Burdens

To escape,
to run,
to hide,
to avoid.

The state of the world
is to believe
it is better
than change.

To escape,
to run,
to hide,
and avoid.

It is an easy desire
to behold,
and become
beholden to.

Especially when one
cannot fathom a change
or to even imagine
a better world.

To escape,
to run,
to hide,
and, of course, avoid.

The tactic that allows
the world
to become worse
and dictated by those who would benefit most
from that corrupt future.

But some of us
must feel the burdens
of your escape,
your running,
your hiding,
and your avoidance.


-Dustin S. Stover

Why Should I Care?

Everyone wants to complain about how the world is, but none of them want to admit that the reason it has gotten to here is due to their ignorance of the events that led to this point.

And there lies my problem with society as a whole - at least in the USA.

Our parents feed us toys and entertainment throughout our childhood as a means to reward us for good behavior and give us a cheap babysitter.  We grow up idolizing those who entertain us as though they are somehow more human than we are, or perhaps something other than human is a more accurate way of phrasing it.

Of course, some of us grow up to realize they are simply human - full of flaws and suffering the same as the rest of us, and to some affect, in ways we can't imagine.  I know I wouldn't want to live under the microscope.

But I digress - our lust for ignoring life outweighs so greatly our lust to change our lives for the better, and it happens in such a manner as to allow a joke of a human being - Donald Trump - to become the president of the United States of America.  It allows the completely generic sounds (and messages) emanating from "bands" like Chainsmokers to make number one selling hits. 

We build our society around such a generic sense of humanity that we don't even have humanity left in the over arching masses.  How can we truly expect anything other than a glorified reality television celebrity to be the president?  Of course, that is negating all the obvious signs of racism, bigotry, and fascist notions he shows on a near daily basis.  I don't even have to mention how his attacks on proper journalism is wholly attacking democracy at its core - if you can't have honest journalism then you can't have an informed society, plain and simple.

This came into fruition most prominently, for me at least, recently when someone told me that people just listen to music to have fun. Even if that were true (which, I most certainly don't believe). it doesn't mean that fun has to come at the cost of actual artistry.  It most certainly doesn't mean that the music has to revolve around generic lyrics and a group of people sitting around trying to figure out a means to create a number one hit for the sake of money.

Realistically, however, music is the easiest form of art for people to relate to.  The sounds are mood inducing or mood reinforcing from the start.  The lyrics can work extraordinarily well to make the listener feel less alone - and let's be real, we are all alone.

It reminds me of lyrics from the Interpol song, Leif Erickson - "If your life is such a big joke then why should I care?"

And that's precisely it then, isn't it?  If someone doesn't even take their own life seriously then why should anyone else care for their problems?  The problem, of course, is that because so few people take their lives seriously (and then whine and cry about how bad their lives are) that it runs into everyone else's lives.  If you don't take the most minor things seriously then the big things will be overwhelming to deal with.

By the time things get so serious as to having a fascist, racist, bigoted, compulsive liar as a president - well, all the average person can do is sit back and say, "what am I supposed to do about it?"

-Dustin S. Stover

Business

"Life is lonely, we all know this," Johnathon says as he swaggers around the large conference room table, surprisingly not trying to sell something - he is quite the salesman.  "The job, fellas," of course, the women in the room are every bit as attentive as the fellas, "shouldn't make us feel even more lonely.  Our team work, that is what we have to pull us through!"

Of course, this line of bullshit is only built around the singular vision of making himself look good for all the higher ups.  Just last week, while trying to negotiate with him taking a few of my leads in an effort to start weaseling my way away from selling to allow more personal time with my clients, he declined.  See, as he put it, he didn't earn those clients so he didn't want them.

He just has his nose up the corporate's brown eye.

Of course, he is striking a prominent chord in me here.  This job makes me feel like I'm wasting away - it doesn't matter how good I am at it, or how good the pay is.  I'm just a cog in the endless wheel.  I leave and they replace me.

"Terry, over there, he is a prime example!  That man, fellas - I tell you, he is king of the hill!"  Johnathon's fingers pointing directly at me.  "This guy could sell goat skin to a goat farmer!"

I've never heard that expression before - fucking weird one.

"But, even Terry is lonely!  I bet he has too many clients to deal with.  Why, I bet he could even afford to pass a few of them off to someone else and with as well as he gets to know his clients, he could really help out on getting information about them out there to really lock in those sales!"

Bastard.

"And that would strengthen the whole team.  Imagine if we all had a secured client base like Terry!  We'd only have to replace people once they passed away!"

What a morbid mother fucker.

"Of course, that is a horrible business strategy.  Of course we'd just need to expand!"  His swagger is full of grandeur now, like a peacock in full display mode.  I've never seen a man showing off like this unless there was some pussy involved.

"Get to the point, Johnathon."

Finally.

"Alright, alright.  So I think we should implement a new training method that really focuses on the client, and I think I'd be perfect for the position."  His pace and expression frozen as dead as someone who was found frozen to death.

Well, that's ballsy.  Saying that in front of a whole group of sales people who all have roughly the same amount of experience.

"Johnathon, we will need to talk after this meeting."  Patrick, the boss, said in the most stern voice I've ever heard him use.  He, normally, is the most pleasant person to be around - someone more akin to making everyone in the room feeling happy to be alive than to making them feel as though they were on the verge of death - here we all are, though, frozen like that dead body.

"Terry, I want you to stay behind as well."

I have tried my damnedest to stay out of trouble.  I couldn't imagine what I've done wrong.  I just want to collect my fucking paycheck and go home.

Maybe this could be a good thing.  Maybe they will fire me and I will be able to collect unemployment while I really focus on my life - what I want out of my life.

I have always found it perplexing how people can stick to the same job for so long when there is so little psychological fulfillment in what they spend so much of their lives doing.  Waste away in the hopes for a pension, a healthy savings account, and a lack of life lived in their prime.

I guess I shouldn't be surprised - the majority of people still believe some imaginary person in the sky watches what everyone does and if they don't do what he wants them to then they will burn for the rest of eternity.  Living in that kind of fear would most certainly take away your desire to fight back against a system that destroys your whole will to live.

I suppose I should have been paying more attention because now everyone is walking out - all of which looking like they dodged some kind of bullet.

As the final person steps out, Patrick closes the door behind them.

"Alright, Johnathon.  You're fired.  We know that Terry offered up some of his clients last week and we had no idea why you turned them down, but now it is obvious - you wanted to turn it into your idea to look better."

"Wait... what?  What gives you..." Patrick's face was getting more red than I'd have ever imagined possible as Johnathon changes his tune.  "Fuck you, Terry.  Fuck you.  You're doing this to make me look bad!"

Aflood with confusion, "I... I'm completely lost here."

"No, Johnathon.  Terry comes in and puts his head down.  He just does his work, and he excels at it.  He has turned this company around from a run of the mill sales team to a team where the clients actually feel like we help them."

I was just doing my job.

"Then who the fuck ratted me out!" The conference speaker sets sail directly to the wall and shatters into twenty pieces.

"Someone who cares about how this job operates.  Now get out of the building."  Two armed security guards step inside the room as Johnathon walks out.

"Now.  Terry, what Johnathon was getting to is right.  We do need someone to really lead the charge on training our team on how to make our clients feel like family.  We want it to be you."

Fuck.


-Dustin S. Stover

Wise and Lucky, May We Be

Essentially,
we are all damaged.

We are all frail.

We are all divided.

We have all been stomped on
spit on
degraded over time
for the things we don't
control.

We run.
We hide.
We evade.
We escape.

But it is all a temporary
relief
for what inevitably comes
to confront us.

Still, we run
we hide
we evade
and we still escape
to be confronted again.

Perhaps,
if we are wiser
or luckier
we take on some of that pain head on
and we defeat it.

If we're lucky.
or wise.

Otherwise, we run.
We hide.
And you know the drill well,
as you take your next drink of alcohol
or down your next pill
or consume your drug of preference
in whatever way suits you.

Essentially,
we'd not need those things
if we were just wiser,
or luckier.

But until then,
have another run,
but try not to hide.



-Dustin S. Stover

Mirroring Images

Measurements. 

Taken in all shapes and forms.

How big are your feet?
Your tits?
Your dick?

How long are your legs,
and waist.

Obeying the desires of others
when they don't even know their own.

And conforming to their notions
which are fed by their own insecurities.

You're too big,
or too thin

You're too short,
or too tall.

But have they looked in the mirror today?

And if they have,
did the recognize what they saw?



-Dustin S. Stover

Left Hooks

The fist comes from the right this time, and I absorb it.  Our eyes are locked in a dead stare, neither of us even daring to blink because we know, on an unconscious level, that it could be the point in which the other one strikes and we're caught off guard.

I jab a couple small jabs from the left, just attempting to break his concentration more than anything else, but it isn't working.  A tight right hook comes at me, but it whiffs into thin air.  Now is my chance and I lay it all out.

A solid right lands directly on his face, two left jabs while I regain the momentum with another solid right. 

He falls back and I pounce towards him.  My right lands on his glove, but he is dazed.  He has regained his footing, but he took a couple solid hits that is sure to wear him down.

Our eyes have again locked in a dead man's stare.

A ding and it is the end of the round.

I drink my water and the sound of voices in the distance keep me company as I stare across the ring at the enemy.

Any other day, I could sit and have beers with this mother fucker, share stories of wasting money and women, but today we are at war.  I've got to get this out of my head.  Makes me weak.  This mother fucker needs to die.

I left that round with a big lead.  I can take him out in the next one.  The pain of those solid right handers have to be hitting him hard now that his adrenaline is coming down.

We get back up and the ding starts the next round.

He is playing it safer now.  His guard is up further, his face has been hurt, but that just means I've gotten him weaker.  Just have to wait for my moment to land another good solid hit.  He'll be done for sure.

I jab a couple quickies, again, trying to break his concentration, but his hands are planted.  His guard is secure. 

His jabs are weaker now, but my eyes aren't leaving his.  Fuck that.

I can see it in his eyes, they dart a quick little dart to my left hand before coming back to mine.  He's lost it.  His edge is gone.  Just have to wait for the perfect time.

A right then a left, my jabs are getting more intense as I try to break his guard.  I notice his right is flinching just a bit.  That's his weakness growing.  Just a little bit longer and he is done.

His eyes dart over to my left again and I force a right directly towards his face.

It catches glove and then I notice it - a left hook coming straight for my face.  All I can think - I blinked.


-Dustin S. Stover

All Encompassing Madness

"How does that make you feel?"

Well, how the fuck is it supposed to make me feel, doc.  I come to you for answers, not to question my motives.  Psychologists are such bullshit.  Give me the hard sciences, not someone to talk to me until I feel like crying enough to flood the Earth in some biblical, forty-days and forty-nights nonsensical way.

Fuck you, doc.  The shit happened and now it doesn't matter how I feel about it.  It doesn't fucking matter how I feel about it because I have to wake up tomorrow morning and go into work like every other damn day of my life.  I have to put food on the table at the end of the day.  I have to pay the light bill.  I have to do the same shit as everyone else.  How do I feel?  I feel like I need a mother fucking break from life.

"Norm, are you going to answer?"

"I'm figuring it out."

You condescending piece of shit.  You sit there in that chair and you ask me these simplistic answers, attempting to get me to dig deep for some answers through equally simplistic responses.  I know what you're doing, but again, it doesn't matter.

I  had damned dreams.  I had goals for my fucking life before shit hit the fan.  I wanted to make something out of my life and now I just wake up and feel like grabbing the fucking bottle.  

"It is odd, Dr. Shrellin.  I just don't know how life got to this point."

"Norm, I've told you before.  Just call me Alice.  I'm your friend, but let's talk about what choices you made to get here."

You're not a fucking friend.  A friend is someone you meet at a bar, someone you have common interests in, Alice.  I have been forced to come see you as my therapist.  Someone who I pretend isn't just as fucked up as I am.  But I know, Alice.  I know you hit that bottle like there's no tomorrow once you're done with your work day.  You've probably got escorts on speed dial, or hiding some inner lesbian cuckhold fantasy.  You probably have to smoke a thousand dollars worth of weed a week just so you don't get so pissed off you slam someone's head against a wall.

How I got here, though?  How I got here was fucking simple - I made choices.  I made the choice to drop what I wanted out of life because I played the safe bets and found excitement in the wrong places.  Well, all bets fail sooner or later.  That's how I got here.  Living with the failure of those bets, how the fuck do I deal with that, Alice?

"I'm not sure, doctor.  I mean, I kind of just floated along the river of life and now I'm waking up to where I've floated to."

Where I've floated to?  What the fuck am I even saying now?  I sound like some children's after school special.  What I've done is taken unfulfilling jobs because it is a paycheck, dated shitbags because they offered excitement in my life, and been completely unable to find a balance between those things and my goals.  That's what the fuck I've done, Alice.  And now I'm stuck being hyper-aware of my situation in life.

"So what do you plan on doing now?"

So yeah, after my wife left me for the younger, more exciting artist, that mother fucker, I went off on my boss.  Sure, maybe I even threw the phone book at the wall, conveniently placed behind his head.  Yeah, I probably caused a scene when I got up out of my chair and yelled the word fuck at the top of my lungs, which led me to the office and phone book in the first place.  Can you blame me?  I mean, really?

"I don't know, doctor."

"Well, how does all this make you feel, Norm?"

Again with this fucking question, Alice?  Can't you reword it with your fancy ass degree?  Can't you make it seem more interesting?  Can't you do something other than just fucking ask a question?

"Mad.  I feel mad."

-Dustin S. Stover

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