Sunday, May 10, 2015

(VXS) LOG #1

LOG 1: Self Introduction

My name is K-VXS-73003, but that’s just my manufacturer’s model. All my friends call me Seventy-three. Assholes call me “Vexis.” Not sure what you’d call me, considering you’re just my decrypted auto-biographic software. (Not that “you” even have any form of self-awareness. Speaking of awareness, my internal age awareness counter hit sixteen yesterday. The biological component of my fleshware, K-WAR-0005235FBAT340, told me I could now officially register as a matured android and apply for a work position. A convenient fact for her to mention, considering how low her credit count is lately. I suppose an addiction to Emp will do that to you. I know old Five’s my manufacturer mandated maintenance and guidance giver in addition to my biological component, but damn if she isn’t optimal in that role. Eighty-eight (my closest friend, by the way- full model no. K-CLR-88067855) says all triple 0’s are like that in the WAR line… but still. Personally, I think she fried a few circuits during all that time she spent shooting down C’s. I just hope I’m not that outdated when my counter reaches Fivey’s number.

Eighty-eight’s a CLR… so it’s in her programming to be a cyborgitarian, I suppose. Ugh, she’s lucky. I wish I was a Cleric model. Not only are the guaranteed work at the church, but they’re not responsible for finding a reproduction partner. I know I’m a rare class, as a Variable X System user I have quote “unlimited potential” being comprised of more organic parts than robotic… But how is that a blessing? Sure, our model comprises of only .06% of the colony’s population as being born as a complete human is becoming more and more impossible… but all it means is more things to worry about. At the academy, I have to work exponentially harder than those whose brains are mostly computerized. My friends can’t relate to my problems, like at all... How do you vent to someone who only vents actual steam? My other biological component was a VXS like me… I wonder if he had these same problems.

Hmm.

I kinda feel weird. I started this log with the intention of cataloging my experiences so I could reflect on them and better learn how to cope and progress.

[INITIATING MOOD ASSESSMENT]

….

RESULT: ANGST

Jeez. I need to calm down. Life’s not that bad! Perhaps it would be more productive it I allowed the program to record pertinent parts of my daily cycle with me adding my own internal commentary as need be? Yeah… I mean, that’s a bit unorthodox, but I like the prospect. I’m about to shut down and recharge for the night, but I’ll try it as an experiment tomorrow.



[END LOG]

Monday, March 30, 2015

THE VERMILION YEARS 4: CHEVALIER


Quatre

Chevalier


I drew my claw up to the girl’s neck, the only kindness I’d left to offer the ill-fated human.

“Reserve your pity for someone else, Im,” Fleurette snapped, pushing my blades away and raising her feeble sport pistols.

“The most murderous of men still shutter at an Unman’s feast,” I warned. 

“Be that as it may, I opt to fight,” the girl replied.

“You fight insurmountable odds.”

“Stop talking, Jean Luc, please,” Fleurette sighed. “I am not interested in the odds of survival, nor do I care about the quality of my last living seconds. The terms of my demise will always be mine, alone.”

I honored her last request by saying nothing, not that I had the time to do so. The Unmans’ leering would soon cease, at the moment they deemed most optimal. Fleurette’s conviction impressed me. She behaved oddly for one so near death. She embodied honor and courage. A true hero… though perhaps born out of turn. I suppose that’s what subconsciously led me to save her. The plight of those actively rebelling against their expected interests softened me.  Ultimately, humanity could not be saved, not by me. Time ingrained this notion in me, and I followed it religiously. This girl, as unremarkable as she was, inspired a small debate in me. A flower cannot live forever, but you can water them. Beyond saving? Yes, no question. But maybe… not beyond savoring.


Heeeeeeeeeerrrrrriiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiii…”


"Too Fond for Disposal"



My sentimental old bills
That recent proposal
Too fond for disposal
Fluorescent stares
Bum wheel cart
Bypassing cards at Wal-Mart

No anniversaries left
A Mitzvah, maybe
Claire’s new baby
Boxing Day
Paper view
Signed by yours truly

Still not sure how true
Multiple choice
A Rolls Royce
Blood drive
Giving, I’m alive
Yet still missing my shows

No space, no memory
Not for lack of DVR
A dusty VCR
Our tapes
The drapes
Gone in a home invasion


Occasions on occasion
Life like an attic
Through traffic
Gone by motions
More bad potions
For an incurable separation  

Wednesday, March 4, 2015

"Having You"

When I look at you I see right through the present
And you’ve got a gift for making me see a future
While I don’t fill you in, you can feel my past
And you look past the pain
Carry me into the rain
Showering me with Novocain  

I hold onto your hand
Gripping it tightly
Tightly enough that you believe
That it’s the only thing keeping me hanging in
Because it is, even as the world is caving in
It’s not snowing for once, but we’re still staying in


In my cradle of uncertainty you rocked me awake
Broke away the bars of the innocent prison
Building me a whole orchestra, just to play me one song  
I pray to a God I know doesn’t exist
In gentle hopes our love can persist
I say I’m no good, but you insist…

That I’m worth a damn, I’m starting to see it as true

…. Because I have the added value of having you.

Monday, January 26, 2015

FROM B TO R

R,

What can I say about you that I haven’t already said? Mountains, evidently. I’ve been writing about you since the dawn of our whirlwind. Let me start this off by throwing you a simple "thanks." I appreciate the sensational timing of your arrival—not that there’s a poor time to have the very personification of breathlessness descend upon you. You’ve brought me so much joy in such a brief span... with this crazy, volatile chemistry neither of us can quite understand.

Last night, as I was thinking you— a daily thing— it dawned on me that I’d have to be mad to think myself capable of encapsulating the extent of your beauty with words. The time to question my sanity now, as I’m about to take a stab at said impossibility. I’d said to you, “You’re so amazing, I make a list of my favorite qualities.” The characteristics that contribute to your ravenousness are indeed innumerable; which is fine by me, as I’ve always shied away from numbers. Physical beauty is merely the crest of the crushing tsunami that’s flooding my mind with awe. Your golden, shining beacon of a heart permeates your entire being with a warm magnetism that pulls me ever closer by each passing day. External evidence of the radiance brimming inside you is best glimpsed through your gorgeous smile, eyes and actions. While one could scarcely imagine the two prior qualities--your beauty and heart--being trumped, your brilliant mind pushes them aside and stands tall— casting a formidable shadow that cloaks me in solace.

If that sounds a little overwhelming to you, congratulations! You now know what it feels like to be around you. As much of a champion of the English language as I am, I find myself seeking alternate languages to fully express the feelings you inspire. Vraiment... c'est incroyable. You make writing poetry as easy as blinking, and, at times, just as involuntary. Not that I would ever not volunteer to offer you a song of praise. Looking into your cedar gaze is frightening— the same fear one feels when peering down into the magnificent depths of the Grand Canyon. Fear and love go hand and hand. Nervousness. Butterflies. I feel these healthy doses of apprehension all the time with you. As you slide your hand into mine, bite your lip… or whisper into my ear. Ugh...

I’d continue on from here, but I’m afraid it only exacerbates the pain of missing you.

Know this…
Of all the words and all arrangements I could make with them, none could ever equate to the warmth and tenderness of us sitting on a couch together and sharing a simple kiss… then making out passionately and… uh, taking things elsewhere.

Basically? I miss you. Kudos on being thoroughly amazing. Can’t wait for all the inspiration I know you’ll be conjuring up in my heart soon.


-          - B        

Saturday, November 15, 2014

Next Fall

I attribute failure to a dusty excuse
Effectively dulled by excess use
Then I change the conditions
Conditioning my means for a fall

I'll register next fall.

I hope it will all register by then
The things I'm supposed to know
Everything I should have done before

Prolonging my longing
Romantic in a way
The stages of sweet decay
Like early fall
Full of promise, dirt covered by leaves

Give me a reason to fabricate
This is the season I suffocate
I rake in nothing again
A gain as foreign to me as success

I'll sleep through the winter

Next fall...
Yeah,
I'll know how to pick myself up by then.

Friday, September 5, 2014

Death Row Dad

DEATH ROW DAD
(Short story inspired by "Shame" by The Avett Brothers)  


My father and I exchanged many a glance through that dingy Plexiglas wall. We tossed almost tears and wordless questions back and forth, playing catch the only way we could. Silence had always been a part of our relationship.You'd be lucky to get two grunts out of him. He let his actions do the talking, and that was part of the problem. He didn't act much either. That trait of his, among others, never made the jump between generations. I'll talk your ear off-- your nose and eyes, too, if you give me the chance. I was one chatty kid, lemme tell ya. As much of a clam as my old man was, he never minded my mouth one bit. In fact, Pop brought me along whenever he needed to get a point across to someone. Imagine five year old me, sitting in a union meeting, rattling off a list of my father's concerns. Ha. Now that I think about it, he might not have needed me at all. Just another ploy to keep me away from that abusive, alcoholic bitch...

My wife came to visit once. Never repeated the kindness. She told me my father had the saddest eyes. Cloudy, violent and turbulent... yet sputtering and dismal-- an exhausted hurricane. My wife said she could feel dad's guilt weigh down her diaphragm. That look in his eyes... that sad, sad look. I knew it, too. It predated his accusation and conviction, but try proving that to a jury. Give a forlorn stare like that and say nothing when grilled by an overzealous prosecutor sporting a massive hard-on for 'justice'... Would it even matter if he was actually innocent? The reason I knew my father could never have killed my mother was also the same reason they found him guilty for it. The poor guy couldn't be bothered to fight a damn thing. No matter the cuts... bruises... berating... my father took it all in-- absorbing more sadness into his deep eyes.   
       
Sixteen at the time of the initial trial, there wasn't much I could do. My father never made friends, and the only family he had left sported the suffix 'in-law.' It's hard to win a fight without a corner to come back to, especially when you lived your life without throwing a single punch. The jury found my father guilty without even taking more than a minute to deliberate. Call it inspired; call it scarred. Studying law became my life. I succeeded in becoming one of the best defense attorneys money could buy. My father refused representation for his first appeal, no matter how hard I pleaded. I turned in as many favors as I could, but I couldn't manage to get my hands on the reigns of his defense. My father was on the Texan death row, and I couldn't do a damn thing about it. So I came to the trials, visited when I could. We exchanged our sad stares. He returned to his cell. I returned to mine.


The day finally came when my father was willing to talk. Wanted a true one on one with me as his last request. That day was yesterday. Today's the first day of his death. That conversation... In my mind, Pop's words are as fresh as a steaming pile of horse manure.



...  


"So this is it, huh Pop? Today's the day."

"Sure is."

I shook my head and pulled at my hair with my shaking hands. The man remained so apathetic, unperturbed by the great injustice costing him his life.

"I found a detective willing to reopen your case you know. He's willing to pull some strings and get your date pushed back, even this late into it."

"..."

Of course he said nothing. He simply stared into me.

"Let me appeal, Pop."

"Joseph, I didn't call for ya just to have a row."

I shuttered with frustration, my face reddening by the minute.

"Take a seat, son. Settle down if ya can."

I obeyed, as I always had.

"Done a heap of thinkin' in here, I have. Hadn't much choice on account of the lack of viable options for a non-reader who ain't fond of workin' out or sports."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah."

My dad said nothing more, peering off at a wall.

"Um, is that it? It sounded like you were setting up to say something else."

"Ah, yeah. Sorry, Joe. Got to thinkin' again. Somethin' else popped into my head."

"It's fine, Pop. What were you going to say?"

"I'm ready to confess."

"Say what?

"I'm confessin' to ya, boy."

"What are you talking about?"

"Your momma's death. I done it."

"No... no, you didn't. I know that for a fact. You were working. I was the one who found her. I called you up and you came home, way more bent up than you should have been. Not guilty bent up... losing your wife bent up. Lacking an alibi does not equate to guilt. That jackass prosecutor had a field day because you refused to--"

"Joey. Joey, stop."

"..."

"I know I didn't physically murder your mother. Course not. I'm talkin'... indirectly."

"Uh, still no."

"Hear me out, champ."

"Fine..."

My father took a deep breath. It must have been so hard for him, talking this much. As furious as I was at my old man's stubbornness, I cherished this surprising chance to truly meet the man. I felt like the lonely voice trapped inside-- peaking out through occasional body language-- finally got to leave its prison. Shame the same couldn't be said of the actual prisoner.       


"When I met your mother, she was a sweet child. Too fragile to drink, not broken enough to feel. She loved me, saw a sad man and wanted to make him smile."

"Sure as hell didn't stay that way."

"Yeah, and it's my fault."

"Pop, don't be stupid."

My father shook his head.

"I never could smile for her. Never could say the word she so desperately needed to hear. She needed a man to yell at her. Tell her to put down the bottle and pick up the pieces of  her life. That woman offered me her everythin', Joey boy. I gave her nothin' back for it."

"What are you talking about? You gave her everything. She never had to work a day in her life."

"I gave her an empty house and an empty heart. Not a reason to live. I worked and worked. Gave her money when she needed somethin' else entirely. I gave her a son, thinkin' that'd fix it. But you ended up lovin' me instead of her."

"She fucking beat me, Pop. The woman was a vile, irredeemable bitch. Of course I didn't love her."

"I'd appreciate it if you didn't speak about your mother that way, son."

"Fine. But don't you dare blame yourself for that. She made me hate her all on her own."

"She did what she done as a cry for help. I know that now. She wanted me to supervise her. To come home and protect her the way I protected you. That's why she got mixed up in that crowd. Took up drinkin'. She created a problem for me to fix. To make me come back and take care of things."

"..."

"I didn't do a damn thing, son. A damn fuckin' thing."

"There's nothing you could do, Dad. She was a lost cause."

"When are you gunna learn, Joe? I don't want ya defendin' me."

It was at this point that my eyes welled up with tears. I saw the door handle turn. I knew the officer was coming in to tell me our time was up.

"You won't do it, though... You won't even defend yourself when you know you didn't do it."

"That's right."

"..."

The officer stood in the doorway. He looked at my dad and nodded. My father got up slowly. 


"How you managed to turn out well is beyond me. I'll blame God. I'm thankful for it. Thankful for you."

"So is that why you called me here? To try to absolve your shitty wife?"

"Nah. Had a question."



"Well, what was it...?"


"I met that girl of yours.Your wife know's you love her, don't she? Yeah, she does..."

"Uh, that's not really a question, Pop."

My father smiled, possibly for the first time in his life.




"Good to hear."