My mom had a broken smile. She wore it for everyone who doubted this infallible love she had for life, for the world, for her kids. I loved her broken smile, because it reminded me that I didn't need to be beautiful or perfect, that I was loved for being me. But my mother no longer wears her imperfections, now she believes they are true. She looks down from the splintered borderlines, and sees the world for how it really is supposed to be. Meaningless. Specks on the window. Bugs in the toaster. And my dad, well, he's busy fixing his broken computers. Emptying out his pockets for a miracle panacea to save me from the bottomless pit of my failures. Pill by pill, word after word, after awhile it makes sense to be insane. In a world run through machines where everyone is a number.

I depicted them to myself, as any child could. A hapless mirage, figures of my own invention. Maybe memories I'd rather not mention. The voices seared within my skull, shattered sirens and minds forever broken by the agony of irony. I had broken down all to often to not vanish within my oblique obscurity. I watched him grope defiantly at the rope, as it swung, balancing the weight of his body with pressure unbeknownst his vast strength. What led this deranged man to destroy that thing, that thing that made him tic?

It would fail him like everyone and everything else. Not before long, the irony of truth would stir from the mercurial depths of his shattered mind. Somehow, it seemed wrong to let him die. But for some reason it wasn't so bad, it was a world full of drilled holes. He'd lobotomized the human race of skum, broken brains and broken thumbs, believing in the voice of freedom. Being crazy. Maybe we're just too God damn lazy to fit in. He hated intensity, at least anyone else. He nailed his wife near the shelf. He immortalized himself by substituting youth for an assault on the truth.

The noise, it was bittersweet. Victory, for the pain was beaten at last. It took him over, and there he stirred infinitely suspended within the past. A beauty shown that moment of peace, overtaken by explosions within those catacombs of his own learned ignorance. The first thing he heard was the sound. He was a doctor of the mind, not fabrications of the world around him. He'd created his own hellish world to come down to. Swinging back and forth, paralyzed with fear and sweating to the core, he struggled against the ripples before they took his body over. Pretty soon, he conveniently slipped behind the fabric of his life, frayed edges disconnected from a life lived in sin. Back to the earth and worms and snails and the millions of glorious panaceas. Medicines, we'd hoped would bring him back someday he hoped. Oh but it was a desperate hope, and surely they would see.

Meanwhile, on the other-side of the curtain the scent of disdain fills the doctorium. So golden and bright was the evanescent life. Companies cheer. Hoorah hoorah! Pharamacopia! The elephant roars and tramples destitution and poverty with its might. Oh glory, hallelujah. A church bell in the distance chimes, once twice thrice and the city awakens to the uproar of mass hysteria. We see Dr. hide behind his spectacles while he hands out the sacrament to these unholy sick disciples.

Blood is everywhere it is seeping from the walls, the blood of war and terrorism. He stares on and on, watching crimson drops pour from the sun. What do we do when everything is red. We're dead like my dreams inside our heads. Just keep staring wide eyed into the impoverished shores of paradise. They parade his corpse around the room longing for air and swearing under their breath, and now it means nothing. Mic still in hand. Shocks. Roars of disbelief. You schizophrenic they scream! You fucking piece of shit! He serenades her self esteem, some with a cure for everything. His curse of course was being a crook with a long shelf-life. They brought him a sterilized needle. Goodbye Doctor. You won't be needed here much longer, for Jesus has come to lift the veil of curiosity from us at last. Peace comes eventually.

She stuttered, tangled in poetic slurs from the Thorazine drenched by the sweet solitude of rain without a reason. He lashed his tale, he lashed and lashed and lashed that monstrous tale. That beast! No one heard him. And the birds sat undisturbed, carelessly mocked his ranting. Nursed to life were the shadows of the past, scarred and haplessly, they wandered from block to block staring with wide eyes at the men and women who provoked cheer and awe upon the masses of delusion. We'll cure you of your madness! We'll erase this cancerous mind pollution. Drugs are the solution!

The body is more important after all. Grasping at the shadows, Dr. learns to split the atom, and turns waves at the audience slapping themselves with giddiness, choking on nothing but their own smoke. I know! Because once the comet hits, they'll be the first to go.
They begin their usual rotation. The Doctor is watching them from a peephole in the bathroom. Look at that little skeleton girl.

The body thief's job well done. Her mind is a blotter of incessant rambling. I'm free, she says. I have a brain, but I can't comprehend what it means. I think it's pointless. I was painted by some man and everyone at church wants me to save him. I don't care. Then they make her a list of lullabies while patting her head, dimming the lights as they masturbate in the subways. Like, if she could only wake up but now she's singing to herself, because she can't hear anything else but the buzzing in her brain. I guess she should have went insane. But it's not a problem, get baptized. Born again...


We are Kings without crowns, miners of the light. We grope for and steal anything that shines. You aren't special. You aren't a writer. You aren't unique. No, little girl, you're a freak. You're a lunatic. A schizophrenic. An un-solve-able puzzle. We can't unwind you to will just bind you to this charade. We can't repair what we've done to you. All we can do is take you to the machine, hook you up, and pretend we're fixing you again. There is no bending this war of souls, of girls and men. This is only what we do. We are here to take them all. Their voices scream on like an perfect lullaby. They serenade me with visions and paranoia. And inside I wonder, what are they so afraid of. Is it because I can no longer see him swinging there, dead to the world he left within my mind? Should I just move on and leave them all to die in this matrix? Such perfect crooked lines. Someday we'll all be fine. But for now.....let's just imagine you were on the other-side; where everything is mine.

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