If the shoe doesn’t fit he still wears it
And pays a high price for what he cannot buy
The key fits the lock, but it doesn’t unlock
Those bonds he seeks to unify

One cut off from many others
Lost in his head where he finds no end
Walking his maze of consciousness alone
As he waits to meet his Magic Friend

Magic Friend
In meeting you I depend
For if you’re lost you’re in good company
Magic Friend
I’m your journey’s end
Because I think you’re a lot like me

But until we meet we’ll never know
As we wander this circuit aimlessly
Filtering through the faces, faceless
Feigning disinterest so cautiously

If I could read your mind, or you, mine
To find from afar our minds were imbued
For a lifetime of commonalities accrued
Then this story would not have to end
With the words, to be continued…

© 2011 J. Marshall

Freeze your mind
and others’ minds too.
Then watch hope melt
and run like glue—
down our dreams
and through
our days—
turning dreams into
Kafkaesque goo,
and day to night.

Now tonight
witness your plight;
the pessimist excels
only at
being right.

I try to insert my favorite CD
into the rental car stereo
but a plastic barricade
prohibits me. The thump
of plastic against plastic
is readily translated,
Since you got a cheap rental car
You must forgo good music.

Radio my only option, I hop
from spot to spot chasing away
static with my fingertips.
But I discover the static
has more depth
and diversity
and beauty
than the music I seek. So I cling

to the static, clinging
to the notion
that the last radio station
sounds like the last radio station
and the last radio station
before that. Oh, the sweet sound
of static redeems my ride.

People in their 30’s know the decade
that separates them from their teens
becomes a giant chasm which takes their
attempts to return and swallows them.
Police on the other side enforce the rules
of that one way street which stretches
across one’s history to now.  Yet
there are some who did not follow
their bodies across this road
when it was time.  They stay
to watch reruns of their idealized
youth as they reenact roles
they never played.

Clouded certainty
cast over the air
where small talk
gets big sponsors.
Forecasting impending
degrees of change
while we watch
from within
climate-controlled
vacuums.
When the weatherman’s words
of what’s happening
outside
aren’t enough
to persuade us,
he will stand
in the midst
of the eye
of the storm
watchers
to show us.
Solicited second opinions
from rain-soaked citizens
solidify this.
Now back to the studio
a warm front softens
the wind of bad news
as we’re reminded
once again—
weather conditions are temporal.
But Acts of God turned
into entertainment
are not.

It is the length of the average wallet,
about four-and-a-half inches.
A dollar bill placed on top
easily obscures this polyhedron’s width.
Five of its faces are not much to look at
but one of these will glow at times,
with a radiance greater than a cigarette lighter
in a dark room.
That’s when we find ourselves
returning to it, touching it, talking to it—
beckoned by its brilliance and buzz.
Attuned to its sounds like parents
to their children’s cries, and responding
to its calls more than this. We attend
to this four-and-a-half inch machine
again. Yet, its true length lies
in the distance between this phone
and that phone, and the distance
these phones continue to create
between people.

Try not to borrow another one’s hype
Let reason resonate in a sound mind
Temper your zeal when the cause is just tripe

Blind faith and hype spawn the get-rich-quick-type
And their children play each other in kind
Try not to borrow another one’s hype

Mindless men murmur a meaningless gripe
From dissonant data in haste enshrined
Temper your zeal when the cause is just tripe

Rages, crazes and cults when the time’s ripe
Drink the Kool Aid® of the latest design
Try not to borrow another one’s hype

Campaign rallies and the psyches they swipe
Politics: party time for the maligned
Temper your zeal when the cause is just tripe

Motivational mantras, seething snipe
Truth takes some mining through these things to find
Try not to borrow another one’s hype
Temper your zeal when the cause is just tripe

I just swallowed a bowling ball
and it seems so much
like the end of the game,
for I’ve been kicked
off this team.
Yet neither of us knew
the words we said
would descend
toward our bowels
to fill our intestines
with fire.
Words which spawned
emotion
viscous enough
to obscure this bond
between friends.
Words far detached
from their referents,
they made arguments
of their own
and distributed
the results
between us.
Perhaps I should feel relieved
as I am now relieved
from my post
of walking on pins
and needless fouls
in these strange shoes
fearful every step
is bound to damage
something,
when words take precedence
over
intentions
and preconceived notions reign.

Yet it doesn’t work that way
for a true friend.
Even the complexity
of the relationship
does not subtract
from its value
or the pain
of fearing
this is the end.
Now I am waiting
in the gutter
watching those things of my friend’s
and others
roll by,
longing to strike
up conversation
once again,
hoping this friendship will be spared.

And the band is set to play
their next set,
but I’m at the end
of my capacity
for passive entertainment.
A pepper spray pen poised
in my breast pocket beckons me
to rewrite the end of the night.
A weapon disguised as that utensil
which typically bleeds only ink,
not made for scribbling
on another’s lungs.
I fiddle with this canister of fire
beneath a return vent,
and unwittingly spread its heat
throughout the venue
into unsuspecting respiratory systems.

The band stops. Mass exodus ensues.
The patrons and the players
depart the sea
of red pepper air
now too thick to breathe.
Outside I stand among them
like school children
at a fire drill
awaiting further instruction.
Amusing speculations abound
about the air.
Each has a theory for how it got tainted.
But it is I who turned us into dragons.
And while we’re all still breathing fire
I dare not disclose its source.

The first in a row
of parallel train cars
from a tightly packed set
placed back in its pack
once the holidays were through.
Stored on a floor
of gravel, ice and mud.
The air conditioner’s hunchback
protrudes from a window,
and serves as a shelf for snow.
It slowly keeps falling.
The porch sports grass
that never grows
but wears out slowly.

I dwell inside this box
of dissonance thinking
this might be one of my last
nights. Not knowing if I’m
ready for my relationship
with these walls and the city
that taxes them to change.
I contemplate this chance
to work and to thrive
in a climate that’s rarely cold,
yet always Christmas.
Does this purported paradise surpass
free coffee, free food, free mechanic,
and those who greet me daily,
all about to be forsook?

With divided mind I pray for a sign
of whether its time to leave this place
behind. Then sleep falls upon me.
Ice falls upon the earth (later
to be masked by a deceitful
thick blanket of snow). I awaken
in indecision, start toward
my car to take my racing
thoughts for a ride. I slip
off the fake grass and fall
baptized into the cold
reality of what is left
for me here.

You’ve torn through flesh of animals
And crushed the nuts of trees.

You’d hang with others like you
To tear all that enters to pieces.

Yet today you slimy sharp stone
Send me a biting signal. The nerve.

Buried beneath pearly white
Lies a canal of bottomless agony.

Like an alarm with no ‘off’ switch
That must get unplugged to stop.

In different times, you were
Indifferent like the Buddha,

Detached yet still on task, intact.
Now all the years of your toil

Consolidated to this message of pain.
A vengeance I can no longer endure.

I will level with you. You must go.
This same fate awaits your friends

Who pull the same.

An unlikely store front
With action behind its glass
The motion of resolution
Proceeds with assembly line efficiency
With no product of their labor in sight
People pushing, pulling—repetitiously
To the beat of cast iron clapping
Hands hanging bodies from arms
Racing to elevate their masses again
Some struggle through weighty endeavors
While those at a nearby spot
Reluctantly lend their hands to help
Another approaches the bench
Pressing the limits of muscle—but not of steel
Thunder pounds from feet of sweat-soaked runners
Running in place of where they’d rather be
Aligned with their goals
Their machines in a line
Bounce as the rubber beats the belt
Buckled from wear and tear
And all of this within walls of mirrors
The reflections of before pictures
Of bodies yet unrealized
Awaiting fulfillment
People change
They leave

Out from the icebox outside
into a place where I change
my own climate the way I change
channels on TV. Soon to forget
the things that came before
the things I see before me now.

A rectangular hole in the wall
gives a second story perspective
while its viscous liquid filling
shields me from feeling
the effects of the air
from the other side.

Unclouded sky and un-obscured sun
set the scene of summer fun below,
while fowl which never flew
south seem to conspire with subtle
winds of deception which supplant
a sincere summer skyscape.

In a daydream I exit through exit
doors downstairs to enter my escape
to this space where all things summer
seem to take place. I pack a swim suit
just in case. I sense my body embrace
the heat. And the sun burns my face.

But I exit and awake in the state
of disillusionment. My mind freezes
as the illusion of summer fades fast
outside. And the cold reality
touches my skin.

Multi-media mayhem making mazes of minds
Cultivating confusion, captivating all kinds
Feeding ‘feeling frenzies’ for faux fanciful finds
Breeding brains for banalities and the bunk that binds

Park yourself in the armchair
Shift your intellect to neutral
Prepare for the next transmission
That pulls you into overdrive

To see conspiracy where it’s not
And no conspiracy where it is
The point is just to point and click
To keep every rumor alive!

Right or wrong it’s still your right
So express your rage
Freedom of the pressed
They come to set your stage
And fence you in for security
Then they rattle your cage
Because everyone knows everything
In the Misinformation Age

From the red letter office
A caps lock lockdown in progress
A deluge of delusions
With a font overflowing with urgency

React from the conditioning
To this chain of splitting hairs
Out with the old into your inbox
And back out to spread its misery

Right or wrong it’s still your right
So express your rage
Freedom of the pressed
They come to set your stage
And fence you in for security
Then they rattle your cage
Because everyone’s an actor
On the Misinformation Stage

But truth is more than an altered state of mind
And seeing is more than just not being blind

© 2010 J. Marshall

I never wanted to do this, but I have to require everyone to create an account in order to comment. This was done to eliminate the huge quantities of forum spam I was receiving. Sadly, I’ll probably get even fewer comments than I do already as a result of having to make this change. However, you can still make comments on my newest project at http://softersideoflight.wordpress.com since I have not been comment spammed there. In fact, no one has left any comments on there yet at all. Be the first!

There was a man who fell into a well. A passerby heard his cries for help and stopped to talk to him. The man in the well told the passerby that he needed to get to the police. The passerby said, “That’s easy. Just make a right onto this road here, follow it out to Main Street, go about three or four blocks and the police station is right on the corner of Market and Main.

Based on some comments I’ve heard in person or have seen posted on sites where I post my ‘parables,’ I am quite surprised by the number who actually take these at face value (i.e. literally). I wish to assure you this is an unintended consequence. As the writer I am pleased if someone finds value in this work at any level. Nevertheless, I assure you the stories have a meaning far beyond the superficial circumstances of which they’re circumscribed. The frivolity of the literal is intended to serve as analogy to the frivolity (from my viewpoint) of the ideology to which it points. If while reading something ‘clicks’ and you know what I am getting at, please comment! I’d love to talk to you. If you are confused, you are also in good company and I’d love to talk to you too. After all, it is only with my own writing that I actually seem to know enough to not take too literally. Others’ metaphors often elude me.

A health guru was attempting to motivate an audience of his adult followers, saying, “Everyone in this room would experience a superior state of health if he or she would just lose 50 pounds.”

One of his followers objected that he was already below a healthy weight. Without ascertaining the man’s condition, the guru replied, “Certainly you can still lose *some* weight. Yes, everyone in this room would benefit from better health!”

Desiring better health, many of the underweight people embarked upon the guru’s ‘better health’ advice. Some did so enthusiastically, others did so reluctantly. None of them improved their health.

Once upon a time
was one / who under-
stood life’s mysteries
Stood under the lof-
ty over pass / pon-
dered the things above

And spoke his words ab-
stractly / standing be-
tween concrete pillars
His hands armed with a
healing touch / and with
that, the touch of love

Longed to share his soul
in short / with all the
others passing by
Although he spoke ov-
er their heads / they saw
him as one beneath

He gave them all what
they needed / but they
would not receive it
Because in the end
no one believes / a
man who’s missing teeth

Brushing over what
he said / while they were
foaming out their mouths
These so-called seekers
of truth / were blinded
by his missing tooth

And spit at the per-
ception / of the gaps
in his countenance
And flossed over his
words / as if they had
wisdom (teeth) since youth

Overlooking their
checkered lives / squared with
crimson and blackness
Filling their mouths with
silver things / and crown-
ing themselves like kings

Drilling into his
past / they meant to dent
his reputation
Claimed themselves merely
partial / to the fresh-
ness clarity brings

He wished to heal them
but they kept laughing,
aghast / at his smile
Their root of evil
dwelt beneath / their cav-
ity of errors

Amalgamated
their forces / to rid
themselves of his talk
No cap to their mad-
ness, they vexed / this
toothless man with terrors

Few words were implant-
ed / the scope of his
vision receded
And under the ov-
erpass / died the man
with the missing tooth

Though rarely extract-
ed / his gleam of in-
sight never decayed
Now a plaque on the
bridge / serves as a re-
tainer for his truth

© 2010  J. Marshall

There was a man who worked in assembly who had, on ocassion, neglected to fully tighten all of the bolts on his projects. His supervisor brought this to the man’s attention saying, “For now on, you need to tighten every one of these bolts with all of your might.” So the man did as his supervisor asked.

The following week, the supervisor walked by the man’s work area and said, “Be sure to make those bolts tighter.”

“I tightened them just as you asked,” explained the employee.

“Yes, but you could always make them tighter,” said the supervisor. So the employee set out to make them tighter, even to the point of stripping the bolts. Still the following week, the supervisor said, “Don’t forget to keep working on those bolts. You could always make them tighter.”

So the man continued his efforts to make the bolts tighter still. These efforts lead to bolts being stripped, his projects getting twisted and broken, and the employee sustaining significant hand injuries. The employee decided he should seek his boss’s assistance as his previous advice proved no longer useful. The man took great care in explaining this dilemma to his supervisor. The supervisor, without carefully observing his employee’s words or the nature of his injuries simply replied, “Yes, but you could always make them tighter.”

I’ve heard the stories
of the ones who’ve made it
How much I’ve tried
to make their lives my own
For in an instant for them
everything changed (for the better)
If that’s a metric for the masses
It explains why I’m alone

Where is that storm?
Where is the
thundering
enlightenment?
Where in a flash I picture all things new
And the film is removed from my dark room view
And develops into certainty
For the lens I see life through

I’ve tried to walk the steps
of the ones who’ve arrived
But seemed to stumble
before I reached step two
One foot planted in the process
the other in confusion
And from these roots
my frustrations grew

Where is my storm?
Where is my
thundering
enlightenment?
When I ponder their lot, their lives, a lot
If they weathered the storm for what they got
Or even whether the weather
Had to do with it or not

© 2009 J. Marshall

I awoke from a dream
With a toothache in my soul
Then Novocain filled my chest
So fear could drill its hole

River of thoughts damned my mind
Lava laces a thoracic knot
Sensation tricks me into thinking
Something it is not

My feet are balls of fire
Red radiates from my head
Skin fills a mold made of heat and sweat
Dead, this cavity feels dead!

How can I redeem the time
Spent merely as projection—?
A shadow of a man
Cast from this former man’s reflection

It’s been a Long Cold Winter of Summer
With springs of black and white
In the fall of the former glory
I await to take my flight

© 2009 J. Marshall

Within him was mysterious substance
Given at birth, for through his life to share
Yet much to his complacent contentment
Even in isolation, it was still there

So he kept all this Goo to himself
Not knowing what he was withholding
‘til his emotions turned to molten rock
Leaving this once serene psyche scolding

Unconsciously cooling his melting soul
He began to give away some Goo
But only to get ill goo in return
‘til he said, “Screw you, no more Goo for you!”

Sought solace from a few who claimed they knew
But whose aims were still ill-gotten-Goo-gain
Was like the blind squeezing a blind pimple—it hurt
But didn’t burst, just escalated his pain

So what would he do with all of this Goo?
When he knew not where to go to share
And keeping the Goo was clearly taboo
This whole affair just didn’t seem fair

So he searched for the source of his Goo
And learned a lesson in self-transcendence
True Goo is given without expectation
And passed on to one’s spiritual descendents

So he sought some worthy souls and causes
In effect, a community built upon Goo
Forever flowing but never running out
This happens for few though all of it’s true

But when the Goo of Goodness is withheld
It gives toxic fumes of fermented glory
Turns your inward heaven to some kind of hell
But it’s up to you to change the story

© 2009 J. Marshall

Swimming in a stew of ideals
Mired in the gravy, trained
To obscure the necessities of life
The shirt of my being leave stained

At times I starved while at the feast
At times I was fed too much of the same
Off to go hunting for something that sated
On to keep playing this wild game

Though I could always pick fruit from the nuts
And discern plastic in search for what’s real
But some things seemed better than that which was best
Poison berries buried poison beneath their appeal

Still on a day I can’t see night from day I pray…

To light those paths which lead to light
And burn the bridges that land in death
Let me not confuse a dark night for darkness
Or artificial light for eternal breath

© 2008 J. Marshall

Acting is if he was one of the boys
As he interacts through awkward noise
With words and movement, mere decoys
From the heart and all that it employs

He makes an impression and hopes it sticks
Or clicks with who’s who in workplace cliques
As perceptions ensue, his soul will transfix
From the politics of workplace politics

And he says…
I wish I was there
Now that I’m no longer there
I wish the walls were my ears
The part of me that cares
Wishes I no longer cared
To chase away these fantasies and fears

Aftertalk is the talk
That carries on once you walk
Away from that which you were just a part
As your image gets molded through the mouths
of whom you’ll depart

Once at home he ponders what he’s all about
As he seeks release from his internal doubt
And wishes he could hear the Aftertalk play out
Or at least live to learn how to live without

And he says…
I wish I was there
Now that I’m no longer there
I wish the walls were my ears
The part of me that cares
Wishes I no longer cared
To chase away these fantasies and fears

Aftertalk is the talk
That carries on once you walk
Away from that which you were just a part
As your image gets molded through the mouths
of whom you’ll depart

© 2008 J. Marshall

Send the check to the ministry-
Churn out alms like a factory-
Mismatched and discontented-
Detached and disconnected-

Mindless militants lament what they perceive
Spitting on our skin with venomous phlegm
All hiding behind their march of signs
Which tell us nothing at all about them

Witless armchair activists, witness their world
From a box or the books on their bathroom shelves
And they catch their flies with piss
While pouring honey on them selves

Charities of Fire-
As the world turns ablaze
Reaching for a hand out
To pull me from this maze
Charities of Fire-
The flame that feeds the flame
In spinning social circles
I wish I had your name

They’re saving face for those without a face
They’re sending hugs yet leaving no embrace
They’re loving space but liking not their place
They’re hating rats but loving the rat race

But a bird-in-hand, their burning bush
Though a burdened hand not worth too much
Nor a bleeding heart that pumps dry blood
On the burning hand that cries out
for a personal touch

Charities of Fire-
As the world turns ablaze
Reaching for a hand out
To pull me from this maze
Charities of Fire-
The flame that feeds the flame
In spinning social circles
I wish I knew your name

© 2008 J. Marshall

Let’s take a stab at your amygdala
Stick you in the ass with an Epi Pen
Infuse your eyes with fury and fear
As your soul sears with adrenaline

Chase your coffee with a slice of dread
Till we fill your room with doom at Noon
And more at six and more at eleven
And more of the same still coming up soon

There’s a Carnival of Evil—
For all the world to see
Exploiting the exploited
In the papers, on TV
There’s a Carnival of Chaos—
Feeding all your fears
Distorting what’s distorted
Changing how your world appears

It’s prime time once again to serve you
Your portion of disproportion
We set the trap, ease into your chair
And get psyched for your psyche’s contortion

Piece by piece we’re stealing your peace
And replacing it all with more crap
We’ll keep playing the harp as we harp on you
Until your heart strings snap

There’s a Carnival of Evil—
For all the world to see
Exploiting the exploited
In the papers, on TV
There’s a Carnival of Chaos—
Feeding all your fears
Distorting what’s distorted
Changing how your world appears

They’ve tainted our world and painted it black
But let’s take the world and paint it back!

© 2008 J. Marshall

My emotions encased in mucous
My soul suspended in glue
My mind’s eye, a blind pimple
Armed and ready to pop through
The thick glass wall that separates
Me from the depths of experience
And the space that separates
Time from the present tense

I want to feel the way I will
About the memories I’ll hold dear
I want to feel the way I’ll feel
When I reflect on now, another year
I want to feel the way I will somehow
I want to feel—Nostalgia Now

The light is on but my eyes closed
I’ve not yet learned to reopen
Taste and see the food is good
But I vaguely taste the hoping
Of all that’s good and great, and God
Will free my senses from their prison
As neurons mourn the master’s return
For a body and soul collision

I want to feel the way I will
About the people I hold dear
I want to feel the way I’ll feel
When I reflect on them, another year
I want to feel the way I will somehow
I want to have—Nostalgia Now

The novelty of each moment
Like lifetimes of nothing new
And the best times of life
The toughest to get through
Phantom feeling, a fantasy
I cannot fathom, grasp or seize
Though I know the present won’t measure up
To its future memories

© 2008 J. Marshall

I remember you

You were like my own personal adversary

Staying close to me like a cell phone

That came with a lifetime contract and automatic renewal

And seemingly unlimited minutes of torment so that not even my weekends were free

You followed me around—from play, to school, to work and back home again

Sometimes you were there even when you were not

You were the same

Only your skin, your soul, and your manifestations of darkness changed from time to time and place to place

But I will kill you…with kindness

And I will feed you on the streets

If you throw eggs at my house I will collect them and make you breakfast (unless you are vegan)

Nevertheless, you will not walk away from me empty

I will radiate love and watch your hatred melt like chocolate on a hot day so it can no longer be within your grasp

I will be to you what I would have had you be to me

And I will do these things lest I become like what you were—and be my own worst enemy

© 2007 J. Marshall

Tripp was talking to one of his classmates while his teacher was giving the lesson.  To avoid singling out Tripp, the teacher made a general statement, saying, “There is to be no talking to your neighbor.” 

Unchagrinned, Tripp continued the conversation with his classmate until his teacher became infuriated.  She said, “Tripp, you heard what I said. There is to be no talking to your neighbor!”

Pointing to his classmate, Tripp innocently said, “I wasn’t.  I was talking to him.  And I don’t even have a cell phone.”

Tripp was assigned to a larger and better office at his place of employment.  Here he could have greater control over his own environment.  Sadly, the first few days were already quite uncomfortable for him as he found his new domain too warm, causing him to perspire. 

One of Tripp’s colleages, who was familiar with the office, told him about the thermostat, saying, “Tripp, your new place comes with a thermostat.  You can make it more comfortable simply by adjusting the temperature setting.  Just move the dial a little to the left and you will make the office cooler.”

Tripp effusively hurried back to his new office to do what his friend had recommended.  He turned the dial to the left, lowering the current setting by five or six degrees.  A minute passed without him noticing any signifigant change in the temperature so he said, ”That didn’t work.”  Then Tripp moved back to the place where he was before.   

Volume of oppression growing louder
Hearts pump blood as dry as powder
Evil eyes, bundles of nerves
Pierce the heart and hand that serves

Imaginations burn without hope
From flames that set alight the scope
Of fear and hate and prejudice
Exploding mines of mindlessness

And we’ve all brought forth our worst
Mouths on fire from tongues that cursed
But a splash of light might quench our thirst
Deflate our hate so we don’t burst

Then let it reign and flood the earth and then
Let us yearn for a taste of that state again
And mind with watchful eyes so we’ll know when
We’ve been sent a Shot of Heaven!

The sky is falling from a room
Profits of fear, pulpits of doom
Prey for the sheep without a prayer
Send forth a flock to spread despair

Hyped to cite some lofty screed
Just mount up hate watch love recede
Rally up the mass hysteria
Turn their world to disaster area

And we’ve all brought forth our worst
Mouths on fire from tongues that cursed
But a splash of light might quench our thirst
Deflate our hate so we don’t burst

Then let it reign and flood the earth and then
Let us yearn for a taste of that state again
And mind with watchful eyes so we’ll know when
We’ve been sent a Shot of Heaven!

Business deals the iron collar
Ditch a brother for the Dollar
Or some change of rank or state
And put on airs, watch heads inflate

Pumped to numb hearts by the ton
Through wars of wits waged and un-won
Where need and greed distinctions cease
And the need for internal peace

And we’ve all brought forth our worst
Mouths on fire from tongues that cursed
But a splash of love might quench our thirst
Deflate our hate so we don’t burst

Let it reign and flood the earth and then
Let us yearn for the state of that taste again
And watch with mindful eyes so we’ll know when
Heaven sent a Shot of Heaven!

© 2007 J. Marshall

Tripp heard a joke.  Tripp knew that it was a joke, but he could not figure out what made it funny.  There were others around him who also heard the joke and Tripp noticed they were all laughing.  Not wanting to look out of place, Tripp found himself laughing too.  Tripp didn’t get the joke, but he figured there must have been something to it in order for everyone around him to find it so funny. 

Since it seemed to make everyone else laugh, Tripp decided to repeat the joke.  Everywhere Tripp went, he would tell people the joke and many would laugh, even though Tripp himself never understood the joke. 

After some time Tripp wondered whether anyone really did get the joke, or if the others were merely laughing for the same reason that he had been laughing. 

Tripp’s wife was watching their four-year-old niece one weekend but had much difficulty controlling her.  To Tripp’s wife’s horror, the young girl picked up Tripp’s tobacco pipe and pretended to smoke.  Tripp’s wife yelled at the girl, saying, “If you don’t put that pipe down right this minute, I am going to blow up the house!” 

The girl did not respond to her threat, so several minutes later Tripp’s wife agressively seized the pipe from her neice’s hand but did not end up blowing up the house that day.  Then Tripp’s wife said, “I just can’t seem to get this girl to listen to me.”

A man lies faint beneath the desert sun
The ‘Samaritan’ offers him water to cool
He knocks the flask from his hands and spills some
And says, “the glass is half empty and I’m no fool”

A woman digs a pit and falls into it
Another comes along to help her out
But she says, “you can’t reach me from where you are–
your help is something I can do without…”

Chase their whims and try to please them
Fall for the myth that something will
Walk on eggs on pins and needles
When perception is nine tenths of their hell 

He thought he could make a difference
He thought he would be the exception
But who would care if he changed the world–
When he is just a Victim of Perception?

A boy once ‘cried wolf’ but turned out like a lamb
And no one thought to realize his repentance
False witnesses brought him to the hands of the court 
Judge said, “Give that liar the maximum sentence!”

She was the one to whom people would come
Just to get some—or she’d pose for some smut
But she’s had a change of heart and for years a new start
Yet still they say, “Stay away from that slut”

Chase their whims and try to please them
Fall for the myth that something will
Walk on eggs, on pins, on needles
But perception is nine tenths of their fill 

She thought she would make a difference
She thought she could be the exception
But who would care if she changed the world–
If she’s just a Victim of Perception?

From good to bad, and sane to mad, or
Harmful to advantageous
The perceptions were fixed long ago
But reality often changes

©2006 (October 7 @2:00 AM) by J. “Xakk” Marshall 

Rumor has us—we’re believing
We’ve got to do a job
Grasping at straws—

The bandwagon ‘hey’ ride’s leaving
Jump on and join the mob
We’ve got a cause—

Let’s make some laws…

Action Reaction—
Fiction to Fraction—
Friction to Faction—
Action Reaction!

History teaches we’re still learning
To keep our balance in a world turning
Toward all extremes while ever yearning
Immoderation undiscerning

Action Reaction—
The principle, a distraction
To the spirit of the end
The letter kills my friend

Fiction to Fraction—
Division, the sum of satisfaction
Of facts and truth and lies
We magnetize and polarize

Friction to Faction—
And unkind interaction
Divided we stand
When things don’t go as planned

Action Reaction!

Purpose compels as ego swells
Hype endures and casts its spells
Whether wrong or right emotion sells
Moves its pawns where dogma dwells

Awakening the giants without
To be another group to shout out
For everything they’re not about
Secretly in doubt yet still devout

Action Reaction—
Fiction to Fraction—
Friction to Faction—
Action Reaction!

The point of view that gets discarded
Stirs the wrath of the disregarded
To chant their mantras once imparted
Still no one knows how this all started

Cross each other’s bridges burning
Fighting fire with fire with fire returning
Court’s in session never adjourning
The cycle lives on forever churning

Action Reaction—
The principle, a distraction
To the spirit of the end
The letter kills my friend

Fiction to Fraction—
Division, the sum of satisfaction
Of facts and truth and lies
We magnetize and polarize

Friction to Faction—
And unkind interaction
Divided we stand
When things don’t go as planned

Action Reaction!

The present teaches we’re not winning
Keeping the earth forever spinning
The axis bursts with Atlas grinning
Finding freedom so imprisoning

Action Reaction—
Fiction to Fraction—
Friction to Faction—
Action Reaction!

We may have lied to spread the truth
The position we’d hold
Along with our signs—

Eye for I, fought nail and tooth
Our act was getting old
It undermined—
What we sought to find—

And it took all kinds…

©2006 (October 6 @1:15 AM) by J. “Xakk” Marshall

A kind, old man spoke to his grandson’s attentive eyes saying, “Son…do you want to know what lurks behind all the evil in this world?”

“Tell me!” The child requested.

“The answer is right under your nose…mustaches.” The grandfather stated with authority,  “Men with mustaches!”

“But I know lots of nice people with mustaches,” the boy replied.

“Oh, that’s what you think young man, but don’t let the hairy lip deceive you! Behind every mustache is a member of a very secret society.  They recognize each other on the street by their mustache,” his grandfather continued.

“But Uncle Frank has a mustache, and he’s not a member of any secret society,” the boy noted.   

“They do not reveal their secret to anyone—not even their own family,” retorted the grandfather.

“But what about some people I know, like my teacher, who grew a mustache for a while and then shaved it off?”  The boy inquired.

“Everyone dabbles in evil from time to time my friend.  The Mustache Conspirators will not let anyone talk about their experiences once they leave the society, lest their tongues face the same fate their former mustaches did,” his grandfather answered.

“But I saw two men fighting with each other at the gas pumps the other day and both had mustaches!  If this is a secret brotherhood, why would they fight amongst each other?” quizzed the grandson.

“They do that so you won’t even suspect they’re in cahoots—but they are!  It is not unlike them to use such tactics in order to convince people that men with mustaches are not plotting evil together.  They want to make those of us that are on to them look like fools,” the old man responded.

“What kind of evil are these mustached men responsible for?” probed the boy.

“Every evil that has taken place—or will take place—under the sun!  From the atrocities of Hitler to the assassination of JFK.  If you pay attention…If you look around…Every perpetrated evil—is linked, either directly or indirectly, to a man sporting a mustache,” his grandfather assured him.

Tripp is a recurring character of many stories on this site.  By now, one of my readers (who doesn’t already know) is bound to be somewhat curious about him.  Who is Tripp Walkup?  

The name is a result of two separate customer records that flashed upon my screen while working in a call center back in 1996.  A name hybrid, if you will.  And I have been getting a lot of mileage from it.  It just so happened that one customer had the first name of Tripp, a very unusual name I thought.  Another customer had the last name of Walkup.  Another strange name.  I put the two together and gave birth to Tripp Walkup.  

Repeat the full name aloud or silently to yourself enough times and it will make sense to you.  Tripp, Walkup, Tripp, Walkup, Tripp, Walkup…  

Now think of Tripp like “trip” — the frequent precursor to a fall.  Think of Walkup as in getting back on one’s feet after a fall.  The name itself connotes a perpetual stumbling block; a life of ups and downs. And Tripp is often a stumbling block — to himself.

Although Tripp is a fictitious character, the stories are true.  And some of them may have even taken place. 

Tripp and his wife were sitting outside when Tripp pointed to an injured cat.  The cat was almost lifeless as it lay in their yard near the curb of the road.  They also noticed another cat passing by, paying no attention to the injured cat.

Tripp turned to his wife and said, “you think that other cat would have stopped to help.”

He makes a maze for runners
To race his world of sorts
Fixes the game against the broken
For he’s not for good sports

And watches them run about
Though few will move ahead
But trample on each other
Living like the living dead

I make you think
I am what
your life’s about
I make you want
the things
you can’t live without
You and me,
your friends
and family we flout
When they say
I’m running you
or raise any doubt…

Welcome to the Rat Race
Sold your soul for a piece of mine
But no one wins the Rat Race
For there is no finish line…

Some leap for laps of luxury
As static clings to status quo
The Jones’s, a moving target
Of power plays, or a fashion show

Not much time to wine and dine
For they’re always on his dime
Cameos to homes and lovers
Standing still in flying time

I make you think
I am what
your life’s about
I make you want
the things
you can’t live without
You and me
your friends
and family we flout
When they say
I’m running you
or raise your doubt

I am the Rat Race
Here’s your Rat Race salary
Give me eighty hours a week
And forty are for free

I’m the amount
that just amounts
to this amount
and nothing more
I make you think
you make it rich
but I just make
you poor

I AM THE RAT RACE!

© 2006 (August 14, 2006 @ 5:45 PM) by James “Xakk” Marshall

Founded upon the foundations of fiends
Sustained by scores of sordid schemes
From pillars of promises hang hollow beams
Layers of nightmares beneath a facade of dreams

Something for nothing
And something for everything
Lining every shelf
Promise power for wealth and for health
And virtually everything else
Always something to save you from something
But never something
To save you from yourself…

What is the Messiah Complex?
It’s a complex issue
A store, of sorts, of ’saviors’
Taking a fee for your ‘rescue’
Full of it—and solutions
Eschewing a foot in your shoes

Money changers changing hands and skin
Sheep and wolves’ clothing wearing thin
Spinning straw and gold into spin
All go in without and out with nothing within

Secrets to success
Stay secrets none-the-less
When broadcast through your screen
Tips and tidbits and bits of bliss
Feeding the mania machine
Superficially disseminated
Through overrated
Multimedia means

Where’s the Messiah Complex?
Just look around you now!
Where sensation surrounds sound discerning
And chokes it out somehow
Milking you for all it’s worth
To be their next cash cow

© July 31,2006 @ 6:45 PM by “Xakk”

While transferring this site to the new server, I seemed to have lost everyone’s comments.  If you can remember what they were, or have anything new to add, PLEASE DO!  You will need to register again as the old accounts have been lost as well.  I apologize for the inconvenience and look forward to reading your posts!

Sincerely, 

“Xakk”

A man was weeding through his garden and happened upon a somewhat familiar-looking plant, though it was not one he recalled planting himself.  The plant intrigued him and certainly looked harmless enough so he placed it in a pot and brought it inside his home. 

Mistaking the plant for a somewhat similar one, a neighbor told the man that his newly domesticated botanical had excellent nutritional value.  Taking the neighbor at his word, the man named the plant “Nutrition” and started sharing it with his family and friends.  Almost everyone thought the plant tasted great at first, but some couldn’t help to notice it had a distinct bitter aftertaste.  Many had grown weak and even suspected the plant may be poison—perhaps even killing them slowly.

But the man loved his plant Nutrition and was quite proud of his find.  He defended it effusively and would not entertain any words uttered against the plant.  The man would simply reply to his critics saying, “What was so wrong about me getting nutrition?  Why do so many people have a problem with me promoting nutrition?”

Moonwalks casting shadows of doubt
Smoke and Mirrors in a different light
Furled flags ride the wind without air
Devoid of stars and no Earth in sight

Minus support of four-foot thick lead
Van Allen belt whips a spaceman to hash
Micro-meteors rip space suits to shreds
And the film for the camera melts in a flash

Earth to NASA
Astronauts to dust
Do what they can’t
But do it they must
When technology fails
In Hollywood they trust

And all the moon’s a stage
For the conspiracy age
Feel all the rage
And your mind disengage

Rover, Rover, never flipped over
Antarctic prop-rocks stamped with a ‘C’
Lift-off produced a flame in a vacuum
Yet failed to disturb the dust and debris

Weightless indeed when shown at half-speed
Washing our brains in the Sea of Tranquility
Catching the Buzz, strong-Armed to concede
Surfing the wave of cosmic conspiracy

Earth to NASA
Astronauts to dust
Do what they can’t
But do it they must
When technology fails
In Hollywood they trust

And all the moon’s a stage
For the conspiracy age
Feel all the rage
And your mind disengage

Insight might incite but no one’s in sight
Adherents hide as facts chase their fantasy
Multiple sources of ‘light’ think they’re right
Talk is cheap but the books aren’t free

© 2006 James “Xakk” Marshall [January 16, 2006 @ 3:45 AM, T minus 9 seconds]

Walking through the cafe
Stalking you just like prey
Making small talk
“How are you today?”

You give me a friendly “fine”
I’m ready with my next line
“What is your job?”
And I can’t wait to tell you about mine!

I work for myself, it’s true
No doubt that you can too
I’m building my business
And it needs someone just like you!

Praising you (who I don’t know)
Putting on a one man show
Now you are flattered
And you’ll go where I want you to go!

I look like your friend
I act like your brother
You were love at first sight
Just like the others
I met here tonight…

Selfish ambitions they hide in disguise
But honey and feces still draw the same flies
The difference between them all lies in the lies
And he don’t see the people
Through dollar signs in his eyes

Come to our meeting place
Meet the heads face to face
To bask in the hype
And our dogma embrace

Zeal for your cult grows
Turn your friends to foes
“They don’t want to be rich?”
Like someone who someone
    who some-one in here knows

Feeling the loneliness
Steeling away your bliss
You curse the day (we met)
As you reminisce about
    the times you miss

We wined and we dined
You never thought me unkind
“You don’t want to be rich?”
Well, if your not on my downline
    you’re no friend of mine! 

I am not your friend!
I am not your brother!
Though it may have looked that way
But for you and yours
I will still prey…

Selfish ambitions they hide in disguise
But honey and feces still draw the same flies
The difference between them all lies in the lies
And he don’t see the people
Through dollar signs in his eyes

© 2006 J. “Xakk” Marshall  (January 14, 2006 @12:55 AM) 

Should’ve done this or
He should’ve known that
Should’ve thought about
It more before he 
Got to where he’s at
Eschewing insight
When all seems ‘old hat’
But this Critical
Eye’s blind as a bat

Hindsight‘s a forest
Trees of yesterday
And no one can see
The foresight for the
Trees are in the way
The heart as a rock
Mind made out of clay
Bowels set on fire
Conscience will betray

Strangers fight like foes in a cold internal war
Making mental trenches filled with dirt to the core
When those things of hate are too easy to explore
Still all can live like friends when we stop keeping score
And we don’t need to be their judges anymore

No, I won’t be the judge—anymore!

Head to head combat
Neither side’s aware
Of fists of Rights and 
Lefts, slanderous blows that
Time will not repair
Judge between Two and
One thinks it unfair
Or for neither nor,
Looks like you don’t care

It may never be
The way it all seems
All partly blinded
By nightmares that crawl
All inside these dreams
Whispers in the dark
Sometimes sound like screams
Seemly shades of gray
May be one’s extremes

Strangers fight like foes in a cold internal war
Making mental trenches filled with dirt to the core
When those things of hate are too easy to explore
Still all can live like friends when we stop keeping score
And we don’t need to be their judges anymore

No, I won’t be the judge—anymore!

© November 25, 2005 @ 2:00 AM by James “Xakk” Marshall 

Man looks upon another man
Who walks and talks with can in hand
And of his can becomes a fan
And is off to buy his own can
Although not really his own can
But the can of the other man
Copied and carried in his hand
And now he thinks he’s better than—

So he greets others can to can
Those who partake in his canned plan
That is, the ones of their own clan
Who all display the same canned brand
Cans don’t work well with other cans
And some cans, the other cans ban
Get out and join some other clan!
Those cans will say from can to can

And always have—from span to span
As only cans know other cans
Or at least as much as cans can
But behind those cans there stands man
Something the cans can’t understand
Nor does man when he talks through cans
And all of man talks can to can
But few have talked from man to man

In an automobile, there is DRIVE and there is PARK. In between these gears, there are many levels of speed. No one will say, “you are either in PARK or you are in DRIVE and that’s all there is to it,” because everyone knows there is much more than that. Neither does one settle and say, “everyone is going at some speed” as PARK truly is a reality and does not produce any measurable speed. There is also NUETRAL, but this is not necessarily a middle ground as NUETRAL serves specific purposes that tramscend a wholly inadequate “somewhere between PARK and DRIVE” definition. In addition, the low gears, although rarely used, are similar to DRIVE but serve other functions that are not best suited for DRIVE itself.

Many live out their lives as if DRIVE and PARK are the only options, one of them being good and the other bad. One may isolate all the benefits of DRIVE and share their ideaology of how everyone needs to be in DRIVE all of the time–as people need to move! But another will isolate all of the horrors of DRIVE and contend that DRIVE is the culpable gear since while people are in it, they often hit things and cause much harm to others and property. This one will bring to light all the benefits of remaining in PARK and encourage others to not be like those evil DRIVERS!

Some who are wary of making such commitments to either PARK or DRIVE may choose to go with NUETRAL. This is a safe bet for those wishing to avoid the extremism associated with the DRIVERS and the PARKERS. Neverthless, should the NUETRAL ones need to remain stationary while situated on a steep incline, they themselves will witness the ramifications of avoiding DRIVE or PARK at all costs.

Others, recognizing the consequences of blind adherance to the aforementioned three, may experiment with some of the LOWER GEARS and do so with moderate success. After a time, they find that these too have their shortfalls.

Does a skilled driver succesfully operate in any one extreme (or alternative to an extreme) on every ocassion? Can a wise driver ultimately find balance by somehow blending all of the options; DRIVE, PARK, NUETRAL, Etc. simultaneously as he goes about his journey? No! A truly skilled driver makes good use of all the gears, but knows how to use them at the appropriate times so that he may safely and effectively reach his destination–and without causing unecessary harm to his fellow travelers. 

And those most in control don’t even rely on automatic transmissions.

To me, much of the self-help material and life changing formulas appear as a product of one who found success through the usual trial and error, then looked back on his life and recalled the events in a most orderly, idealistic fashion. The guru’s product then walks the subscriber through a series of logical steps not likely taken by the author himself. Imagine Columbus, after landing in America, claimed that to have been his plan all along. After his return, he could indeed provide useful information on how to get there, but a step-by-step guide would not accurately detail his initial journey.

One may argue, “But we can learn from another’s experience. Self-help materials are available so others can avoid the same pitfalls the writer had to face.” To this I agree.  Still, those who follow such formulas will run into their own pitfalls, snags that even the author had not considered. It doesn’t mean the adherent necessarily followed the formula incorrectly, but met his own set of stumbling blocks–as all do. Here, the point is simply that the success itself generally predates the steps that allegedly lead to it.