear.
But I want to thank y'all for all your greatness in here.

[Certain]

Art of Writing League, Season 2
Record: 7-3, tied for most regular-season wins
Playoffs: Lost in second round

Week 1: Random Picture Challenge
Topic:
http://i.imgur.com/CHNLaqA.jpg
Posted on Sept. 25, 2013
Result: Beat Witty via no-show

Morgantuan was never going to stick around.
He had to stretch his wings. He had to hit the town.
I couldn't expect a king to risk his crown
in the name of love, could I?

My nest would swing with the wind from the cliff's peak,
when the cold tends to split through unkissed cheeks.
It hardened, the broken skin of a single mother trying to make it
and never quite feeling less than naked.
Parantius. Beloved kin. I nuzzled him to sleep every night,
knowing he too would leave and take flight,
knowing he too would cause my greiving at night.
But not yet.

The ninth of January, an exhale keeping us warm,
my folded wing covers Parry, a sheath from the storm.
My breathing is chored. The air's thin in our mountainous home,
but we prefer to stay away from lands crowded below.
I'd hunted the night before to keep us fed for the blizzard,
and though it's less than equisite, in winter, there's less for the pillage.
When alone, I tell Parry stories of his legendary father,
but avoid the part where the ruler of the skies couldn't be bothered.

Footsteps. Parry's a sensitive sleeper, and he nudges me awake.
I turn, puffing heaps of flames expecting a hungry hyena's gaze.
My eyes dart the landscape when I see a darkened man's blade
shimmering in the sun, and he's pulling a large englassed case.
I can't see in, though, so I tell Parry to wait while I examine closer
and slip off for a better vantage point, unwilling to do battle over
some random man who might just be lost, despite my instincts.
So I climb closer, peeking over a tree, I finally glimpse it
and see what appears to be a head of handsome bronze
and glowing teeth I know I've seen.
No. NO! It's ... Morgantuan!

"STOP! Who goes there? Explain yourself or lose your life
because this fire-breathing dragon isn't afraid to use its might."
The man turns, grabbing his spear but not moving to attack.
"I am known," he begins, "as Sir Trenton Runiford the Black,
and I come bearing the head of the beast that killed my family
with intent to repay his deeds in kind and prevent the swill's lone progeny
from ever doing what this villain did."
His words were labored but his purpose was clear: to kill my kid.
But I could understand. Morgantuan was a heartless murderer,
who spurned his son and me like discarded furniture.
It burned me up, still so love-sad. So I offered a treaty of peace.
I'd see that he leaves and let drop that he killed my son's dad,
but first I wanted one more look at Morgantuan's beautiful face.
Trent removed the head as I loomed with a gaze,
then, consumed with my rage,
burned the entire fucking head to ashes in one luminous blaze.



Week 2: Sports Quote Challenge
Topic: "Confidence is a very fragile thing." — Joe Montana
Posted on Sept. 30, 2013
Result: Beat Rawn MD via no-show

This is how easily the shooting star falls from the skies:
He stood tall in the lights, with fame, wealth, glory all in his sights.
Then, in a ball on his side, swallowing pride,
Derrick Rose, Chicago's favorite son, down and calling for ice.

"I've watched it 20- or 30-something times. But I try not to think about it."

This is the superstar, strapped to the leg press,
his back and legs aching from the ravaging 10 sets.
It's in his eyes. He can't escape the image of buckling,
the knee twisted and crumbling, physically humbling.
The superstar was exquisite at jumping, a marvel of grace
now harnessing pain in hopes of discarding this brace.

"Everyone's free to voice their own opinion. I can't stop people from saying stuff."

This the MVP, the point guard, the floor general and captain,
now defenselessly basking in fans' resentment and madness.
But they don't understand.
Their knees have only bent as far as their minds.
But as hard as he grinds, parked on a bike,
the superstar feels like he's going nowhere, marking the time
with meaningless gains. He's seeing what's plain:
He may never again weave through the lane without reeling in pain.

"The thought of me going out there and injuring myself again, I didn't want to put myself in that position."

This is the superstar, returning to work.
He still turns with a jerk on his spin move, learning the twerk
on his new knee ligament, concerning at first.
But the surgeon had words, swearing he'd soon be swinging it.
This is not an end. This is the superstar, focusing tight,
honing his flight and proving he still can go to his right.
This is the superstar practicing, staying late on the clock.
That which doesn't kill him only improves the range on his shot.
The days fade into blots. Six to nine months turns to a year.
This is the superstar, the new season, emerging from tears.

"The only thing that's changed in my game is my confidence level. I think I'm way more confident in my craft, in my game. I worked out a whole year training on my body."



Week 3: Famous Paintings Challenge
Topic:
http://i.imgur.com/CkctBq0.jpg
Posted on Oct. 12, 2013
Result: Beat patrown 6-2

Julia always had better breasts than me.
They were smoother, perkier, came to rest with ease.
She'd flick her hair. The boys would sit and stare.
She'd toy and coyly lick her lips with care,
never overt, but always spinning sinful dares.
We'd been friends for 12 years, since that day in recess
when we'd agreed that we both hated teachers.
Fated rejects, well, until the boys started to notice.
Soon she was flooded with invites to parties they hosted.
Julia brought me with her to the keggers and raves,
until soon I, too, had boys all begging for lays.
Popularity tints the libido. Pretty by association.
Sipping wine through broken makup.
Splitting time with Joe and Jacob.
We were seniors, handed over the right to party.
I found resentment washes clean with a Sprite-Baccardi.

Julia always had better taste than me.
She found a room so close you could practically taste the beach.
Senior week: waves and weed, shots and cock, beer and bikinis.
Trying to face the week as a straight release of stress,
I instead found myself chasing Steve's caress.
Steve sat behind Vicki in history last semester.
He'd transferred to our school this past September
for some sort of basketball deal. And he'd fast enamored
every girl who'd pass him and squeal over his massive member.
When Vicki introduced us, I knew the game was on,
but my confidence was up from Joe, Jake and Ron.
Steve had this great style, and you don't expect taste from jocks,
but all I wanted from his clothes was to take them off.

Julia always had my bests interests at heart.
She made sure our place and Steve's were inches apart.
Besides, she was banging Kyle, Steve's teammate and roomie,
so it was convenient to do me the favor of leaving us two be.
Steve was tough, though, so I borrowed Julia's sexiest skirt,
combed my hair out long, pouted lips, ready to flirt.
Kyle answered the knock on the door.
"Steve? He's in his room. It might be locked, but I'm sure
he wouldn't mind if you dropped by to give him a visit."
So I walked across the living room, grab the handle and twisted.

Julia always had to be the first in everything we did.
She was on top of Steve, tits out and swinging. BITCH!
I stormed out. Stormed down the stairs. Stormed through the lobby.
Ripping every shred of clothing she'd ever lent me off my body.
I stormed out past the boardwalk, past the staring bitches and bros.
At one point, saw Vicki. She tried to give me some clothes.
But I needed to be clean. I needed release. That's what this week was for.
Julia chasing after me, as though I'd ever forgive this cheating whore.

Julia never let me down.
Julia didn't mean to let me drown.



Week 4: Elements Challenge
Topic: Fire
Posted on Oct. 17, 2013
Result: Beat Vividlyvague 5-0

The flame flickers. One draw, deep. Exhale.
It's time to go.
This attic provided home, sanctuary by liner notes.
Crawl space, really. One window, sealed by primer coats,
that couldn't reveal the time I'd consigned to wine-drinking and hiding, cold.
There's a draft. The five-by-five-by-five nook wasn't insulated.
Inhale.
At times, I'd climb the flimsy ladder wincing, aimless.
The splinters made it necessary for socks.
Each winter came and my room grew dimmer.
Proceed. Entrance bearing a lock.
I had the key now.
Mother had been careful to knock.
She wasn't here. Exhale.
The scribbles on the wall would be there till they're not.
Scratches on the headboard, still bare with its knots,
the wood never quite took to its unbearable lot.
Inhale. Stare at my blocks and discarded toys gathering dust.
There was a child here. There is no child here.
Captain America's leg fell off one day. I bandaged him up.
There are no heroes here. Exhale.
The vintage Mantle-inked glove; he told me he'd handed me love.
Mother agreed but still covered for me when I damaged its cuff.
Close the door on the way out.
Inhale. These floors creak.
The door squeaks.
The master bedroom replete with a faded family portrait.
The boy had a smile. The man'd demand he force it.
Turn it down. Exhale.
The steps spiraled to haven.
This kitchen inspired each craving, now just a retired old apron.
The tiles were painted red and white, but the footprints were obvious now.
Inhale. An ash falls. The smell forms an ominous cloud.
It's time to leave. Exhale.
It's time to leave this vacant pall.
One gazing stall. Faded paint in the corner where the tree would graze the wall.
Inhale. Step out to face the fall. Taste the fog.
Toss the butt into the open basement hall.
The flame flickers. Exhale.



Week 5: Color Challenge
Topic:
http://i.imgur.com/RxITynM.jpg
Posted on Oct. 26, 2013
Result: Lost to Mr. J 6-1 in title match

I hail from tha Delta's depths, born in tha mud.
Papa was a rollin' stone, couldn't affor' me a hug.
Tha poorest in luck, Mama had us four in a bunk,
wit' Tammy snorin' it up while I dream'd of scorin' a buck.
But that ain't us, we's long been use ta desolate lives:
I walked uphill ta school both ways unda pestilent skies.
Couldn't purchase tha glasses, so squints was stressin' my eyes,
but I couldn't've seen betta days anyways.
Yes, we was bent on demise.
And so mah only friend turn'd out to be this wood'n guitar,
and I learn'd how ta strum 'er wit' one foot on tha bar.
And I learn'd how ta sing from tha pits o' mah gut
and make mah voice real grav'ly like tha grits in mah gut.
And we survived off a can o' beans, that's it for a month,
I'm talkin' a can, eatin' tha metal 'til it's rippin' mah gut.
And mah only friends was these four strings — one always broke —
and my woman, she ain't no good neither, dumb as a stone.
And plus can't trust her to roam tha way she comes wit' lies.
She'll open 'er thunduh thighs and let othuh guys come inside.
But I couldn't blame 'er, since I ain't got nothin' ta offer,
only strummin' for dollars, hummin' and clutchin' my coffers.
And she'd probably 've left me, but she got nowhere to run,
'cause tha Delta is home, even in tha coldest of months.
And I'm prayin' ta tha Lord for mercy, reachin' for a purpose.
Tried sellin' my soul to tha devil. He said it wasn't worth it.
Life dealt me a bad hand, I sing and swallow tha truth.
And I guess that's why they call it tha
— man, fuck this shit.



Week 6: Final Line Challenge
Topic: "And I never saw her again."
Posted on Oct. 31, 2013
Result: Beat Vulgar 7-0

The imprints of tears appear like a time lapse of past fights.
Her lipstick is smeared on the wine glass from last night,
but she's gone now.
She came into my life like a rainbow,
all colors and sugar and spice.
I let my pain go. It's not the same, though,
rubbing the glitter from eyes.

This was day seventeen since Eternity
by Calvin Klein
had flirted me into trying this mountain climb.
I hadn't known she'd existed.
I liked her clothes.
She liked my cheekbones and how they rose when I grimaced.
We went to clubs. I never went to clubs before, reclusive-type
whose evenings usually concluded in Four Roses fused with ice.
I needed more open room to write.
She needed the party life and attention.
So we went to clubs and danced while others offered blind resentment.
They couldn't see us. They only saw her,
as she basked and glowed.
She stood six-two in those heels and swayed like Axl Rose.
And so we danced. From Thicke to Thin Lizzy,
we'd spin, dizzy —
engaged in a personal Sin City.

She started coming home late, with the scent of men's cologne
faintly lingering on the small of her back.
The emptiness of home kept me from calling her tack
even if I'd have been better off alone instead of swallowing acts.
And this all was just that.
I knew it somewhere, beneath the frilly dresses.
But when we'd hit the town, nothing seemed to kill her essence.
Charisma consumes all in its path.
I was becoming obsessed.
We could sit for hours, soaking in the rush of her zest.

There's a quiet silence in watching yourself disappear.
My identity slipped at an untenable clip.
Enveloped in tears,
I stared at the face in the mirror through opal contacts.
The blonde wig reeked of cigarette smoke and cognac.
The mascara was trickling over pointed cheekbones.
The legs were shimmering in the light from streaked hose.
I looked into the mirror. I looked at a Perfect 10.
I shattered it with a single blow,
and I never saw her again.



Week 5: Photo Challenge
Topic:
http://i.imgur.com/GhzugTA.jpg
Posted on Nov. 9, 2013
Result: Beat Adonis 7-0 in contender match

Spin. Spin. Spin.
But when she stopped doing pirouettes,
Jennifer spent her evenings with sushi, saké and cigarettes.
A citiot trapped with suburban sub-humans
who preferred bourbon consumed amid unnerving club music.
So Jennifer danced.
Though she worked days in a cafe for coin,
her greatest joys came on stage for Ballet Des Moines.
The focused type, humble but still could sashay with poise,
Jennifer danced and, when she finished, went backstage with boys.
This was her life: Defining her worth via Jack, Dave and Roy.
She'd act playful, coy, then retract ... until she met her match.

Terrence wasn't like Jennifer, but he liked Jennifer,
and he biked everywhere, treating life secular.
He was aloof, mostly — even his ring finger was preoccupied.
But they were on the outs, he'd say. Didn't speak oftentimes.
Jennifer, she'd swallow lies. Jennifer, she'd fall in line.
Jennifer, she'd tell her friends back home about this awesome guy.
Terrence took her to the city, to the hippest plays and concerts.
But he'd disappear for days, apologize and blame it on work.

But Terrence came by early the day Jennifer was late.
Her career tipped in the balance, and he's telling her to wait.
She wasn't ready to be a mother.
She wasn't ready to not be one, either.
He mentioned a clinic, swore it was a popular procedure.
But Jennifer wanted to define herself as more than a mistress here,
so Terrence kissed her on her forehead and disappeared.

The doctor's mouth was moving.
That's how she knew he's speaking,
something about bad habits, a thin frame and fluid leaking.
She was naked underneath the hospital gown,
so Jennifer danced because nothing else seemed possible now.

Spin. Spin. Spin.
And once she walked off her dizziness,
Jennifer found herself alone with sushi, saké and cigarettes.



Week 8: Wu-Tang Clan Challenge
Topic: Tearz
Posted on Nov. 16, 2013
Result: Lost to Frank 8-0 in title match

My father couldn't move his left arm on the hospital bed.
He nodded instead, swollen from fluid bloating his adominal set
and all through his chest.
The tubes kept him alive but also collared his neck,
so he strained with his right hand to reach out and coddle my head.
His only son, I stared blankly, knowing my father neared death
but unable to muster emotion as his only progeny left.
I kissed his cheek. He smelled like medicine mixed with disease
and died six days later. My mom by his side had drifted asleep.

This is about the time I'd turn to the funeral service
and tell a story about breaking down crying, consumed by the sermon.
But that didn't happen. My father died, me near turning 19,
my grandmother at 22, my dog at 11.
I don't even believe in a god or a heaven, yet it's here that it strikes me
that not once did I shed a tear without Visine.
I'm an emotional void, coasting on an autism cluster.
A patchwork palaver-pushing semi-person and caustic disrupter.
I've learned to channel emotions through dismantled devotions,
better at handling obits than looking myself in the mirror.
The selfishness seers. I've felt a gradual closeness
with psychopaths, liars and the baddest of culprits.
My lips twist to an enveloping sneer. I try to wash it away,
but Listerine only kills 99.9 percent of plausible pain.

So I tell tall tales and catalog disconsolates
with blue-state sob stories and scatter-shot dishonestness.
It's vicarious masochism, text messages with emojis exposed.
But if I wrote from the soul, the acid would prove too corrosive to hold.
I live through these characters — one week a faggot, the next a whore —
and each piece provides release for personal resentment stored.
So when I cut through the tension's core, my heart of darkness free and clear,
I find it's always easier to shed other people's tears.



Week 9: Dark Picture Challenge
Topic:
http://i.imgur.com/BiiX7cP.jpg
Posted on Nov. 22, 2013
Result: Beat breathless 6-1

The town was off limits. That much was certain.
So Benton obviously couldn't help but lust to search it.
Drawing dusk as curtain, he whisked from under sheets,
slipped on dungarees and even left a running furnace.
No one had to know. He'd built up trust on purpose,
and despite his rush of yearning, he still was hushed and nervous.
The twisted staircase creaked like the crickets underneath,
but as he slivered from the tree, no one so much as heard it.

The town was off limits. That's what the elders told them.
They'd sell their coal for smelted gold, an otherwise reluctant purchase.
But the town had held beholden, so it's best to trust the sermons,
and the people of the trees shared belief in sheltered omens.
Not Benton, though. He lived for the rush of learning
and had overheard one of his dad's friends discuss the urban.
At 16, with something stirring, he had soon built up the nerve and
laid down a plan to scout the land out beyond this crusted curtain.

The gate was screened, so he scraped through a thicket rut
and bit his tongue through pricks and cuts as he escaped the scene.
The woods were dark. He knew them well and made his flee.
Blind, he braced with trees but hit a branch and scraped his knee.
The lights were coming into focus, through the brush he strained to see
the budding residentials and smoke stacks that swayed with breeze.
And there it was, the towering point of the town's famous cathedral.
Benton gazed at its steeple and hungered more to grace its seats.

He stepped with superstition on to the freshly paven streets.
His plan had been made for weeks. The avenue was dim, and
yet he practiced, drew his mission: First left, then straight for three,
and as he strained his feet, the church came into his vision.
Silence. The door was heavy and thudded closed behind him.
Candles everywhere. The flames would leap, the only lighting,
they helped expose pius, those there to meditate and read.
"Welcome, son." A man's voice. "Join us and take a knee."
"Oh, hello, sir. I'm sorry," Benton said plaintively,
"I didn't mean to disturb anyone or break the peace."
"Don't be silly. Come, now. All are welcome. Pray with me."
Benton followed the man to row of candles laid in threes,
but as he bent his wounded leg, he felt the pain release.
"Gah!" Benton bolted out of his crouch and displaced the scene,
taking out a stand of candles as the others gazed so hatefully.
The noise was loud. The overhead lights displayed his deed:
A mess of wax, burns, mud and sacrilege betrayed his breed.

"Who are you?" The man's vocal tone was changing quick.
"Why did you come here? You tree rat! You filthy paganist!"
Benton froze at first, but his mind was made to split,
so he dashed back through the heavy door and escaped the fists.
His gait was swift, so he reached the village, creaked back upstairs
and played it slick, laying in his toasty bed while cracking, scared.

The village elders had sworn to protect their own for all its costs,
so by the time Benton was found, the townspeople were mid-holocaust.
They strung him up on one of the last trees standing that would hold,
and pretended this all was over something more than coal.



Native American Quotes Challenge
Topic: "One does not sell the land people walk on"
Posted on Nov. 30, 2013
Result: Lost to NYCSPITZ 6-0

The screen door slammed shut. It always had, ever since Trevor broke through it that Friday to show his dad he had passed cuts. He held his new jersey, all gassed up, a total spaz, and Gerald patted his son on the back and choked a laugh. Lucinda would gloat and brag to her friends about her firstborn's varsity jacket. Jessica rode to his games with the car seat in backward, harnessed and strapped in. Trev broke his left tibia. He limped his ass to the games anyway and held the screen door open fast with his crutch while hopping with the cast. It always slammed.

One bedroom window was sealed with paint congealed on frame. Jess had made the mess when she decided that teal was lame. Pink everything. She and her friends squealed and waved brushes everywhere, not doing much of anything. Jerry touched up best he can, but ultimately the crust would peel and fray. This was life with girls. A tight-lipped world for a father whose stripes were earned the hard way. Lucy would stroke his head at night to calm his nerves, steeled and gray. That damn window never opened, though, fused and locked. And in the summers, Jess wielded complaints that her room was hot.

The den still reeked of smoke. It had become Jerry's asylum when the kids were born. He'd emerge, doused in cheap cologne and act like he'd never been hiding. Dim and warm, the den was a place of peace. Straight release. Pour a Scotch on the rocks, rock in the chair and taste the peat. He smoked Marlboro Reds down to the filters. The full flavors savored fully. Five or six a day, enough to make him weak. He stopped coming down to the den eventually and faced defeat. But the oxygen could only make him breathe so long.

The garden was perfect, though. Lucy would work her hoe to turn the stones and keep her soil fertile. Tomatoes, mostly. She tried zucchini and asparagus, but her family hated both. She slaved to grow fresh fruits and gave them to the neighbors, hoping they'd repay her with baked goods. Trev liked the green peppers. Jess preferred the red. If teens ever agreed, heads would surely explode. Lucy liked the dirt in her toes. She liked the feeling of breathing life into the earth as it grows. After Jerry died, she spent more of her time in the garden, foraging thyme and discarding weeds and spoiled roots. It wasn't long before she was under soil, too.

"So, have you made a decision?"
The agent, smug with the siblings.
"The latest offer was two hundred and fifty."
Jess gave her brother a look, half-puzzled, half-dizzy.
"They want an answer. They want something done quickly."
Trev looked back at the house, with its love and its history.
"Tell them to hold," he said.
"Let's try to get them to double the bidding."



Playoffs Round 1: Jay Z Challenge
Bye week as No. 3 seed



Playoffs Round 2: Expression Challenge
Topic:
http://i.imgur.com/x7MVe66.jpg
Posted on Dec. 19, 2013
Result: Lost to Frank 4-3

The rain fell. The trickle captured a melody.
The patternless weather sweeps, latching torrential beads
in windshield shadows on a passenger's empty seat.
She's still, retracting to memories.
Today, she learned cribs cannot be returned after assembly.

The calls were the hardest.
Half-written thank-you notes crawled the apartment,
along with stacked boxes and empty picture frames.
The sprawl of an artist,
complete with deep, inflicted pain.
He peeked through the window.
He stalled at the door.
Knock too hard, risk blowing the entire house of cards to the floor.
The exhale releases a Marlboro roar.
"It's just me."
She's in a ball on the floor.
She's in a bawl on the floor.

Stillborn children don't receive birth certificate sets,
so she clutches to her sonograms and fertility tests.
There's a brokenness,
a missing piece of the puzzle
from the fetal displacement that left him feebly muzzled.
The doctors hadn't seen any trouble,
with the umbilical too snug for their screens to uncover
and so tight that his breathing was smothered.
And now,
she's here.
Was she ever even a mother?

He wasn't a father. He's pretty confident of that.
He breaths.
The apartment has all the ambience of an Applebees,
complete with prepackaged dreams and indigestion.
She's hit depression. Approach within discretion.
He was wearing a T-shirt the last time.
It's mid-December,
and the bags under her eyes couldn't begin to carry his guilt.
She didn't tell him directly.
The news sort of trickled through old friends in various spills.
Vicarious chills. Fatherhood, a role he'd've barely fulfilled,
now seemed the only way to repair his milieu.

She's biting her nails down with careless malaise,
leaning against the radiator, hair in her face.
Trying not to stare, he paces.
Questions. Few answers. They weren't important.
The only fresh air's in escape.
But he already ran from it. There's no reprise.
He sits. He cups her hand in his

with open eyes.

[Certain]

The Winter Topical
Seeded 10th, lost in second round

Round 1: Picture Challenge
Topic:
http://i.imgur.com/D3DkbUf.jpg
Posted on Jan. 16, 2014
Result: Beat No. 23 seed Mike Wrecka 5-0

"Run! Now!"
I could feel the Weatherby lighten as each shell dispersed,
but they weren't stopping; escape is the best option in hell on Earth.
I grabbed her hand. She stared blankly. I pulled it hard.
The mindless horde followed as we stumbled down the boulevard.
These streets were empty now. The homes and shops, too.
Led the girl to my basement apartment below the mob's view.
She's crying. The way her black hair shielded her glistening opals,
I could tell she really had no clue.
Her visage was soaked through — lost, broken and frail.
I handed her a tattered rag, sighed and told her my tale.

Jennifer looked so pretty the day they destroyed her.
Bracelets from oyster. Pleated skirt, lacy embroidered.
My eyes strained through the glaring radiation of light
as they desecrated my wife, her head invaded and spliced.
The monsters were rumors at this point, still faded from sight,
a shadow fiction, crazy and trite, the very idea that aliens might
stray into sight, taking human form and tasting our life.
That day I witnessed it, splayed on my side, Jen prone in its arms,
as it released a glowing discharge, captured her brain and her spine.
Her hazel-ish eyes went faded and blind.
She stared blankly. I grazed the back of my hand on her face. And I cried.
Jennifer looked so pretty the day I shot her and laid her to die.

Their faces are empty. The zombie masses showed no emotion,
no hunger, no yearning, no stress, strain or hopeful convulsions.
So when Amber first saw Zach, the boy she had been with,
sauntering down the street with no purpose or interest,
she rejoiced. I grimaced. She had to learn for herself, even after explaining the rules:
• The humanoid monsters were aliens, using our brains as a fuel;
• the electrical charge of conversion caused the irradiate hue;
• the people weren't people anymore, empty shells left graceless, consumed;
• and the zombies were, well, zombies, controlled by what their creators bid do.

Amber wouldn't eat for three days after that sighting of Zach.
She put her head on my shoulder, her weight on my shoulders. I couldn't keep fighting them back.
Every day comprised an attack. The vacant police stations were short on munitions.
and the aliens were driving us back, engaged in a war of attrition.
We mostly watched, stayed in the backstreets and scavenged for food.
We mostly watched, as the aliens began to build their own habitat new.

Amber was on watch the night of the first explosion, disturbing my sleep.
Then, a car alarm heard through the trees; we emerged from beneath.
Turned a corner to the hordes were unleashed, masses ebbing and flowing like murderous seas.
That's when we saw them, the aliens, facing off, cursing in screams.
Brother and brother battling, irradiate light releasing and bursting at seams.
The zombies fell limp with their masters, horde after horde.
We walked through the scourge of the war, wondering what had triggered disaster.
One alien lay prostrate under a tree, unable to move. Its stomach was bleeding.
Amber aimed her revolver without hesitation, but first I wanted a reason.

"The energy that kept us sustained for our mission also created the schism
because what we didn't know was that humanity's fuel has always been its hateful ambition."

Amber fired.



Round 2: Quote Challenge
Topic: "Thanks to words, we have been able to rise above the brutes; and thanks to words, we have often sunk to the level of the demons." — Aldous Huxley
Posted on Jan. 25, 2014
Result: Lost to No. 7 seed Lars 7-1

Master gave me the assignment. Thank you, Master.
For Master, I flipped the pages oh so quiet, kept my pacing in alignment,
kept my face in yellowed lining of the phrases for the time when
Master will take us to the brightness, escape to new horizons.
Thank you, Master. I'm still so taken by your mind, and
ready to serve your every word. I quake in your consignment.
Master loves me, but never as much as I worship at his feet.
So I nervously reread, ensuring that indeed I've found the sermon that he needs.

"Master! Master!" "Please don't say you've failed again."
"Master, no! Master, I have caught my sails in wind!
Master, here, I bring you everything you asked for."
"Yes! Now I may begin."

Master left me. He always does. Master's time is running low,
so he silently withholds all his mind's impressive notes.
But he is Master, and Master knows best.
He says we're on a passage to death. He says he's planning our next.
He'd spoke of immortality without an alchemy set.
He'd spoke of incantations, spells and the Halcyon nest.
Master's words were mumbled, renounced under breath,
probably because he doubts I can hear his denouncements of stress.
But now, down in his cellar study, Master has his chance.
I found him the text.

The silence was broken by the shatter of glass.
It came from the basement.
"Master!" I screamed. I grabbed the ladder, then gasped
and gaped with amazement.

Its eyes glowed like the coils of an electrical stove,
with skin wretchedly gross, infected and mauve.
Its engorged wingspan stretched to the bone with talons like sharpened machines.
This is... This is... This is... This is the mark of the beast!
Master's cloak was in shards at its feet. He'd served as this harbinger's meat.
That's when it started to speak. "You, there!"
Wait. God. No. It's talking to me!
"You did well." "Please, let me live, and I promise to leave."
"You fool, do you not honestly see? I am a god now. I am the product of dreams."
He cracked a smile. Strangely familiar. Could it possibly be?
But no. It couldn't possibly be. "Human, I have solved my disease!"

"The disease." That's Master's term for the human condition.
He had been consumed with his vision to find a remove from this prison,
and here he was, free at last, in the form of a lunatic demon.
I scanned the room. There, on the floor, the notes I had jubilantly scribbled.
"Master, please, show mercy and let me come with you to glory.
Teach me the ways of the spirits, let me bare witness to your feat."
The beast stared, fiery eyes taking in my meek disposition,
and beckoned me over to the same table where he dreamed up this vision.
Seated, I listened. "You have done well, and I believe in conviction.
You shall serve me as you served me here. Now complete what was written.
Soon the time will come for me to reign as God, unleashed on the living."

I exhaled deeply and stared at the paper, this vile curse of a passage.
I set my plan. I began to speak with thoughts of reversing this madness:

".retfa reve ylippah devil lla yehT"

Master collapsed, returning to the human form he despised.
And though lifeless, I could see the smile borne in his eyes.

[Certain]

Art of Writing League, Season 3
Record: 5-5, seeded ninth in postseason
Playoffs: Won championship
Also moderated the season

Week 7: Story Lead Challenge
Topic: You are awoken at 3 a.m. by a blindingly bright, enormous light outside your window.
Posted on April 11, 2014
Result: Beat rhetoric 5-3

They were here again last night, Erasers.
I saw them through the window, with their flashlights and tasers.
I managed to play terse, but every call gets tighter
as they leverage all their fighters to track minds unwaivered.
We need vigilance. The truth is dangerous, to them but also us.
We are the runaway slaves, stowed and bestowed with trust.
Their vision is clear: reprogramming the human race
until every man smiles the same smile,
until every man removes his face.
They feed us cocktails, a cup of pills to consume with haste,
and hope the scrambled eggs and juice help excuse the brutal taste.
None for me. I ditch the drugs in a napkin with a pinch
as I draw up another map to freedom, captaining the ship.
We will escape, my comrades. This repressive regime
is not the end of the sea. There's more than empty disease.
They sit us in front of the screens, keep us staring into the nothingness.
As our brains melt, they're seeing just how deep the puddle gets.
Then they roll us to the checkerboard, afraid of games of chess,
but my strategy is check and force the King to lay to rest.
The King, he who channels all this madness,
while examining his captives as though we're chattel for masses,
or is it cattle for the juicy steaks we're never served?
The food is slop, pre-chewed mush with chemical preserves.
We veterans deserve something better than this turn,
so we'll strike together with a verve, the King deposed by his own serfs.
We'll cane the bastard, take out his knees with ruthless quickness.

But let's wait until after 4
because my grandson's due to visit.



Week 8: Photo Challenge
Topic:
http://i.imgur.com/a44u0HO.jpg
Due on April 18, 2014
Result: Lost to Witty via double no-show



Week 9: Song Title Challenge
Topic: This Is It
Posted on April 26, 2014
Result: Lost to timeless 5-3

The twisted scar on Willie's left leg is pale and dry,
up from the ankle, scaling his thigh,
still snaring the tendons facing the mine.
He hadn't even tripped the switch that awakened the blast.
No, he was pacing in back of the unit when Dave hit the tract.
They ducked. Some never came up.
The helmets were tombstones,
but Willie pulled his leg out of the mud
with help from the two Joes.
Joe Riley, he'd never forget. He sent his pocket watch to his wife.
Joe Delucca, he'd never forget. He's right across the hall, on the right.

But we're sitting here for now.

That's Norm with the cracked stars and stripes
disbarred by time.
He got the ink while docked at Clark in '9,
must have been drinking hard that night.
Now he looks down at his cards and sighs.
See, he's not moving, not since a scar the size
of a shotgun shell had marked his spine.
The lower half. Norm's paralyzed from toes to back
but slowly drags another chip to the center of the table,
while others fold 'em fast.
The smile leaves his face. He tends to get lonely fast.
Another glance out the window,
but no one passes.

And we'll be sitting here for a while.

Him? Sgt. Jim Rose. Don't forget the "Sgt."
As a commander, an invective hard-ass
who smoked whole menthol cartons.
That came back to bite him. Doesn't it always?
He paces, spins, ducks in these hallways,
unable to sit still, the same tack he'd fight with
in his days among the infantry.
That's when he picked up the habit,
displaced his lungs from symmetry.
And the oxygen tank gets dragged around, its weight so humbly limiting.

But we're sitting here for a reason.

The Marshalltown V.A. Hospital flies a flag, tall in a headwind.
It's there to remind us of all we fought for,
of all we gained,
of all we protected.



Week 10: Founding Fathers Challenge
Topic: “Life's tragedy is that we get old too soon and wise too late.” — Ben Franklin
Posted on May 3, 2014
Result: Won via Smegma forfeit (with 3-0 lead)

Donny knew happiness wasn't just a state of mind,
but the pills did more than that: They made him high.
So when he popped the blues that pitched his tent,
he'd split and get some pussy.
Come on faces. Spray 'em blind.

I've been married for 40 years. She once had me in deep,
but now her meat curtains flap like a flag in a breeze.
Crow's feet crown her eyes, and the ugliest yet?
She still tans, but now her skin looks like a crusty baguette.
It's disgustingly stretched. I can't even touch her tits
without thinking of how our children made lunch of it.
One of our sons OD'd. Probably trying to avoid
thinking about the time as a boy he saw us grinding with toys.

Yeah, things used to be wild in these Hollywood nights,
but it was time to move on, maybe to that blonde in the tights.
Or how about that saucy Latina? They're only good for a fuck.
Can't pay the bills and blast music from the hoods of their trucks.
But she's got juicy lips, big tits and a craving for blow,
and as the blue pills kick in, my dick's main flavor is dough.
See, kids, the richer the man, the better the ass he gets.
These whores are looking for flashiness and cooking up nasty sex.
I get spanked by hookers with ample breasts while wearing panties.

Then I buy her fur and diamonds and give her front-row seats,
and she has the nerve to show up with one of these?
I mean, seriously, babe, I know you don't love me like Clipse.
But that doesn't mean you go thugging with Clipse.
I mean, what the fuck? Who are these gorillas in my midst?
I gave you prime-time seats to watch my Clips,
and you gave them away to some ex-slaves with humongous dicks.
Let's have a conversation about your disgustingness.

Oh, you were recording?



Week 11: Statement Challenge
Topic: It'll make a man out of you
Posted on May 10, 2014
Result: Lost to Vividlyvague 5-1

"Greetings! Welcome to Paradiso Springs Life Resort.
On the right concourse, you'll see our wide assortment of wife-consorts.
Paradiso Springs Life Resort offers the finest in
artificial companionship, for hardships in time commits.
This tertiary moon makes pleasure our pledge, sir,
so take a gander at our models. They all endeavor to best serve."

Mat had to scoff at how they used "companionship."
This whore-house of a moon unglued his damages.
"You need this," they said. So he perused the manuscripts,
consumed unhappiness, refused their answers, yet
Mat still felt guilty. His friends had used their last few cents
to put him on this moon for a boost or chance to twist.
He rolled his eyes, snide, and picked the blonde on the right.
"Oh, that's Rayanne! You'll like her. She's soft, honest and kind.
Her hobbies are bikes, walks in the night and peach cobbler delight."

Rayanne's nipples flicked as Mat touched her breasts.
Suppleness. He'd come to rest on the crest of her dimpled hip.
Creamy skin, like butter exposed. He fumbled with clothes.
She had such grace, unencumbered. She rose.
She made it easier, smothered him whole under the glow
of a depleting sun, splashing from the West window.
It was open. And as Mat faced it, Rayanne asleep in his bosom,
he never wanted to leave but wanted to leave as quickly as possible.

Rayanne had been programmed to follow orders.
Mat's were simple: Stay hushed in the trunk of the bus until they'd crossed the border.
Escape: Those three days had made it the only option.
Mat couldn't hold her hostage, but she couldn't say no to stop it.
So the plan was escape.
Escape to sandalwood candles and laminate frames.
The answer was plain. Mat ensured the handler was paid.
Rayanne had never left Paradiso Springs, but the planet was safe.

Mat was holding Rayanne again when the police arrived.
She'd been sick for days, not breathing right, her creamy skin replete with hives.
Mat stared into the streaming light.
Rayanne coughed. She was a pleasure model, built on weekly time.
Mat stared into the deep of night.
"Put the drone down, son, and step away! Read his rights!"
Mat stared into his former peaceful life.



Week 12: Painting Challenge
Topic:
http://i.imgur.com/WD7nZU2.jpg
Posted on May 13, 2014
Result: Lost to Vulgar 6-0

Turbulent. I'm an astronomer's envy, head in the skies.
Or at least, there's a cloud ringing around the level of eyes.
They've got me dead to my rights. With expedience,
I test the sex, but she's the greediest-neediest-sleaziest.
Diva shit. My eggnog gets a dash of turmeric. Then soon it gets
brown skin from my father. Assume it skipped generations.
Rendered aphids to keep my lady bugged. Stupid bitch. Paleolithic,
except with radial grips and a remedial grasp of stated linguistics,
'cause I get loose lips when I sink sips down the gates of my instincts.
Territorial. I'm Doctor Doom's henchman. Fated to be stoned by things,
but things fall apart. And the invisible woman's already in my net.
Take another stretch. Bending incredible, yet I'm steadily in debt
and unable to have my bankroll for more than two weeks at a time,
especially if I'm using six eighty-three to sate my needs late in weeks
as I ring smoke around the rosy cheeks. It's not blush — acne, rosacea.
My skin's about to peel off like her cunt after the face-sit.
My bus passenger playlist features drums in savage arrangements,
that thump schematic entertainment that helps distract from your smell.
It's still lingering under my yellowing fingertips, trapped under swells
because I've been typing too much. And my cuticles are burnt up.
And I'm usually burnt up, too,
like the cigarettes. And you.



Week 13: Movie Title Challenge
Topic: From Here to Eternity
Posted on May 23, 2014
Result: Won via Perpendicular no-show

The phrasing of the phrase is framed in such a way
that the place is placed above the time, a space for us to gaze.
It's "From Here to Eternity," not "till" or something linear,
so we're going hunting till we stumble on the cusp's interior.

And we're taking the old country highway.

There's a broken-down shack on the side of the road,
used to fix tires with holes. The owner's retired.
Now what? The shack sits abandoned.
Eras melt off its slate siding, split and vandalized,
There's the old coat of gray paint
from back when gray paint was fashionable.
Back in ninteen-sixty-three, when these stains were maskable.

There's a herd of cows grazing in a field. Herd? Group?
I don't know. They stink. Turds? Poop? The word's moot:
A shit by any other name smells the same.
And even a tipped cow can't tell us if it felt the pain.

And we're taking the Interstate.

There's a sign at the exit. Repainted recently.
Bright golden arches help engage the scenery.
You can smell that fresh air — potatoes, grease and meat
— and for miles the neon buzzes with its display machinery.

There's a minivan stalled off deep in the shoulder.
Mom's calling the tow truck. Dad's trying to keep his composure.
The boys standing in back, with branches they battled.
Fake swords, all because their handhelds ran out of batteries.
But the girl, she's in the car, remembered her charger.
Presumably texting her friends about this mess of her father's.
But she smiles as she looks out at a sunset through the car door.

And we're taking the backstreets.

There's a cul-de-sac with seven houses lining its street
and in the middle is an empty fountain from the time of its peak.
Now the poor neighborhood kids play in its basin, hide-and-go-seek,
and one day realize will everything that they'd find in the heat.

There's a patio with a chair and an ashtray on the ground.
The ashtray's full. The chair is empty.
The wind whips without making a sound.
It turns the leaves, brown now. Once a perfect green.
And that alone means we haven't found Eternity.



Week 14: Birthday Quote Challenge
Topic: “Leaders need to be optimists.” — Rudy Giuliani
Posted on May 27, 2014
Result: Won via Mike Wrecka no-show

The spirits came to him in the form of a dream
with choral passim, told to gather a quorum and team.
Broken Arrow heard his people's sorrows and screams
and set out to make tomorrow something more than a gleam.
"You must go. Go now, son, and never look back."
The voice set him on destiny's track ahead of the wrath.
So Broken Arrow took his walking stick and the steadiest path,
determined to spread his message to the heads of each clan.

"Brothers, we must not look back! The future sits and waits."
He heard few battle cries. He watched them spit in his face.
But the enemy was coming, coastal towns exposed and found
with savage murders — massacres! — and women choked and bound.
So Broken Arrow navigated his map and built a following,
true men unafraid of this tough pill for swallowing.
The white men were coming west to kill and conquer and
spread their disease and take our land. Pillage, dominance.



Week 15: Story Lead Challenge
Topic: You’re a homeless musician who plays outside of a train station for tips. One day, someone leans over and drops something unusual into your case.
Posted on June 7, 2014
Result: Beat cyph her 7-0 in contender match

Let's get this story line all straight. First, time and place:
The day was June third, nineteen ninety-eight,
and I was playing outside the subway stop at Ninth and Lake.
Can't remember if night or day. Well, I guess it was kind of late
because my violin case was lightly weighed down by piles of change.
That's when this man walked by and gave me the wildest gaze
and dropped this rolled-up piece of paper in and smiled and waved.
I acknowledged with a nod but all the while I played,
with no idea what would lie in wait.

Directions. The first was to make a beeline on Lake.
Turn right at the antique shop with the window stacked with china plates.
Finally, wade across that awful traffic circle on Pine and take
a right to a private residence's doorstep. Number five-oh-eight.
(Why'd I follow? Well, the directions came inscribed with grace,
scripted letters promising a prize to take.
Now, I might play a violin for dimes, but I'm no starry-eyed kind of lame.
So I approached with skepticism. Wrote a letter, left it hidden.
Just in case I'd end up missing, this would assign the blame.)

Anyway, I approach the residence, quickly pry the gate.
Knock four times on the door, as the eighth line explains.
It flies open, like some dime-store game magic trick.
I roll my eyes and wait.
The guy, the one who dropped the paper off, comes out from behind a drape.
"Welcome, Terrence. Come inside. There's no time to waste.
He's awaiting you. He's been waiting for so long to find you."
"Wait."
"Yes?"
"Who exactly is this guy who hides his face?"
Now at this point, the other guy just smiled and waved.
He seems to like that. But I'm already this far.
If they wanted me dead, they could easily find a way.
So I just figured, "Sure, why the fuck not?"
But as I walked in, I imagined my own grave.

The room's walls are a dodecagon of mirrors.
They hover there, not reaching to the bottom of the bare floor.
There's a light hanging directly over center, above a chair.
There's no other furniture in the room. There's nothing there.
We're alone: me, the chair and the mirrors.
But as my stomach scares, a voice punctures the air.
"Terrence, thank you for coming. Your face betrays a touch of fear.
But I want to assure you there's nothing to run from, dear."
"Then who are you? Why not just come out here?"
(See, being told I'm safe only makes the discomfort clear.)

"Terrence, I want you to play me a tune.
I don't get out much, but Jeremy tells me you're great on your stoop."
"Umm, well, I didn't bring my violin."
At this point, I'm thinking of bailing on dude,
but a fiddle is lowered from the ceiling. So I figured, I'll take it and prove.
The voice listened. I went with "Danny Boy," a favorite to use
when trying evoke emotion from even the most unsated of fools.
"Terrence," the voice muttered after the final notes had waned and the mood
was somber and chilling and dark and left a weight in the room.
"Terrence, I want to propose an offer."
And that's when he explained it all through:
I was to give him my violin, trade in my tool.
I would never play another note again, so that he could be the last to hear me.
In exchange, he'd give me enough cash for my remaining years.

See, the man behind the voice with the mirror was testing human nature,
and wanted to see if I would abandon my true self for useless paper.
But didn't I already tell you that I'm no stupid pauper?

So I haven't picked up a violin in years, that hobby is dead.
But am I happy? Truly happy?
Well ...
... honestly ...

Yes.



Week 16: Social Commentary Painting Challenge
Topic:
http://i.imgur.com/7JOaCpv.jpg
Posted on June 14, 2014
Result: Lost to zygote 7-1 in championship

Stray dogs roved the streets in the days after the flood,
slathered in mud, tearing through trash as they scavenged for grub.
Marshall law had taken the city, but government salvage was done.
Cowards had run, and most of us left were rather calloused and numb.
Then there was Marco, 12 years old. He's the kid in your picture.
Brown orphan turned street urchin. Used to live with his sister,
but her house was destroyed, split by the river.
So now there's Marco, tired, alone, listening to whispers.

But what is freedom?

The American system teaches us to cherish a vision:
democracy, worthy of a perilous fight to tear us from prisons.
It's inassailable wisdom shared through scriptures of patriots,
who took care of the children of this bric-a-brac nation-state.
Capitalist ethos tells us power for the people
means that every man will have a chance to rise.
But you can't disguise this hourglass.
We're worker ants designed to bow our backs
until the time is up and we can't supply the labor force.
But we're in the land of the free, even as the tables turn,
and the housing market rises. And salaries deflate.
It's an entire modern generation putting our degrees to waste.
I'll never own a home. I'll never pay my student loans.
My life insurance probably won't even cover the funeral home.
So I'm forced into vagrancy, drifting from rent to rent.
And I haven't put away a cent for my pension yet.
I've lived in four states in the past five years — unsettlement —
and keep my boxes packed but flag high. A real American.

So now there's Marco, tired, alone, huddled by the fire, reposed.
He's seen enough to understand he's finally home.



Playoffs Round 1: Poem Title Challenge
Posted on June 28, 2014
Topic: The Genius of the Crowd
Result: Won via El Pancake no-show

Jennifer really likes the mojitos at the open bar
and that tan guy on the deck with the torso scar.
She's played coy so far, but a cruise is no place for inhibition.
At least, that's what Amber told her when she paid for the tickets.
Birthday gift. And Jenny, you're turning 39 again, right?
Might as well let loose and ... what's that beep coming from that lead pipe?

"Oh my God! Oh my God! It's a BOMB!"

Dave nearly trips on a towel as he rushes forward.
Flips his sunglasses up. "Don't panic, people. There's nothing for it."
Not yet, at least. He lunges toward the back of the deck.
Can't exactly trust that blonde's detective skills no matter her legs.
Dave briefly imagines rubbing her down with tanning lotion
until he sees the planned explosive jammed inside the captain's bulkhead.
Security chief, sure. But Dave isn't some SWAT team member.
He'd taken this cushy job after retiring from a desk gig last September.
He looks to the ground as passengers huddle for better views and gasp together.

"Excuse me. Are there any engineers onboard?"

Greg looks around. Apprehensive. Knowing it's electric.
Knowing he took four courses back at Cal Tech as electives.
Already sweating, Greg staggers forth. "Well, I'm a civic specialist."
Yet, with their receptiveness, Greg knows he has the floor.
He takes one look at the pipe and sees it's all connected,
No easy solution to throw it offboard. Greg scans the exits.
Hand is trembling as he checked the wiring for a planned dissection
but sees a blue and a white and knows any mistake will land a death wish.

"I don't know. I don't know. I'm so sorry. I'm sorry."

Joe pushes past Dave to the fore of the crowd.
"Whaddaya got here?" Greg tries to explain, but Joe's ignoring him now.
"Da way I see it, we gots tree options if this Einstein tries and can't fix it.
One, we could cram into da tiny lifeboat and prolly die with da fishes.
Two, we could wait for help, close our eyes and make wishes.
Tree, we could break this thing 'n' hope it stay broke, but, aye, I don't know physics."
Dave steps up for a second, but Joe's eyes advise him to listen.
"So I say we oughta take votes. Show of hands. Raise 'em high if you're with me."
The others comply with a grimace. Joe turns back to Greg and smiles with sickness.

"Aye, kid, whaddaya doin'? Get away from there!"

Taryn runs up to the bunkhead. His Lego set shattered when he dropped it.
He still has a towel on his shoulders, his wet hair matted, thick, knotted.
Emily chases her son fast, but Taryn reaches the wall.
Presses a button on the other end, tiny arm reaching underneath the facade.



Round 2: Inspiration Quote Challenge
Topic: “We cannot wait for the storm to pass over. We must learn to dance in the rain.”
Posted on July 9, 2014
Result: Beat oats 4-3

It's raining at Church of the Redeemer's cemetery.

"To Jessica, my beautiful baby daughter ..."

She's twisting her ankle nervously, heel digging deep in the mud. The lack of sleep has her bugged. Trying to be at peace. Wistful but acting earnestly, she listens to the sermon. Steps in closer to her boyfriend, Todd. But Todd's emotions are avoided, lost in those sexy eyes, deep-set, like depths of oceans. Her mascara's dripping. She's crying, sure. But mostly she forgot a hat. The timing's poor. She has a job interview tomorrow. Going to get a line of work that maybe he would've been proud of. Youngest child, sure. But she thinks of his smile. Thinks of his storytelling style and if he were the one delivering this eulogy that finds her bored.

"To Timothy, my dutiful only son ..."

He's straightening his tie again, messing with the alignment pin. Trying to keeps his eyes off the sight of him. Spitting image now within spitting distance of his future. Sure enough, men in this family always died in bed. Dignified, they said. More like, sad and lonely and alone all to keep a sense of pride, he guessed. He's seeing his own demise ahead. Gripping a that tie. Dad had given him it for graduation. High school. He'd taken pride in him. Taught him the Windsor knot. All of the fancier ones were quickly forgot. Tim figured one was enough, never had his dad's distinct panache. But he did take his instincts for people, enough to know most of those here were thin in their grief.

"To Sandra, my first-born and brightest ..."

She's counting the heads. Doesn't really remember anyone's name but wants out of this mess. She's remembering how she had fled, moved to California not because of her dad but because of the mounting of stress. Everyone here. She remembered the faces more than the names. Chorus of lames, boringly rambling through a service ordained as necessary by a religion she never had given into believing. Don't get her wrong, though, as she watched mud fling over the casket, she remembered the time dad had built up her tree house right over the hammock. And she'd slipped off and got her wrist caught in the rope. And the cast went on right before softball season. So that whole winter, once she was healthy, Dad took off on weekends and soft-tossed her balls so she could make the middle school team rather than giving up. But she ended up getting cut by her sophomore year.

"And to Dolores, my wonderful wife of 28 years ..."

She's here alone. Everyone's here, yes. But she's here alone. Supposedly grieving. She sees three people she half-recognizes and a bunch of acquaintances. And the casket's been lowered so there's nothing to say to him. She's here alone. She's supposed to be crying. Broken for four days, clutching a rosary tight. She pulls closer to Jessica, Timothy, Sandra and listens as the pastor delivers with somber tones each ribbon and honor. And that's when she knows she'll go on living without him.



Round 3: Futurama Episode Challenge
Topic: The Route of All Evil
Posted on July 14, 2014
Result: Beat King Ra. 5-0

The yellow tape means she's already dead. You've already lost.
Harbinger cause announcing effect, out of respect.
Now it's the neck starting to throb.
Next it's that tremor in your hands — no, it's not in your hands.
The ounces of sweat, down to your chest.
All of your plots and your plans tossed in the can.
Isn't it obvious that logic says the more honest the man,
the more likely he is to be hobbled again?

The sobriquet: reports at 10. Evening news. Bedtime blues.
The caveat crawls into a calloused coma: death by fugue.
My state is surrounded by drowning. A river runs through it;
your little lungs knew it would be a physical nuisance
but still insisted we try. Could've stayed dry,
but there's land beyond the ransom letters that litter the drive.
Check the escape hatch. Did any spirits survive?
Bereavement's contrived, part of a culture that tosses grieving aside.
Two vacation checks to lay to rest all of our deepest good-byes,
then we're back on the beach for another weekend of lies.

The sanctuary pews do offer a cushion to kneel,
yet too often we're absconding for a push of the needle.
Cautionary losses: Sell the stock at its peak.
But while we're rushing to deal, loyal to options and leaks,
they roll our souls out for the optimum lease.
It's obvious we're not up to speed. Trampled and bent
as we fight our way back up the same hills their mansions attend.
Saddled with debt, we've got our headphones turnt.
Beats By Dreams. The bass ensures the end won't hurt.
Release and breathe. Speed through seas with the engine loud.
But please return to your seat before the exits crowd.

Now let's return to the scene. First, shed a tear for the Vine
and find that right darkened filter for an Insta-feelings confide.
Yes, she's gone now. But was she ever here or a lie?
You'd be surprised at what a mirror can hide.
So we're driving. This broken path so wearily winds.
So we're driving. The plains make plain we're reaching the sky.
No, we're not driving. Never were. Losing what's real.
The route of all evil runs right over us. We're too numb to feel.



Championship: Picture Challenge
Topic:
http://i.imgur.com/XLO5jKf.jpg
Posted on July 30, 2014
Result: Beat YDK 8-2

Look at the colors. Green means life, I suppose.
The slabs of granite, tight in rows,
show everything we take for granted, quite composed.
In the shot, there's hints of light, exposed,
but the background fades to blur. I'd guess that's wasted Earth.
I'd guess that's space reserved for the plight of those
who indulge in such trite repose, such tasteless work.

Dear "River Acheron" (a name that's probably not what it seems
as my Google search says that's a body of water in Greece),

Fuck you.

If it's not already obvious, please, let me offer you all I can see
in this photographic atrocity, that you signed with a digital flourish:
• I get the limited toning, close in on the pivotal moment.
That's exactly what ever other novice with a DSLR did with their focus.
• I'm seeing the rule of thirds, background divided to balance it out,
yet you've washed away everything in the sky's tint and matted the clouds.
• There's beauty in flowering fauna, the bud's growth to the seed head,
which is why dandelions are the favorite plants of most of the Pre-K.
• And then there's that signature, a brazen credit anointed in scripture,
but why would you put it across the lone focal point of your picture?

See, your composition is poor, subject matter unceasingly trite.
But you've made it big, River! Front page on the Deviant site.
Yes, it's teaming with bright, young, bookish media types
who hope their lame, broke clichés become desktop wallpaper.
Meanwhile, never seeing the light of day, these desperate art majors
slave over true beauty, inscribed in unpublished Descartes papers.
This Internet culture has delineated the path to success
is throwing up whatever you can as fast as you can, prepackaged and sent.
Reprints and Photoshops have won over this pantomime
where genius gets strangled by weeds.

Artistic dandelions.

[Certain]

Art of Writing League, Season 4
Ongoing, currently 9-2

Week 1: Abstract Image Challenge
Topic:
http://i.imgur.com/yJNfWK9.jpg
Posted on Oct. 3, 2014
Result: Beat Frank 7-0

The smell of fresh blood spilled through the regeneration mill.
It was December, and the steam rose off the atria grills,
where another batch, cut and wrapped, was sent to market.
It was December, season of giving. What better than pretested hearts?

Eight new ones a day every day produced and stowed
in the only factory in the world capable of fusal growth.
There were toes and eyes, grown behind the lungs and spleens,
but the hearts were the deli***ies. Frozen dry, trussed and squeezed.
Until the noisy demand hit its functional peak.
Viral marketing: "Get a new heart and overcome your disease!
Only seven million cubits and thirty-four Earth coins if you buy now;
just swipe your thumbprint on this hologram screen before supply's out!"

Martin Graves was a junior mechanic at the mill, repairing drones
that rarely froze but sometimes needed reboots or battery clones.
He'd spent eleven years of training at Gates Academy,
passed rigid assessments, visited lectures and gave with great veracity
a thesis dissertation based on alchemy's modern appliance.
His teacher said it was dated yet found it quite honest, unbiased.
That gave Martin the path to this organic mechanical field,
where he marched to the head of his class and stood out for his pedantic zeal.

It was December, three hundred and fifty-two hearts to be shipped,
a task carried out by seven drones in the mill and two on the cargo lift,
all working in unison over the next twenty-one hours and nine minutes.
Martin tugged on his blue shirt collar and readjusted one time widget,
then sent the first of the drones back out onto the factory floor.
One at a time, he pulled them aside just long enough to recalibrate cores.

When three hundred and fifty-two hearts arrived at Booker's Children's Hospital,
Chief Doctor Gregory Regus knew a mistake had been made, yet, "That's impossible!
Drones act only on programming," he said, so he took it as a gift from God.
Besides the hearts could only last for a few more hours outside of a living body.
There were four hundred and thirty-one children at Booker's in need, and yet
because they couldn't afford the regenerate hearts, they'd been kept on machines instead.
One of the lucky recipients was a freckled boy, twelve years in age.
With his lifelong heart murmur fixed, no one smiled brighter than Steven Graves.

As for Martin, when the drones returned and were debugged in manual audits,
the junior mechanic was found guilty of treason, theft and damaging losses.
They televised the execution. The injection spared Martin his torment.
And afterward, they moved his body to the mill to harvest his organs.



Week 2: Philosophic Quote Challenge
Topic: "With a bit of luck, his life was ruined forever."
Posted Oct. 18, 2014
Result: Beat dead man 5-0

Sunday, 1:21 a.m.

Chips scattered when Frankie flipped the fucking table,
"River-rat, cheating, pencil-dick motherfucker, I'll take you!"
He drunkenly ambled over to the bar, lunging for handles,
knocked a salt-shaker over, then shattered the bottle while cutting his hand, too.
Josh grabbed the cash and took off. In over his head, sober and yet
ready to take shots as he essentially stole what was his.
Climbed the basement steps, through the Italian restaurant, copius sweat
pouring as he tripped over the black cat patrolling for pests.
Stepped through the door a second before Frankie came puffing out orders,
so the bouncer went chasing down Broad with Josh cutting the corner.
That put him on 13th Street, and he dashed down to the bend,
doing the math out in his head: seven men, with a mass bounty for death.
Frankie's pride was too great to let this kid cash out with his bread,
so as he hit an alley, Josh knew he'd best fast bounce like a check.

Tuesday, 9:54 p.m.

The Glock echoed with treble as Josh took the steps up a level.
Escalating — Mo and Kris in hot pursuit with a debt still unsettled.
He ducked under the ladder on the fire escape, into an open apartment.
Old lady shrieked, but he punched her unconscious
with a right hook he learned from his uncle who boxes.
Josh is gasping for breath, but Mo and Kris are the savagest yet.
He'd already aced four thugs. That left three more hell-bent on having his head.
But our hero's out of bullets and now he's bursting through another door,
cursing as he hits the floor, crawling down into the corridor.
Ducking under the sink. Their shots shatter the mirror but they haven't seen him.
He grabs a shard, hides behind the shower curtain, listens and leans in.
So when Mo checks the bathroom, Josh grabs and drops him down with a slit.
Mo's body filled with shells while he fires a round into Kris.
Josh heaves the fat carcass off him and walks right out the front door,
drops a wad of 20s for the Arab tenant who just got back from the store.

Friday, 11:11 a.m.

Frankie's been stalking. His men downed, he's masked and he's armed and
he's ready to take this work into his own hands. Grabbing a cartridge,
he cocks. Tracking where Josh is for three days, out in the countryside.
Homie thought he'd be safe but, displaced, there's nowhere else to hide.
Frankie's calling his name. "Jah-osh." Two syllables. Grizzled like Tom Waits.
Slinks through the kitchen at slob pace, nothing but a few dishes, a hot plate.
He's listening for breathing. Knows Josh is inside. Must've hid in a enclave,
so he's checking the closets and wrecking the cottage but can't find this bitch or his locked safe.
Then out in the window, sees Josh running out to his Cadillac.
Fires a shot but misses. "You stole enough, motherfucker! GET BACK WITH THAT!"
Frankie's running and shooting. Doesn't see as he jumps the hedge, focused,
the rabbit that, in its own habitat, trips up Frankie and leaves his leg broken.
As Josh speeds away in the Caddie, his eye twitches, caught by one of his lashes.
And while clearing his vision, he drives head-on into traffic.



Week 3: Kanye West Quote Challenge
Topic: "I refuse to accept other people's ideas of happiness for me. As if there's a 'one size fits all' standard for happiness."
Posted on Oct. 18, 2014
Result: Beat NYCSPITZ 4-2 in a contender match

White rice at the start. It's softer, absorbent,
for when they don't drain the beans, which is always annoying.
Half pork, half steak — I'd get double but can't often afford it —
plus they give extra when you smile to impart your enjoyment.
Picante y maize, en español to command some respect
from that old Mexican lady who rolls with the hands of a vet.
Gracias. Grab my basket, plus some cash or a debit,
then sit down at a table, quickly unwrapping my heaven.

Now maybe it's hard to relate, maybe it's small or ornate,
but I find achievement in burritos that's not all in the taste.
We've all got callings to chase that might not fall into place,
but goals provide a road to stride beyond the walls of our gaze.
With open eyes, I tend to take a path less rugged and dark,
because one stumble shouldn't scuff and leave you bloodied and scarred.

But maybe it should. Maybe the highs feel better with lows.
Things can only get worse from here, every pessimist knows.
Yet, pushing back, I look for happiness wherever I go,
even if it means a crooked smile or irreverent pose.
The ennui serves as perfume in our dressiest clothes,
so raise your glasses, play the actors as we set for the toast.
Amid irrelevant folk, we wear intelligence cloaks,
and slicken lies as quick disguises for our mental repose.
The talk is cheap. Same with the drinks. Both are cloyingly sweet.
"Hi, how 'bout that weather?" All while avoiding his reach.
So pass a card, pass the salt, pass the time best you can.
And maybe try not to smile in saying good-bye to your friends.

There are places I remember all my life, that'd I'd rather forget.
But Yoko broke up the band, so I'm left to imagine the end.
Try not to dwell on the past, yet the passive regrets
build and build and build until I'm clasping my chest.
I'm an antisocial, surrounded by people trying to help,
so I smile, appease their egos then confide in myself.
Actualization's a solitary task by definition,
I've got my work, got my writing, got my passions, ambitions.
I prefer my private life, so rather than exposing my ego,
it's self-contained, in perfect balance, like that Chipotle burrito.



Week 4: Gothic Emo Picture Challenge
Topic:
http://i.imgur.com/s89qd24.jpg
Posted on Oct. 25, 2014
Result: Beat CopyPat 6-3 in the season's first championship match

Katie wore her daisy dress, afternoon sun bronzing her skin.
"Stop burning those damn ants," she scolded Tom with a grin.
She never could say no to her brother and his tangled mop of hair.
Three years younger, not a care. With a shrug, he hopped the stairs.
"I heard you got a date." Big grin. Katie blushed and cupped her eyes.
"It's not a date. It's a group thing. Kim, me, a couple guys.
We're just going to the movies." Chaste, she tugged her side
to make sure that daisy dress covered her thighs.
"Come back inside."

Katie had taken care of her brother ever since their mother died.
Dad drowned himself in work and liquor. Paid the bills and punched his time
and left his sixteen-year-old daughter to raise his son, a fraying home.
But at least Tom finally was old enough to stay alone.
"I'll take my phone."

They skipped the movies — Rob's call, since he had drove —
and ended up on a scenic route to a scenic lake with scenic hopes.
Rob and Kim took backseat, leaving Katie and Greg to stroll.
He had snagged a blanket. She mentioned her legs were cold.
They found a soft spot of grass to examine spacial depths,
as Greg connected constellations on Katie's naked chest.
"Don't stain my dress."

Greg felt a slap. Still groggy, a flashlight blinded at first,
but he quickly realized he was gagged and tied to a birch.
That's when he saw her: Katie was strung up in spread-eagle position,
with each limb tied to a different tree, each limb feebly twisting.
That mop of hair. He'd seen it before. That young teen at the door.
Katie's brother. Tim ... Todd ... Tom? Tom, who was now reaching for cord.
He tied up Kim and Rob on separate trees facing the center.
And while Katie flailed with a temper, Tom was silent, patient as ever.
He flicked a lantern. Shadows. Silhouettes across the night.
He ungagged his sister, releasing her caustic cries.
"But Tommy, why?"

Thomas Pickering raped Katherine that night at Centennial Lake.
Afterward, he killed Kimberly Jones, Robert French and Gregory Pace.
Thomas then slit his own throat, forcing his sister to watch,
while she cried for help that never came and helplessly bit at the knots.
No one ever found her body, only a daisy dress survived at the site,
but they say Katherine Pickering's screams still echo on the most quiet of nights.



Week 5: Classic Rock Song Challenge
Topic: "While My Guitar Gently Weeps" by The Beatles
Posted on Oct. 31, 2014
Result: Beat Witty 7-6 in the championship match

Shaggy-haired sons of bitches. Iconic iconoclasts.
Dystopic in sonic blasts, with pop logic grasped.
Welcome to 1963. Welcome to 1970.
Welcome to white, weed, ecstasy.
One day in the life of let it be.
George Harrison's guitar blisters its cries,
off the living reprise of a rhythm in time.
Some form of misgiving in that instant defined
the concept of short-term existence,
because though the candle burned quickest,
the summer of love flickers still, living in minds.
They evolved with the era. Then with it, they died.



Week 6: Short-Verse Challenge
Topic: The Time Is Now
Posted on Nov. 8, 2014
Result: Beat Mr. J 6-0 in a championship match

And as the sleek blue rocket descended upon,
and as the geese and ducks emptied the pond,
and as the Empire City went distraught in its pleas,
something brought you to me.

New York under attack. The carousel in Central Park,
where we spent those nights, those tempting larks,
swirling in the fountains, testing dark. Restless hearts.
Now. Under the empty arch. Pigeon abandonment issues.
A few vandals, spraying their names as one last canvas is scribbled.
Police on alert. Walking the blocks amid the calm of the shock.
No one with nowhere to go in no time till the bomb hits its spot.

But us. You chase me to the edge of the creek,
sinking your toes in one at a time in a sensuous tease,
and, with enviable ease, you flip your hair back, exposing the skies,
and you grin. A wide grin. One that extends to the glow of your eyes.



Week 7: Christopher Nolan Quote Challenge
Topic: "I have to believe in a world outside my own mind. I have to believe that my actions still have meaning, even if I can't remember them. I have to believe that when my eyes are closed, the world's still there. Do I believe the world's still there? Is it still out there? Yeah. We all need mirrors to remind ourselves who we are. I'm no different." — Leonard Shelby in Memento
Posted on Nov. 15, 2014
Result: Beat CopyPat 8-0 in the championship match

The arrogance soothes. Reflexive action, parroting gloom.
The usual clichés spill over into cynical, nefarious moods.
It's all revisionist. Counting seconds until hope shatters,
picking up the pieces with a crooked wire coat-hanger.
You've got that look again. The roll of the eyes
remotely controlling your latest disguise with the loneliest sighs.
It's getting cold. November. With a sickly pale blue cloaking the skies
that kind of reflects your attitude toward most other people.
We're smoking outside.
The Zippo glows in the gloaming, defining
the silhouette of you in the same place you always would hide.
Disposable lies told to a disposable crowd.
Eyes to the ground, shifty. Preferring when no one's around.
It's easier this way. Immersed in minutiae, evoking distortion.
Most people try not to leave themselves open to torment,
but you, your masochism has deep roots and trimmed stems,
so when you drowned your sorrows, they regrew with additional heads.
I'm speaking to you. All twitchy mannerisms with none of the etiquette
and a habit of talking out of the side of your mouth with stuttering emphasis.
We could have been somebody, but you couldn't stomach the sedatives.
Popped a Molly. You're sweating. Nervously searching the premises
for exits that don't exist. The tourniquet bends and twists,
but you're better off hung out to dry than immersed as a pessimist.
And that's the problem. Hitting pause, hoping but not assuming
that the world revolves around you because you're the only one not moving.
And there it is. The opposite of a pro is a con. Yes, it's true,
yet the opposite of progress is you.
It's seeming pointless. All of it. Pretending you're anointed
but never quite ending on a point, unsettled and disjointed
when everything would be better if you just shut up and enjoyed it
and embraced the fact that death is just a coin-flip.
Instead, you've settled for this narcissistic avatar
where you hardly can control your darkest passengers.
And though your vanity exposes your own dysfunction clearer,
maybe it's time you get away from that motherfucking mirror.



Week 8: Landscape Challenge
Topic:
http://i.imgur.com/rtin60i.jpg
Posted on Nov. 27, 2014
Result: Lost to dead man 6-1

The above screen capture is from a video game:
Uncharted 3, a third-person shooter with remarkable visual grace
that explores the Middle East through the usual, limited frame
of a white man (from London), with no indigenous strains.

And that's the problem. America with three capital K's
has come full-force in every facet today.
We've got Michael Brown putting his hands up for a party in the USA,
while protesters can barely see through the haze.

And that's the problem. Gamer-gate, a subculture exposed
as a bunch of misogynist vultures and drones
keeping their membership closed
to anyone with a different perspective. Rather than changing their tone
they'd rather plug their ears and continue to victimize those
who dare speak out against a system that's broke.
White male heroes missing the joke
of their own frail egos and limited scope.

And that's the problem. Another depiction of oil fields as battlefields.
The War on Terror really captured mass appeal, a tragic heel,
turning brown men into villains. Turning Islam into the enemy.
Turning our shoulders to an oppressed people because they seem to let it be.
We're unwilling to consider the freedoms of women draped in cloth,
and to all those with no voice, we'll tell them, "Sheik it off."

And that's the problem.
Are we reflecting our follies?
Too many think-pieces, not enough thinkers can enter and lobby
for change that would temper our hobbies
to the point that they'd better society.
But see, we've given up on art as anything more than callous enjoyment
so any societal play gets violently flayed on grounds of avoidance.
Video games are built to escape everyday malaise and bullies on pulpits.
A place where even a white man can turn into the hulk and scurry through bullets.
And their heads are down.
It's not their problem if they can't see it.
so they're better off in their trance, seeking
enlightenment through Easter egg advanced secrets.

And that's the problem. We're all lost in the woods of our own insecurities,
so we bury our fears in digital worlds and lack the hope for a perfect peace.
Created by white men, for white men, with white male protagonists,
these video games get one thing right:
We're all murderous savages.



Week 9: Author Quote Challenge
Topic: "All things truly wicked start from innocence." — Ernest Hemingway
Posted on Dec. 6, 2014
Result: Lost to Pent uP 4-2

Immaculata mythology. The Virgin Mary bleeding for sins,
believing within that she was flawless, conceiving with Him.
No reason to give in as the choir speaks in a hymn
of guilt-trip anachronistically deviant demons and imps.
You're nodding. Jesus a kid. Or better yet, weak in the limbs,
he hangs from a cross with perfect countenance, releasing our sins.
Now you can pretend the scripture says what they're preaching, but then
you'd be turning a blind eye toward the whole meaning of it.
I'm the shadow streaking across the darkest corners of society.
Disorderly and rioting, I won't be ignored or forced to hide again.
I'm here. Refusing a seat in the sycophant symphony hall,
which makes me infinitely better than you sickening wimps in your shawls.
I don't believe in God. I don't believe in you. I don't believe in John Lennon.
I don't believe in a soft heaven with blue skies and our lost brethren.
I do believe in me. Me is the only thing I can prove,
and if I can prove anything, I exist. It's the simplest rule.
Ego. The prism of fools. Mine diminished in youth.
Through Heraclitus and Hoffer, developed discriminant tools
that serve now as a rubric for unlimited use
of the logical, crystallized truth that no god could have given to you.
"God is dead." Nietzsche had it half-right.
The literal truth is that gods aren't dead; they never existed with any physical roots.
And the burden shall be on the prosecution. This is the view:
God does not exist unless someone can bring us some proof.

Yet there's a counterpoint, an editorial rebuttal re-framing the facts.
Take away their false idols and see how the laymen react.
Atheism opened as a patient strain of thought and counter-philosophy
but without the theocracy, there's no restraint or plot.
We're godless, right? That's the goal of restless Sodomites
who often find a reason to take out their internal misgivings on honest, kind
Jesus-fearing folks who are just fine to walk with blinds
and not worry about some greater truth that simply clogs the mind.
See, religions (all of them, thank you) set guide-paths for the people,
and while you search for meaning in life, many find that under steeple.

Under corruption. The church was built on a series of lies,
a tyranny-tied power structure cleverly yet clearly disguised.
Take souls and collection plates from the hypnotized masses,
and place the sinners' names on a fictional blacklist.
Then they ask what began all the backlash,
with altar boys sacrificed by the most privileged Catholics.
And when the intellects speak, their ears fill up with wax and
their holy redeemer seems to visit the bathroom.

The road to hell is paved with good intentions.
We're all on it. Shook with vengeance, crooks descending.
There's little left. So we might as well try to set a standard
even if we don't tie it to a pious Christian handbook.
So Mary was a whore? So God might not even exist?
The atheist perspective fails to right its grievances.

But there's a power to being correct, a power that's seeded with knowledge,
and without it, we'll continue to have our freedom admonished.

Yet here and now, the wicked men sit, believing they're honest.



Week 10: Nas Song Challenge
Topic: "Hold Down the Block"
Posted on Dec. 13, 2014
Result: Won via Soulstice no-show

"Come on, Simmons, hold your fucking block!"

Coach's whistle pierces. Sweat streams down Jason's cheeks.
Head down, ass up until the snap and straightened knees.
He's made his peace with the taped fingers and lingering pains,
but betrays his weak past with deep gasps and physical strains.
He's still jiggling weight from his days as a fat kid
with no place in the game.
He's never facing that way again.
Determined to find meaning through something more
than cheesecake and potato skins.
But hunger pangs hit him like a linebacker,
so he grinds faster, setting the blocks, steady and locked.
As he steps into spot, ducking down, he starts seeing time backwards.

"Hold your damn block, Simmons!"

They're running behind him again on the right side.
Strong side. Jason's side. Carving holes with tight strides,
he buckles another defender to open a gap for the back,
who dashes through fast. Touchdown. But at practice it lacks
the glory of six and a rest. Coach sticks out his chest,
"Simmons, you weren't on the A-Gap! You were listening, yes?"
"But we scored?!" And Jason recalls meeting Coach in physical ed.
A chubby dork showing surprise strength with weights in limited sets.
The roster spot. The letterman jacket.
From oft-forgot to friends with the masses.

"What the hell are you doing, Simmons? Hold down your block!"

Jason's pressing. Feels his heart beating with the same force
of that defensive tackle. Shedding shackles, he maintains course
and keeps the pocket protected. All the while, he's not stopping for breath yet,
determined to make good on his honest regrets and nodding his head, "Yes,"
as Coach barks another order while Jason's coughing up phlegm.
The puke can's on the sideline, but he's not leaving the field.
Hobbled and wrecked, his back in his stance, feeble but healed
as another snap count fades out. And then he fades out.
And Jason falls to the turf face down.



Week 11: Short-Verse Philosopher Challenge
Topic: "Dreams are often most profound when they seem the most crazy." — Sigmund Freud
Posted on Jan. 4, 2015
Result: Beat Arid 6-0

Any decent soothsayer comes with a cloud of smoke.
Ask yourself: The torn seams and tattered edges around the cloak
don't signify the better half of life. Stepping past the right.
He ambles, deaf and mad and white — as a ghost, cast in light.
There's attraction. There's ego brimming. Ego overflowing.
Speeches, lectures, cheap invectives seen through broken focus
bound by deeply coded sweeping shoulders, open coldness.
Here is the third eye of Shiva. Here is true total hypnosis.

Now keep your mind tuned sharply, my dear. It gets harder to hear.
Recline on the couch and reach back to the start of your fears.
Or don't. Pardon my queries, dark and inferior.
The process breaks upon despondence. The stark interior
of this room is meant to conjure something that probably wasn't there before
and probably won't be there again and probably requires care, remorse
or something you won't get here. So tell me your dreams, son.
Settle the screams. Sell me the scenes. Peddle your needs.

Run.



Week 12: Star Trek Challenge
Topic: Shadows and Symbols
Posted on March 11, 2015
Result: Won via Pent uP no-show in championship

One small step for man provoked the symbol,
a hope, a stencil for a sketching of tomorrow.
Evoking hereto, a greater ambition for man.
Limitless scans of the universe with visits to plan.
We've pictured it because we've been to it,
re-living our past with every telescoping view.
We exist, we use this knowledge to spin through
the future and past and scatterbrain wisdom.
But some keep questioning this fulfillment of destiny.
They're staring at the shadows, unsure we really know anything.

http://i.imgur.com/A2goCxt.jpg



Round 1: Talking Heads Challenge
Bye as No. 1 seed



Playoffs Round 2: Black power leaders' quotes Challenge
Topic: "Everybody changes, not just me." — Eldridge Cleaver
Posted on April 8, 2015
Result: Beat Zen 5-4

Twelve Oaks Recovery Center, Mobile, Alabama.

Day 8.

Roommate again. Had been a week.
Johnny stepped away. Spinning head. Spinning deep
back into the litmus pleas. The rhythm pleas.
He begged for mercy. They gave him ibuprofen.
But Johnny’s gone now, leaving behind the silence broken.
I never saw them wash his sheets before Greg walked in, weak.
First-timer. Lost and bleak.
He still chews his nails.
He still shakes a bit. Shakes the bed. Tosses, creaks.
It’s OK. It’s been an awful week for my own awful sleep.

Day 13.

Therapy days are the worst. Explaining our thirsts
to some sycophant who entered this field,
without ever experiencing the strain of the urge.
I’m getting better. They said I could be out of here by May or, at worst
hopefully by the start of summer.
You loved the summer.
Didn’t you? Sundays at the church, you in your favorite skirt,
me in your favorite blazer.
The only days we never would cover our faces with makeup.

Day 29.

I haven’t written. I know.
Regressing, tracing my bad steps, refusing their wrongs.
I’m getting brutal to calm, they said it in passing.
Who are they? Not you.
Fuck. The devils are dancing.
Not you. I fucking can’t … I can’t.
Even.
It’s odd. I’m pressing them on. They’re never remanding.
Motherfuckers don’t know how to be angry these days.

Day 32.

I just wanted to tell you I love you.

Day 37.

We went outside. Eighty-four and not a cloud in the sky.
They say fresh air can open our lungs, open our minds.
But I’m drowning inside.
I need to escape. Houses of lies.
Lies I’ve never told. But I’m down with denial.
Surround-sound music binges, through cordless headphones.
My sentence unfinished. Fragmented. Broken English
that’s what Anita the maid speaks when the guys are trying to flirt.
But I know she isn’t illiterate.
I smile, she grimaces.
I keep my quiet and limit my contact
out of respect.
To her, to you.
Forty ounce of regret.

Day 45.

I’m getting out.
I’ve been working my fears,
turning new pages
in the same book you authored.
A better me, certain and clear.
Earnestly here. Focused.
But I don’t know.
You’ve read these thoughts for long enough
to better grasp the entire world inside my tiny mind
than any trained shrink who tries to climb inside.
I’m getting out, though.
They set me up with a job, factory work,
down in Birmingham, as a packaging clerk.
For that I’m grateful.
It used to be that release seemed painful.

Day 1.

We do this again.
You’ve sent me here,
by never being there,
by never being.
Elusive and yet,
something never stupid.
We couldn’t be because you changed, drifted, sneered.
We both decomposed.
You disappeared.



Round 3: Street Photography Challenge
Topic:
http://i.imgur.com/5WO0IGN.jpg
Posted on April 22, 2015
Result: Lost to NYCSPITZ 5-2

liding out of a crimson teardrop, he entered.
Trying to breathe, dissenting from pent up phlegm.
He never meant to be here,
placed down into an ample bosom.
Patted on the backside until, at last, gasps were patterns, softened
in the cries of the infirmary. The first face he saw
was a nurse named Marjorie. Proclaimed him tall.
Measured his feet. Then walked out into the waiting hall.

Mother was second. She laid upon her death bed.
Nineteen-forty-seven, clutching her beaded necklace
to open the doors of heaven.
Believing she had met her maker,
he left the room to cry and set the table.

Father was a good man. He taught him how to tie a fish net
and how to drive the rig. Baseball, rye and wrist strength
and firm handshakes and how to roll a cigarette tight.
The son was 13, the daughter 9. The father left at midnight.

His sister was beautiful. Donna, she danced and smiled.
She had a child. She quickly matured and passed her wiles
off as a way to a faster path to wherever she wanted to go.
So she danced off into the sunset in a drug overdose.

The third pew from the front, right side. Gloria always sat,
so one day, he slid a row ahead of her and boldly sang.
His creaking baritone caught her ear.
He’d hoped she’d laugh.
The next week, he joined the same pew to hold her hand.
A gentle touch.
She raised two kids. He paid the bills. She made his lunch.
He grayed and filled. She stayed untouched, never looking less
than the perfect angel, even in the cancer’s grasps.
He sang to her in the hospital. She gasped a laugh.

The overachiever. He taught Tommy how to tie a fish net,
but Tommy quickly turned to bigger prey.
He’d lie and get sent to his room, but didn’t stay.
He’d sneak out the window or back into the basement to sit and play
video games. Ones he designed himself.
And the old man couldn’t figure Tommy out but tried to help.
They sent him off to school. West Coast, with just a tie and belt.
He used to visit in Novembers,
now sends a card on Christmas if he even remembers.

Daddy’s little girl. Jessica sort of reminded him of Donna,
so he protected her at every step and quickly coddled
and looked at every boy with a twitch that followed
quickly behind a firm handshake. It kept Jess embarrassed.
Pleading to be allowed to do the things her older brother did,
to be like the other kids
to be like her mother.
Cancer’s like that, though. A hereditary curse.
Hodgkin’s lymphoma.
A father stepping from the hearse.

And now he sits,
tearing off pieces of bread to feed the ground.
Knowing the pigeons won’t stick around.

[Certain]

The R.H.Y.M.E.
Ongoing at ProjectRhyme.com, currently 4-1

Week 2
Topic: Reality check: Earth is just a speck
Posted on Jan. 16, 2015
Result: Won via Cereal_Killer no-show

Scepter in hand, The Dark Lord measures his plans.
The buzz of black holes and ballistic stars enters his scan.
A multiverse all to himself. The war was won
through steady hands and death commands from The Dark Lord above.
But the broken fragments of a total spastic reality,
replicated three times over, through a plastic totality
were worth every last fatality as the chords were plucked.
Yes, The Dark Lord surveyed his masses as a chore of love,
that which drove him to cover his sword with blood.
A madness, the last king, the last titan:
He extinguished stars as the final chorus sung.
His grasp tightened. The multiverse became little more than none,
a dormant hum, encompassing darkness and flash lightning.
So The Dark Lord smiled. And he considered the path.
And he destroyed every last planet with a swing of his staff.
He stared into the gloom of the void, unpolluted with noise.
And he left,
having proven his point.



Week 3
Topic:
http://i4.minus.com/jblDE04WvxCcPe.png
Posted on Jan. 26, 2015
Result: Beat PancakeBrah 6-0

We rose with rockets.
Bottled up. Claustrophobic. Drones of progress,
emotive posits supplying power to the grid.
We towered as we slid across horizons.
Days, hours, minutes. Quick.
Our mythos twists like cloud grimaces,
and we're shaping them.
Personacentric model of our universe,
rising in the bluest burst.
Trial/error, too rehearsed.
Looping till we swoon.
This is a crucial moment. We're too condoning.
We're not usually stupid
but move with hope and room to grow, and
there's something unhuman consuming, enclosing,
as we're reduced to our notes scribbled on walls of caves.
The call is made.
The broken-down socio-economics
offer tectonic shifts with even the smallest waves.
We're making progress. We're doing what's right
in the name of honest science.
Houston's problems loosen as we solve them,
reducing our nights
to some combination of hot coffee, cold pizza and luminous sights.

We dropped like bombs.
Fell like comets.
Fell as the rain falls. Puddles of devil's toxin.
Breathing the air, completely aware of the hell we'd walked in.
Sweeping away misdeeds
with the ease of pressing a button.
Deviant thoughts. Scenic on walks,
our speeches were flawed.
A broken union trying to break a union,
defeat at all costs.
We believed in the cause. Well, at the time.
Deceived by the flaws of a dystopic design.
The city glows beneath us,
exposed to the deepest chemical secrets,
teaming with growths, malignant seeds in the bones of children.
And this is the tome we've written.
This is the road we've gilded.
Burning bushes in hopes that they speak to us,
because even the coldest cynics
tend to be exposed as Christians when crammed in shelters.
The plans have melted. Stuck in a war of attrition.
Discordant friction,
as a cigarette plume renews our final coercive addictions.

But we should've just floated.
Split the difference, for the good of eloping.
Through strategic escape patterns, we could've took to the ocean.
We could have looked for an opening.
Sprung for the past, fell into future.
Dug at the scabs, swelled with each suture.
Too humble to laugh, propelled into stupors
with every twist of fate avoided below.
Watch as they crash. Watch as they die.
Watch as they passively cry,
as actions derived from passion and fright
matter less and less as our paths all divide.
We should've just floated.
We couldn't condone it.
An ominous pride, an obvious lie, a crooked invoking
of a deity none of us really believed in.
But the sun still will rise on the coast today.
If not, I'm leaving.
I'm going to float away.



Week 4
Topic: Office Trip
Posted on Jan. 31, 2015
Result: Lost to B.E 6-3

The smell of genital sweat, cheap perfume and cigarette grinds
filled the back room where she slid into her fitted disguise.
Glitter-covered breasts, squeezed first, then clipped with a bind
to further give her a rise, heaving chest over shimmering thighs.
Mary stroked the mirror with the photos attached by tape,
cracked and frayed — just like their mother, she figured.
The liquor burns as it pumps to her liver, but she's past escape.
Head down, deep breath. A soft curse hung from her lips.

"FIRST UP, WE'VE GOT VOLUPTUOUS VICKI!"

That's Vicki with an "i," she half-laughed as she strutted on stage,
recalling how they said "Mary" wasn't slutty enough of a name.
Happy Hour: Time spent fucking a pole and clutching her wage
while egos with black suits and dead eyes lusted and waved.
He caught her attention, spilling a smile and his wallet's possessions.
"Buy me a drink?" "How about a private dance?"
She paused for a second,
usually preferring to flirt first instead of devolving to reckless.
"What's your name?" "Joe." He seemed mostly calm and collected.
"How's your day going, Joe?"
"Better now." His half-smile dissolved all her questions.

The private rooms were all leather seats and purple walls and bodily fluids.
Mary pushed Joe on to the couch as she throbbed to the music,
pressing herself against his prodding protrusion, grinding slowly.
Her eyes were closing, thinking about why she chose this.
Thinking about Jeremy and Christine, the loves of her life,
all while some stranger named Joe was rubbing her thighs.
"Hey," she smiled coyly, "I don't think I said you could grab."
Another guy willing to pay for the vague hope of getting some ass.
But Joe apologized profusely and explained he's a novice.
"Aww, don't worry, honey, it's just another day at the office."
Joe sighed with relief, then made a play for his wallet,
producing three-hundred dollars and a grin betraying his object.

Mary swallowed her pride. ... His, too.
She figured this pays for the kids' school clothes and all their supplies.
But as she started to leave the private room, she caught a surprise.
"Freeze! You're under arrest for solicitation." Joe had cuffs and a badge.
"Excuse me?"
"You'll have to put some clothes on and come with me, ma'am."
And as she slid into the back seat — "You played me! Just stop this!" —
Officer Greg Kelley smiled: "Just another day at the office."



Week 5
Topic: Bungee Jumping to the Boogie Down
Posted on Feb. 10, 2015
Result: Won via SacriFICE no-show

We took the plunge.

We took the plunge from the top of the sugar hill,
masking delight with passion and impossible rookie will.
It came with a flash of the lights, but a message was served,
and all the blowback to these breaks simply tested our nerves.
Put a veteran's verve on awkward display while walking this way,
but it was never rehearsed or manufactured, never lost in the game.
Yes, the boom-bap dripped while we were taking the plunge,
but no one could accuse us of even once faking the funk.

We took the plunge.

We took the plunge as we fought for our rights,
even as we emerged as enemies, faded and lost in the night.
Parents couldn't understand, stamping advisory warnings,
but they can't touch us, as much as we tried to ignore them.
We busted moves to dusty tunes on top of cardboard squares,
the ultimate soap boxes for our artform's heirs.
We scratched and prayed and pulled in hopes of getting paid in full,
but it only took two before the leader's technique betrayed his skill.

We took the plunge.

We took the plunge because the bass line starts at the bottom.
So they moved their hips as we moved our lips, imparted our toxins
of something greater than the hardest of rocks, and
we carved something targeting pop hits with no acknowledgement.

We took the plunge ...

... only you can't fall from the lowest of rungs.
We began with twisted break beats and gloats over drums.
We were Party Rock before Planet Rock, unfocused and young,
with the sprawling energy built for provoking some fun.
We sampled Iggy Pop before Iggy popped, atoning for none
of the mistakes that we never quite owned as they hummed.
We identified old school within a limited context,
but never left room for the prism of all this.
We never left room for a picture so honest
that we could admit that rap is pop. Forgive us, our fathers.

We took the plunge.

It was two dope boys in a Cadillac,
who rattled trunks and threw hands in the air to their battle raps.
They sparked a creative desire, opened up planes to aspire.
They led a cultural revolution that gave us a fire,
well, them and other bigs, lils and greats who inspired
a generation that came to recognize through all the beef,
that mass appeal has its very own gangster qualities.
You see, they said it before: The goal is to move the crowd.
So while MCs act like they don't know,
we've long produced the boogie down.



Week 6
Topic:
http://i.imgur.com/maToUtt.jpg
Posted on Feb. 16, 2015
Result: Beat Timeless 5-1

The walls were blue.
He faced them while he crawled at 2,
faced them while he sprawled in youth,
faced them as he taller grew.
Until all he knew
was these painted walls, their toxic hues.
But the boy in the maze can never escape.
All-consumed, all-defused.
Destined to traipse to daunting tunes
in a world that's never been fair.
Never repaired.
He held his breath through baseball,
through football,
through every despair.
His walls were blue,
unlike in his redecorated underground lair
for the Ninja Turtles.
He prefered Raphael. He perfected his muttering stare.
Ennui on the downbeat,
sweeping away his tumbling hair.

The walls were blue.
His onesies, shirts and jackets all were, too.
He wore a heart on his sleeve — blue, too.
Pressured to be.
Predestined to be.
Something it seems.
Something so "he"
rather than "me" or "you" or "I."
Defined by generalist genes.
His walls were blue
because he was a he.
They never did see.
They never noticed the preference for green,
the glances at pink,
the measured reprieves
he took when he felt most trapped.
The walls were a maze, with shuttering doors.
He could never go back.
The maze was blue.
And the color mismatched
with the heart on his sleeve
and the blood on the path.

The knife's edge slipped carelessly through all
of the pain and confusion, of the parents' refusals.
The floor was red.
And she bled out and died staring at blue walls.



Week 7
Topic:
http://i.imgur.com/sVI6Taf.jpg
Posted on Feb. 25, 2015
Result: Beat SacriFICE 6-0 (won interim championship via Split Eight no-show)

Meredith hoped
to glean pearls of wisdom
from ocean depths.
She'd hold her breath.
She'd turn and throw her open nets
aside the boat, the lining floats.
The gentle breeze grows colder yet.
Each dive invokes untold regrets.
She swims across the current's path,
then up for air, a turn and gasp,
then go again.

Meredith dreamed
of thrashing seas,
of magic beasts and fragile reefs,
escaping to the widest blues
where silence hues a tacit peace.
It's there. It's there that she'd
cast her nets.
A bid to drag the depths for treasure,
lost and rotting, amid
the oft-forgotten passage dregs.

Meredith searched
in murky trenches, flooded still.
The work is reckless, hopeless, tireless,
a product of a stubborn will.
Yet she dug on.
Dug past the crusts
and pasts the bends
and past the pressure gage's limits.
She knew there was so much below,
so much beyond the hazy physics.

Meredith Dorsey was a marine biologist I first met in East New York.
She had red hair and deep-set brown eyes that always seemed so deep and warm.
We were younger then, she a grad student totally convinced
she'd change the world. While I was writing, totally convinced
that nothing could be changed. That we were hopelessly adrift.
She put a sail on a boat and, unknowingly, opened me to myths.
Meredith hoped and dreamed and searched beyond my broken pleas and yearns.
She saw an ocean of opportunity that only needed her.
Within five years, she found her calling in aquatic ecosystems,
marine biologist-turned-archaeologist, a decent living
and a true calling. The depths took Meredith to heights and fame.
and then they swept her away,
from me.

A tidal wave.



Week 8
Topic: Finish the Thought
Posted on March 4, 2015
Result: Lost 6-1 to Pent uP in championship

The beeps came from all around.
The steady hum foretelling life with each beat in the background.
She sat up. Kept her shoulders high, finally comfortable
but deeply in pain. The only thing keeping her sane: "Nine months until ..."
Now the doctor's speech is restrained. Hand on her knee
as though that's easing the strain,
as though there's any way to alleviate the evil betrayed.
Stillborn yet so unsettled.
The umbilical choke kept blood from reaching his brain.

The lights came from all around.
The glowering sirens pierce the alleys on the wrong side of town.
He took off. Peeked at corners before turning quick,
breathing heavy. Their radios warned his nervousness.
Fleet but heavy, he slid down the stairs to the lobby floor.
Grabbing an unlocked bike,
he rode like nothing was worth stopping for.

She arrived home. Disassembled the crib,
then started to unravel herself into a bottle of gin.
Alone. She wanted to be alone, she said.
They left her be. They'd never see
all these tears and fears exposed and red.
Like her broken irises.

He hit the stoop. Pulled out the liquor bottle,
the cash wad and the pistol, throttled
with an amateur grip, a novice.
But he was 14. Time to grow up, become a man.
They said he'd find power with a gun in hand.
They said he'd find Jesus with a couple dime pieces
and a fifth of Jack,
so he tried to chug again.

The doctor's office. They said the checkup was vital,
so she's naked, legs open,as they're testing inside her.
It's the same position.
But she couldn't be further away.
Her mind racing, turning in waves.
Trying to imagine this as something different,
something beautiful,
some more perfect display.

The police cruiser. They patted him down with aggression,
tossing the bottle before pulling the cash and the weapon.
"Not even loaded."
Their eyes rolled as they laughed deep
and told him to get the hell into the backseat.
Sped to the station. Papers, prints, mugshot all in order.
They slid him three quarters:
"OK, kid, call your mother."

She closes her eyes. She tries not to be alone. She looks within.
The single mother-that-wasn't,
imagining what could have been.

[PancakeBrah]

Boomer Esiason was a quarterback for the Cincinnati Bengals during the best era of their team's history, but failed to win a Super Bowl against the 49ers despite having superior talent on his side.

[dead man]

Dancake vote on certain vs. zen so AOWL can continue thanks

[Frank]

Certain

BlankYank?