His foot taps against the piano.
I hear it, on this old record. I don’t miss a thing.
It’s a cold day today, snow is pushing its way through
My state, and its put me in a grey state.
A grey blue state, I feel blue and I do not know
What to do.
The words wind through my head, and I listen to him play
That old record runs on
The ivory keys, each touched gently.
He thinks so quick.
He thought so much.
So much harmony, so much nobody got.
But I think I get it,
Thelonious had the old blues,
The ones I got too,
He put them on the keys,
Each finger striking a tone and
Bringing new melody and harmony
Part of me envies him. Even in death.
Part of me pities him.
I hear that sad old song of winter skies so grey,
Marching out on the keys.
Its sad to think so much and speak so little,
Too love so few so much,
And then to lose.
It’s sad to have a beauty you never can share.
Empty chairs mark roads of despair,
Love ones lost were once found there
Eyes once saw that fell into disrepair.
Lost them all, one by one, lost summer skies and sun,
And the grey came, and the blues too, and the beauty no one could view.
Well I’m a monk, just like him,
Alone where the room is dim.
I have four feet of brass and no where to shine
And all the time in a world that’s mine.
I’ll be a monk.
I’ll settle down
Into the dirt and dust,
I’ll bleed and rust
And curse the old sun who never comes,
And wish I wasn’t so blue,
But know that I need it too.
Category Archives: Writing
His foot taps against the piano.
One of my plans was put into effect today. A battle plan that is. That’s what I do. My job. I work for the military.
On TV, on the news, you always see all those guys running around, tanks going here and there, aircraft swooping to and fro. They never tell you really, but those things don’t happen on their own. Every piece on the board, from pawn to king, has a direct designated place he goes and thing he does, everything is scripted. Really all you see out there is a theater production on some grandiose scale. The tricky part is scripting the guys on the other side.
The show must go on, they always say. And yeah, it always does go on. At some cost though. The show works a little different out there. It isn’t just for fun, or for a review, for ticket sales. It isn’t just to entertain an audience or inspire a thought or aspiration. It is about lives. If you respond the wrong way, if you get “stage fright”, if you miss a line and have to improvise, it doesn’t just mean you’ll be in the paper the next morning, mentioned in a poor review. You’ll be in the military obituary instead. They will say you were “struck down in your prime by a foreign menace”, They will say you died “bravely in combat” or “in service of your country”, but that’s a sugar coat. That is an easy answer, that is the easy take miracle pill. It isn’t the truth. The truth is that your son, your daughter, died because of me. I killed them. Their script told them to go to Point A. They went to Point A. But Point A was under artillery fire. Or there was a tank at point a that was pointing at them. Or a pilot missed his mark on a bombing run, and Point A is nothing more than a crater. People make mistakes, right? Life is all about learning from our mistakes, isn’t that it? Continue reading
We slowly crawl
Onto the field.
Every foggy breath.
Our eyes are shadowed
By the night
We stand and wait,
For the coming fight.
Our focus is singular,
It is everlasting and ever present,
It does not waver to the crowd,
Friends and foes,
Princes, beggars, saints, and villains
Are all the same before us now.
Our focus is eternal,
Immortal like the artificial green
Beneath our matching black soles.
We wait for the call,
For the word,
We are restless,
We are anxious,
Yet not a muscle moves among all of us.
We are patient.
Our eyes are glued to those who await
The coming fight.
Sound is muffled,
Cold irrelevant fact
For our time
Is coming now.
She is there, before our eyes,
Across the field she glides.
She floats to her throne,
Upon it she stands,
Her hands at her sides.
We wait for them to rise.
We anticipate the word.
We dread it,
Yet it is all we want.
Our damnation and salvation in one.
Our hearts pound,
Our lungs expanded, lips wetted,
We remain statuesque.
We await the word.
And then we are One,
We are together,
The lines are drawn and weapons raised,
The audience cheers and our fears are razed.
We earn our glory, and make our name
We show the world how we play our game
On our battlefield
As One we fight,
We march as One this Friday night.
She is across from me, seated in the terminal of an airport, waiting for nothing.
Her eyes are fixed on me. A screen far over their heads illuminates her mouth, her eyes.
They are cold and insterile, swimming with decaying life and forgotten love.
“You did this. You did this to me.” I hear her voice over all other noise. The airport is silent, it it still. Only those eyes move, only those eyes speak.
“You did this to me. It is your fault. It is your fault.” her voice speaks in the same solid tone, an even tone that gives so little, and hints at so much.
I try to speak but I cannot, my mouth is glued shut by guilt and blame, by hurt and words that have fermented in my guts for too long. I do not speak.
“Your fault. You did this to me.” The twisting scars appear on screen. I feel them on my own arms, I feel them grasping my insides. I try to look away, but I cannot.
Red glistening scars, that are forever long and wide on a pale canvas of flesh. The pain is almost unbearable. Physically, it burns and stings and screams, eating at my flesh, at my own body as I feel what she has endured.
And I feel it biting at my heart, and it hurts in a way that is far worse than on the outside.
I feel my insides quaking and my eyes stinging as cold tears splatter my face. Her words shake me, they take me by the throat, they pummel me endlessly. The scars wind on forever, peeling off of the display and into reality, tentacles of bloody red raw flesh reaching for me, green hints of infection vandalizing the perfect red around the edges. Her arms are gripping me now, her eyes are strangling me, her lips are peeled wide revealing the razor sharp tongue that has cut me for so long.
“You did this to me! You did this to me! This is your fault! Your fault!”
The scars hold me in submission, the words blot out the light, her stare cuts through the prison of my mind. My fortifications fall like flimsy paper walls as her hell consumes me, setting me alight, putting fire to my spirit and broken wholeness.
I cannot move, I cannot breathe, I am emolated for her vengeance, I am a victim of her wrath, I am at the unbearable mercy of her unforgiving eyes and the shining blade of her words.
I cannot bear the pain, and yet I do. For the longest time I do. And then suddenly, I am released.
The terminal disappears, the chairs sink away into the floor, the floor becomes the earth, and the earth is swallowed into nothingness.
The sky above me and below me becomes no more, the atmosphere dissolves, the stars blink away, the sun hides his face and the moon fades away as her mate turns from her.
I am left alone in a dark place that speaks of no comfort, of no torture, no pain or joy. It is a place that only knows of nothingness, and I sink into that world of nothing.
Very far away, I hear her whisper. As my body melts away into the void, as I join the expansive entity of emptiness, I can still hear her voice. It calls me back to the living world, it calls me back to torture and death.
But death is no more. Life is no more. Pain, fear, regret, love, hate, and longing are no more.
I bond with emptinesss, and I disappear.
(previous chapter can be found here: http://thejohnrillos.wordpress.com/2012/09/17/laurum-hills-part-3-the-eggenning/)
“Hello most decrepit and foreboding gentleman of small stature and startling, crippled appearance,” little Giuseppe Gustavio Jr. cried with glee upon gazing at the wheelchair-ridden stranger behind the heavy oaken door, “Please do wheel yourself in, we would be most grateful to make acquaintance with someone so advanced in age and misfortune as you. You look ill sir, and perhaps a tag angry, would you like me to fetch you some water, or perhaps a bottle of peppermint schnapps? We aren’t quite sure what it is, seeing as we are nothing more than a ragtag conglomerate of less than well-fed, bathed, civil, or even remotely endearing orphans. But we do have an excess of this schnapps stuff if you happened to…”
And at that very moment, the wheelchair-ed mister scooted his way into the orphanage. Silence fell upon the impoverished entourage, as the highly vocative Giuseppe Jr. fell to the floor in a fit of deranged sputterings and spasms in a manner most similar to his older namesake. The unwalking old man, or Unwalking Old Man as he will soon be called, or the Old Man for short, or The Old Man if you are fond of capitalization, slowly crept forward, eyeing the blue onions. The multitude of orphans made not a peep.
After the lengthy persistence of an agonizing silence, apart from the raspy whisp of a breath that barely extended past the lips of the Old Man, and the muffled sobs of a now-seizing Giuseppe, The Old Man spoke.
“Your dwelling place is most quaint, most quaint indeed. However. You must leave. At once. You must come with me, it is time.”
The words seemed to float from the Unwalking Old Man’s mouth, they were soft, but empty like a less-than-perfectly inflated air mattress. The words seemed to drift throughout the interior of the orphanage, grazing the walls in slow motion. The air gently hummed as the words touched it, or rather, it shuddered. His voice was one of great authority, but more like the authority of a possessing spirit. The way he spoke demanded cooperation, it demanded action, but it crept along your insides like the slender arms of a wraith, chilling and consuming. His voice was that of the cold, and the orphans reacted as such.
“Bring what you can carry, and we will depart at once…” The Old Man remained frozen in place, waiting for the children to respond. There was a slight shift of the crowd, yet the children did not know quite how to respond. They looked to one another, as their minds were slowly enfeebled by the grasping tendrils of a very scary adult’s command. And just as they had almost made up their minds to go gather their less than humble belongings, a tenor ranged male voice piped up, and a boy stepped forward.
“Gee sir,” John Rillos said, “Not that we disrespect your sudden authority in our lives or anything, but isn’t it a bit strange that we should bend to your rule uncompromisingly? I mean, we have done quite well without adult influence in our lives.” He gestured to the rotting walls with blue onions nailed about, the collapsing ceiling, the shallow pools of tears collected in the corners, and little Giuseppe Gustavio Jr. exquisitely convulsing next to his wheelchair. “We have really done well for ourselves. You can’t just expect us to follow your bizarre and unexpected leadership on a whim? How can we trust you, most gracious and aging mister of less than stellar physicality?”
“Perhaps I should show you a magic trick.” The Old Gentleman said, and at the tip of a hat, he tipped his hat, which was previously unmentioned.
A vortex pounced from the darkened underside of his top hat, and consumed little mister Rillos in a flurry of furry white, twisting doom. The child’s scream was only audible for a moment, as it was instantly drowned out by the high-pitched squealing of the twisting doom tornado. John, the child of moderate height and width, was lifted into the air, and crushed as easily as a grape, and the vortex swallowed him up into the depths of the Old Man’s now mentioned magical hat. Then, as suddenly as it appeared, the vortex receded. He jovially popped the cap back on his head, gave it a good spin, lifted it back off. With a cartoonish and endearing pop, a tiny head that mildly resembled John, but not quite, popped out and rolled across the floor, followed by the distinct scent of bacon grease and some currently undubbed hot beverage. All of the children applauded, with the exception of John Rillos, who was now quite dead.
“Now pack your things at once children, and we will be off.” The Old Man hoarsely whispered in italics.
The children all obeyed without hesitance, even little Giuseppe Gustavio Jr., who had just slipped the little head of the person who was not quite John into his little pocket. Soon, they would be off.
(Previous chapter can be found here: http://thejohnrillos.wordpress.com/2012/09/10/the-tale-of-laurum-hills/)
It was a Saturday afternoon, and little Lucy Lue was lolloping along the street, as she did every Saturday most every once in a while. The sun was hot, and beat on little Lucy’s face like a deranged child playing with a soup can. But little Lucy bowlinskogged along just the same, making her way to God knows where all the same, completely ignorant of the most unfortunate coincidence that was about to befall her.
Lucy played the flute. She would often play whilst prancing around the forest, interacting with all the wonderful and cuddly creatures to be found amongst the trees and shrubbery. Often times a small parade of rabbits would begin to trot along behind her, but she would always shoo them off, as she was the teensiest bit suspicious of the plausibly diabolical nature of the rabbits. She much preferred chipmunks and raccoons anyways, and even squirrels or small mountain lions.
But today Lucy was not playing the flute, or prancing, or in the forest, or collecting mushrooms. Lucy was shaboinging through the city today, and happened to be rounding the corner where the certain doom of her leg was about to be realized.
As she wangabocked forward, she noticed a bear trap sitting in the middle of the sidewalk, conveniently aligned with a fire hydrant.
“Hmm, this is most peculiar.” Lucy said to herself in italics, and proceeded to disarm the bear trap, place it in the nearest government regulated bear trap recycling unit, and continued to dundwing forward, past the completely harmless fire hydrant and the extremely sinister Lollypop Livery.
However, the lies of the previous third person narrator (who has just been replaced by a far more intelligent, hardworking sort) became immediately apparent when the previously mentioned fire hydrant rocketed out of the ground in an extremely harmful manner, its red tippity pippity aimed directly at Little Lucy Lue’s sternum.
In the flash of an eye, in the blink of a wrist, in the knee of a bear, Lucy completed a perfectly executed double reverse aerial somersault (complete with a bow-tie and a side of waffle fries) over the death rocket fire hydrant, and proceeded to vaporize it with a well aimed burst of her laser vision.
A moment should probably be taken to explain what made this seemingly ridiculous, obscure, random, and unexpected manuveur possible. Little Lucy Lue, the flute-playing-soon-to-be-dismembered-protagonist-of-this-story, is the youngest of a culturally nondescript family of particularly notable mutants. She is gifted with superb reflexes, laser vision, inhuman flexibility, telepathy, flouting prowess, and infinitely regular bowel movements. Her stunning wit and perfect physical form make it possible for her to accomplish less than possible feats, such as conjuring waffle fries and bow ties whenst carrying out highly complicated, plausibly fictional acrobatic maneuvers.
Lucy fell back to the sidewalk with a majestic twirl, sticking the landing and bringing tears to the eyes of the untold masses who witnessed her spectacularly, which happened to be 13 people. She turned to face her gaping audience, taking several bows and accepting their praise and monetary benefits as she reveled in her own glory, completely unaware of the seismic anomaly occurring directly beneath her left leg.
With a single satisfied gulp, the earth beneath her swallowed up both of her legs, and with a single whimsical chomp, crushed her bones into oblivion, and other sorts of tiny particles.
Even though this situation already appears to be most horrible, her horror had only just begun (even though it would shortly end.) A fountain of rabbits began to pour from the gap in the earth, where her now totally destroyed left and right legs both rested. (Note:The previous, now deceased narrator failed to mention that Little Lucy Lue in actuality would lose both legs while loping ‘longside the Lollipop Livery.)
The furry mass slithered all across her as tens, hundreds, thousands, sevens of rabbits poured from the salsa gap in the earth. She was pelted by the pelts of an unending torrent of carrot devouring creatures who, assumedly, had just risen up from the depths of hell.
Lucy contemplated letting out a dramatic scream, as to express her displeasure in losing two of her limbs, but decided not to as her neck snapped in two due to an unrelated happening. A man in a wheelchair finished his trek across her now totally jacked up corpse, one wheel lumping over her disconnected head.
“One step closer to It, my children,”He said in a raspy, dissonant monotone, “One step closer.”
(Go on, read the next chapter: http://thejohnrillos.wordpress.com/2012/09/17/laurum-hills-part-3-the-eggenning/)
I cannot write
And I can’t do no right
I can’t do much, at all, tonight
I run in circles
And stand in the rain
Out of the faucet drips a story
Of people and of pain
And the Morse code splashes all wash down the drain
I can’t do a cartwheel
And I cannot tell a lie
All these feelings that I feel
Provide no method to deny.
I cannot block out flashes
I can’t wave off the smoke
The ashes and fumes
Pummel my mind, and I choke.
The tears drip from my eyes
They tell a story, they improvise
A brand new method, a brand new way,
To brand my flesh with scars from broken days.
So I run in circles, and I sit in the rain,
And I pray to God that one day, things will change
Cuz I can’t do nothin’
No I can’t do nothin’
Nothin but wait, and run in circles, hyperventilate,
I can’t do nothin’
But to wait