NaPoWriMo XX

I’m hell-bent on causin’ a ruckus, yessir. I’ve got all the implements, motivation too. Now all that’s left is the sweet smell of havoc.

Now you must be askin’ yourself: “Why does this dude keep talkin’ the talk without so much as a step in the demolition direction?”

Stop that thinkin’ right there, friend. You think I’m chicken? I’ve been bustin’ shit since you were in the womb, don’t give me that grief.

In fact, I don’t know why you even bothered to open your mouth and dispute me. You are some piece of work, you know that?

Of course you do.

Now, while we’re young, why don’t you run over to the corner store and grab me a bottle of Jack.

Don’t give me any of that lip. Jack helps me think. It’s a doin’ man’s drink. You wouldn’t understand that, sweetheart.

You don’t mind if I call you sweetheart, do ya, darlin’?

Didn’t think so.


The day after we lost our conscious billing cycle, all hell broke loose. We threw money at all our problems in the hope that they wouldn’t surface again until the next month. No ledgers, no account balancing, no clear plan for the electric bill.

We absolutely lost it and spent our time worrying about existential matters. Why are we here? Where are we going? How do we grow as autonomous beings when we inhabit a suffocating hive mentality of a society?


I went to the store for a super ball–
couldn’t find any.

I did find big bouncers,
calibrated latex orbs,
limited edition high-flying sky cutters,
360-degree vortex vaulters
and rubber rabble rousers.

But they’re just not the same.


D: I’m fed up with this place. I’m tired and alone.

O: So you’re just going to forget to acknowledge my presence?

D: I can’t believe you put up with me.

O: Well, it does get difficult sometimes. Come on, you don’t honestly feel like a crotchety old hermit. You’re 22 years old.

D: That’s my body’s age, yes. Based upon the accumulation of my worldly experience in this life, I’ve concluded that being a cynical old fart is really the way to go.

O: But if you really mean that, there’s nothing I can do.

D: It’s my life and my decision.

O: So you won’t mind if I jump off a bridge.

D: You wouldn’t do that.

O: Why do you care?

D: I don’t know, but I do.

O: Is this the classic Dickensian change of heart, Mr. Scrooge?

D: No, I just don’t want you to hurt yourself. Fuck everyone else.


N: Is this an appropriate mindframe?

P: Which one?

N: The gilded one on the left with the portrait of the 19th century fox hunt.

P: Looks expensive.

N: Isn’t that the point? Isn’t aristocracy the goal?

P: For some people, I guess. How about that one on the right?

N: Oh, the one slapped together with reclaimed wood and organic whitewash? What’s that picture in there, an alien scape with two suns in a green sky? I don’t understand it.

P: Nobody understands it. That’s what’s so beautiful about it.

N: But it’s practically free! It’s obvious that nobody wants it.

P: Or it’s so abundant and wonderful that the creator wants to share it with as many people as possible.

N: You’re a terrible salesperson.

P: You’re a terrible human being.

NaPoWriMo XV

A pretty verse is all you ever wanted, you say. Pretty. Pretty dull. What does it challenge? What does it make you think? Why does the rhyme scheme have significance?

Does it look forward to recounting the past as the present sees it?

If it’s a vacuum, a glass jar preserving cute language like a vat of liquid nitrogen poured on a rose, you’re in the wrong place.


I am well-versed in the perpetuation of this filth, this inexorable dust clinging to the shelf life of an English Writing grad in limbo between academic fulfillment and the beatdown waiting for him in the dank corners of the business world.


Stopped up, my ideas are stocked up on a shelf too high to reach. I need to stand on an eight-foot ladder, past the warning line and on tip toes, only three fiberglass legs planted firmly on the tile. If I get greedy and load up with solutions, I fall. If I leave well enough alone and creep back down the ladder, I feel like shit.


P: For what it’s worth, I think you would make a lovely sheriff, deputy.

B: I believe that myself. But this old man over here won’t rest until he’s in his grave.

R: Quit complainin’. You got a pension, don’t ya? That’s all a man needs.

P: So you’re saying that dedication to your job only represents a dollar figure?

R: Not mine, his.

B: What do you take me for? I spend long hours putting up with your shit for a paycheck? Maybe you’re right. I quit.

NaPoWriMo XI

Can you wait just a minute?

I have to sprain my ankle
before the swimming coach finds out
I had fake school spirit in the tryout.

I really don’t give a damn if
the Bobcats win or lose, we’re
all a bunch of wet cats anyway.

Sure, I can swim. Better than the rest
of those paddling clowns. I’ll be out
at the lake if I really want to enjoy my time
in the water. Medals don’t float.

NaPoWriMo X

Butter up those onions.
You think flavor sticks
to your ribs without it?

I’ve cooked for ten thousand men
at once, four days a week.

You can’t tell me I don’t know
how to handle my kitchen.

I was flipping pancakes
before your daddy even gave up
his action figures, sport.

NaPoWriMo IX

Filled with the spirit of anticipated emotion and wrought
from the steel of our enchanted brethren, we collapse
before the final charade ever takes the stage.

So why do we care? Do we have a stake in the matter?
Are we rushing around for good reason, or are we
concluding too early that life is a challenge
to be conquered, beaten into submission?

Can’t we savor it just for a minute?
A minute is all I ask.

*Disgruntled Yammering*

Identifying the self with others (the public) as you truly exist with yourself and closest associations seems to be a farce; a production put on by your own self-interest in order to gain admiration from perfect strangers.

So why do I crave this attention (and make this blog post as an ironic twist)? Possibly because I was an only child / loner / weird kid in my more formative years, with the constant thought running through my head: “If only that big break could just happen for me, I’d look back on my tragic existence and laugh”. Of course, in order for anything remotely that fantastic / terrible to happen, a person must actually engage in their sphere and make waves. This is not my strong suit.

I worked on scrapping my ego a couple years back, only to find that most people label that as ‘depression’, and don’t understand why anyone would possibly do that. I learned a good many things from my existential struggles, and I can’t denote anything in particular at this moment (or ever, perhaps) that will adequately explain my journey within myself.

One thing I can say for certain is that my memories have lost the significance they once had. I don’t feel as tied to my past as I’ve observed with the behavior of most friends / family / random associations.

Stories, for me, are a way to describe a moment in the unbroken sequence of our lives, where we gained an understanding of something crucial to our existence at that moment. Sometimes stories are worth reliving because they can remind others of the best way to go about certain things. Sometimes they’re worth reliving because the teller wants to immediately connect with the audience and reach a common ground, testing the foundation for a grand edifice.

The ego is a delicate thing. Apparently everybody needs one, or they will starve by the side of the road. Everyone needs that “hey, look at me, I’m important” feeling within them somewhere, just so they can feel inadequate with the way they currently stand in their life.

Is this an innate thing, or have we been programmed over the generations to feel this way? I wouldn’t know where to begin researching that, because then I fall into the realm of conspiracy theory. So it goes.

This is my journal, I guess. I don’t ‘do’ journals typically.

But then again, I don’t have many pictures of myself in the past, virtually no video. I could be a clone of the old Aidan or a guy who looks a lot like him with similar mannerisms. Memories are a bitch that way, and I love to live in that ambiguity.

Ah, ranting. Is there any mood it can’t cure?



You waltz along,
123 123 123,
sticking your tongue out at me.

Do you want me to join you?
Are you being a tease?
My issue with this is no small thing.

You can waltz along, sure,
that’s no skin off my teeth.
Just give me the essence
of the message you’re sending

so I don’t spend the rest
of my spring and summer days
waiting for something
that may or may not be true.


Fall out of that lovely turnip hole soil
and cough up that dirt, we’re not poor.
No, we’re not leaving this place just yet.
I have to feel something warmer than that.

Warmer than what? A ground pepper flake
on the tip of your tongue or a flypaper
waxing session, somewhere in between.

You can’t do it yourself, it’s not a surprise.
No, we have to wait. Didn’t you bring a book?
You really should read more. Yeah, really.

I don’t mean to come off as arrogant! Come on,
how long have we known each other? I give you tips
that I hope will help you to be the best you.
What’s so bad about that?
Aside from looking like a nerd…

A sexy nerd?
That’s better, let’s go with that.

Nyeah, See

What good is a piece of writing if it doesn’t take you away from your life? Even if you’re reading for research, shouldn’t the text grab you and pull you into the writer’s mindframe?

Personality is often a device used by socialites of digital media, the fabricated aesthetic discovered over the evolution of their thoughts and hopes (when applied to the friendship arena (the battleground where each speaks over the another and fights for maximum exposure) and tested for kitsch factor) that somehow dictates their behavior and forces patterns of mediocrity.

Is that personality or programmed popularity? It’s obviously not organic.

Organic is an artichoke struggling to gather enough nutrients from the sandy soil without so much as a drop of rain for five straight days.

NaPoWriMo VI: Gift Tag

For Fern:

This is the biggest unicycle in the world, seventeen-feet long and manufactured only for display purposes. If your ceilings aren’t high enough to accommodate such a generous gift, I’d be willing to take it off your hands. Don’t try to ride it, I broke three ribs that way.



NaPoWriMo V

Lunging farther than the snow should allow requires skill to the extent of a jaguar mixed with a polar bear during the warmest months in the Arctic Circle, but it’s not really that difficult if you have faith in yourself.

Or is it?

NaPoWriMo IV

He just hangs over that plate,
about to put the fork in the pantry
when a loathsome crouton grins and bares its fangs.

You wouldn’t think it was much of a man-eater,
blood had never touched its lips. Poor Chip. Poor poor Chip.
If only he hadn’t forgotten where the forks go.

Egg Strutting

P: Why are you strutting around like that?

F: I just found an egg.

P: What kind?

F: Chicken.

P: Where?

F: The fridge.

P: What’s so special about that?

F: Nothing.

P: Then why are you strutting around like that?

F: I just found an egg.

P: We’ve gone over this. What are you going to do with the egg?

F: Fry it on my forehead.

P: Let me get you a spatula.

F: Thanks buddy.

P: You’re going to have to stop strutting now.


Hello, trusty readers!

I would just like to take a moment to acknowledge your greatness.

I mean it, really!

Don’t be so humble, it takes a lot of patience to put up with my sporadic posting and sometimes avantgarde, unintelligible writing.

I appreciate every single one of you, and it warms my heart to know that you’ve made a connection to my work, regardless of how or when.

If I’m going to be in the business of writing, I need to stay true to myself and trust that intelligent readers will decide for themselves what they like to read.

Thank you again, folks.
If you have friends who would appreciate this site, please don’t be afraid to suggest they check it out.

If you have to describe to them what it’s about, just say it’s a goofy guy putting words together. You’ll know from that moment whether or not they’re interested.

Cheers all, happy 70!
I guess the next landmark would be 100.



When you’re certain that you have the answer, write it down on a half-sheet of paper and give it to me. Ms. Curtis is going to go and imbibe toxic amalgamations in the corner over there. No need to worry about what those big words mean, Ms. Curtis wouldn’t do anything bad, would she kids?

That’s right.

NaPoWriMo II

Hand me that spatula. The one over there. On the counter. The other counter.
No, that’s the kitchen shears. Big difference.
Don’t you know what a spatula looks like?
No, that’s an ice cream scoop.
You’re getting closer, at least.

NaPoWriMo I

I’m never late for a very important date,
except tonight. This is the one exception.
I usually gallop in at a quarter to the hour,
I swear to the head of Zeus. Zeus, I say.

You want to know what caused it?
Being late, that is.

Are you sure you can handle it?
It’s a fairly obstreperous tale.

I sneezed at the waterfront.
No big deal, right?
The python junkies from Cupertino
hit up that spot every Tuesday.

They communicate with fake sneezes.
The more realistic they sound,
the bigger the turf war gets.

Well I had a juicy one.
They must have thought there was a fire.


Q: What is it you want to tell me?

A: I can’t tell you that.

Q: Why not? You just said you want to.

A: Figure of speech.

Q: Why even flap your gums at all?

A: Free country.

Q: You always give up.

A: At least I ain’t no got damn democrat.

Unfinished Space, Face It

It’s time to get it out again, that April Fool’s brigade of gawping little spectacles and pincushions. Plunked down to the dirt, straight down to where the sun don’t hurt, and it fades. In the moldy old crawlspace that smells like it always has; it’s damp and fecund enough to become its own ecosystem.

You breathe deeply and salute the millipedes (but run and hide from the centipedes). Your blood runs twice as fast, but it’s not from that overcheesed burger down the street. Then you wonder how long you can stay in this unfinished trap.

I’d say you can escape to that place forever, but you’d have to subsist on bugs. The water quality just isn’t the same as from the tap, and you never have dry feet. But at least you have yourself, and that’s what really matters anyway. Take away the frills and shouldn’t we all be so lucky as to call ourselves at home in a safe, secluded place that only your thoughts can occupy. Not the mailman, not the chef, not the computer repair person.

But then shouldn’t you let other people know about this spot? It’s near and dear to your heart, and you have so many things to show them. But you have this imp tugging at your shirt tails and poking your gut, threatening to do that for all eternity if you give away the secret.