skonen_blades

The universe is full of life but we’re the aberration
Because we are insane I MEAN we have imagination
Evolutionarily our instincts have propelled us
But soon I fear what made us strong will be the thing that felled us
You see the me in me I think of when I think of me
Is my own brain attempting to achieve duality
When I’m thinking to myself, who am I talking to?
WHO is talking when I DO that? What does my brain do?
People talk about a soul that lives inside our cells
All I know’s that inside me more than one person dwells
The inner fight that haunts our haunted bodies is our fate
Because from birth to death I think it is our constant state
For even though we think a peaceful tribe is our ambition
We cannot help but TO alWAYS succumb to some division
Religions start to have their sects and tribes that form cohesion
Base it on a hatred of the other for some reason
I look down on people who look down on people so
I must look down on me as well but then where do I go?
Each one of us wants fun, belonging, power, freedom, too.
We need to feel included but don’t tell us what to do
We need laws and rules so that we know that we can break them
We give all our emotions names so we know when we fake them
In nature nothing dies of natural causes, it’s ironic.
The old and weak are eaten and to us it seems demonic
But that’s a system working. A systemic ecosystem.
That’s a system that we are destroying with our ‘wisdom’.
Economics don’t exist in forests or the seas
But economics are what’s causing these catastrophes
We have one mouth, eight billion strong, and all it does is feed
It’s bottomless because we’re built with hunger and a need
To live and if I said I didn’t want to I’d be lying
But here’s the truth; that not enough of us on earth are dying
I think the truth is out there and that there is life in space
I think there are planets filled with life that fill this place
Our WAVES and messaGES we spew out to the galaxy
Are noises that will not be understood by any ‘me’
Just card tricks for a dog or television for a cat.
Sure, they’ll stare but they won’t know what they are staring at.
WE might BE uNIQUE beCAUSE we HAVE duality.
A freakish sense of self we call the personality
We put the self in selfie. We just want someone to see us.
But the universe is filled with things that just can’t be us
“To be or not to be” there’s that duality right there
“I think therefore I am” might be a lonely cross to bear.
The truth that I think stands out stark is we were built to spread
Because of our unending need to need our daily bread
We need to go to other planets and to eat them, too
We need to spread like mold spreads spores because it’s what we do
Or else we’ll end up suffocating here on our own gasses
The co2 emissions and the methane from cow’s asses
We’re great at spreading, great at eating, great at rationalizing
We’re great at thinking that we’re great and I’m just realizing
That if the world is a stage and we’re all playing roles
The capability for greatness LIES within our souls
For our duality is what is causing us to die
Because we cannot become one, we always have to lie
There’s one way that we can help the Earth that I believe
1: We have to change and cause we can’t we have to leave.


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If you look for evidence that you are a loser, you will find it. If you look for evidence that you are a winner, you will find it.

This is why some people go insane.

Because all theories are supported. The glory of a direction is faced with the responsibility of our perception. We are the fuel in our own engines. We can pull up or dive. I’m talking about self-determination in the grandest sense and the crisis of identity that comes about when one realizes that one is truly free to pick a path. When one realizes that the state of one’s life is truly no one’s fault and that it can be made better or worse immediately, a clash starts inside. A huddling, a cowering, a shiver of terror. A refusal to rise and be better than you are. Or conversely, a refusal to go to darker places.

The exploration of the self leads to one inescapable conclusion. We are much too complex and fluid to be defined. This is why the search is the definition.

Love is hard to put into words because all of our hearts are ESL.

The language of love is as plain as a sunrise. It burns up entire rooms during civilized tea parties. It takes banal sentences and makes balloon animals out of them. Love is a creature wired directly into our minds and bodies. It bypasses all attempts at codification. It is merely obvious.

I feel that as one gets older, one climbs up, out of the experience of life and into an overview. I feel that this is the beginnings of wisdom. I feel that some milestone birthdays are prisms for this. Nets, filters, sifters. 30 is like that. I imagine 50 will be as well.

So when I turn thirty and I try to define love for myself and the direction I’m headed in, I am at a loss for words. I feel more like a garden than a man. My attempts become bullet holes in the roof of the church, letting in the rain.





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“There are aardvarks in the sewers,” she said, “and we have to protect ourselves.”

She was trying to nail the toilet lid shut.

I had my jacket half-off in the front hall. I could see into the bathroom and the kitchen from where I was standing.

The fridge was open and from what I could see, it was full of meat. There must have been over five hundred dollars worth of cheap hamburger filling every shelf.

I finished taking my jacket off and moved towards her.

She brought the hammer down with a mighty swing. The toilet shattered.

She screamed at the flowing water and broken toilet, presumably because her plan had backfired and the aardvarks now had easy access to our apartment.

I joined her on the bathroom floor. I hugged her and soothed her until her screams started to become wheezes.

She’d already cut the tongues out of her shoes so that they wouldn’t be able to tell me where she had been, she said.

Sirens grew louder and then stopped outside our apartment block.

Five minutes later, there was a knock at the door from the paramedics.

She stiffened in my arms.

“Mr. Jacobson?” the paramedics said through the letter slot.

“Aardvarks!” she whispered to me with wide, terrified eyes.


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