I don't think I should write at all. I mean, there's really no point. I'll write a page, or a paragraph, then I'll get a headache and tell myself I'll do it tomorrow. Then the next day comes and I take a look at what is on the page and I go 'this is bullshit.' Usually it ends up in the trash, crinkled into an angry little ball. I think that is what I am- just a big, angry ball. I don't look very pretty on the outside, and I'm not very good for anything other than discarding. Maybe that seems harsh, but it's the truth; aside from getting a job, working for fifty years, then dying of a massive coronary in my sleep one night, I have no real purpose, no real function. I don't want children- god, that's a scary thought; little Bens running around feeling fat and sorry for themselves and wishing the lights would stay off so nobody could see their faces, see the droned out stoned out look on their face, hold back sullen tears that just want to course down the soft lines of their faces like rain. Is it
I consider it a mercy. I wouldn't want it to happen to them. 'Life,' a child asks to no one in particular. 'What is life?' An elderly gentleman approaches. 'Life, Sonny, is the sick feeling you get when you walk by a bus terminal and a homeless man in a dirty green sweater holds a filthy Yankee's cap out and asks in a gruff voice if you have change, spare change mistuh, and you know he'll only buy booze with it. Life is waiting for your doctor to return the results of your cat-scan, your blood test, your MRI. Life is a deep seated fear of closets and the horrors of what will spring out of them should your trusty nite-lite give up the ghost. Life is all that and a bag of chips.' The elderly gentleman lights up an old corncob pipe and puffs it. The child begins to sob. 'What are you crying for, Sonny?' 'I want to die.' 'Die? Why do you want to die? You've got your whole life ahead of you.' 'I know.'
Kids are funny; they really are. They are a voice of reason in a world of chaos and insanity and mindlessness. Bombs are falling, and a lone soldier huddles inside his standard issue GI blanket, as war pacts are signed, and homes senselessly shelled. All of a sudden, everything goes deathly silent. A single child- no, many children- stand in a line. Children of all races, creeds, nationalities. Black children, white children, Asian children, Latino, Indian, American, German, Jewish, French. All these children standing together against a gray sky. A single tree in the distance. The tree is dead. Its branches are accusing fingers, pointing out guilt in all directions. As if on cue, all the children speak. They say one word, but it is silent. 'Why?' This, and nothing more. A crow flies by. It makes a harsh caw. And then everything is gone, swallowed up in darkness and deceit and destruction and oh good lord lets declare war again, we just know that it's so necessary

Did you ever think about
Did you ever think about
Did you ever think about peace
love
hope
Did you ever think that
that
that
that you could be wrong
that maybe there is no need
that you are abusing your power
that you are no better than the enemy
that you are the enemy
that we
in actuality
hate you
despise you
wish you dead
that
Did you
Do you love
Do you love anything
Have you ever felt the rain
without thinking of blood
without
Were you ever happy
Do you ever feel the sunshine
The sand between your toes
The caress of a loved one
Or did you only think of bombs
regiments
strategies
ploys
flanks
Were you making battle plans
while you married your wife
Were you plotting the death of infidels
as you and Junior played some baseball
What are you
Where are you
Who are you
What have you done with yourself
Where have you gone
Come back

I've got a little cut on my finger
It doesn't hurt
But it won't ever go away
It's always there
reminding me
bringing to my attention
everything that has made me what I am
polishing me
shaping me
changing me
making me anew
As I examine my hands
I see many cuts
In fact
I cannot keep track
There are so many
It's like counting raindrops
snowflakes
grains of sand
There is dirt under my fingernails
In fact
the fingernails themselves are dirty
filthy
unkempt
unclean
They are awful hands
the fingers fat like Vienna sausages
I try to eat them
They don't taste like Vienna sausages
The blood distorts the flavor

It's spring
The mud is prevalent
Brown King of the Earth

What is consciousness? Can you define it? Can you put it in a little book, filled with other little definitions, and call it a dictionary? Is it possible to know anything? Anything at all? Is there a reason to the season?
What, for that matter, is love? Love is and abstract thought, a feeling encompassing anything we do not hate or merely tolerate. And what is hate? Anything we do not love or tolerate? Do you realize how bullshit that is? Do you know that gravity is equal to 9.8 meters per second squared? What is science?
What, for that matter, is anything?

My fingers are floating on

help me please, I've been
help me please, I've been
i've been
been
locked in here for daze
daze days
my daze pass in a days
here's a daze-y days-e, daisy
don't you love it?
don't you admire it?
don't you simply want to jump for joy and fuck me for it?

Have you ever played Russian Roulette, Daisy?
Simple game, really
Can you pass me that little gold colored thing?
No, don't put it in your mouth- you don't know where it's been
Honestly, watch out for germs
They'll kill you one day
Anyway, like I was saying, Russian Roulette is very simple
Notice how all of the chambers are empty?
Now, I'm going to put this shell into one of the chambers
No, it's not like a sea shell
I don't know why they call it a shell
Now look
This round thing is called the chamber
Push really hard so it clicks shut
Okay, good job
Have you got your dollies, Daisy?
I only see five; where's the last one?
There's Tinky-Winky, Brer Rabbit, Pooh Bear
Daffy Duck, Spongebob, and-
Well you were right, there are six
Little Sally, right where you put her
Now Daisy, the chamber is kind of neat
Watch, you can spin it
Isn't it neat, Daisy?
Don't worry, none of your dollies will get hurt
(It's so easy to lie to children)
Okay, pick which dolly you want first
Pooh Bear? Ok
(click) No, he got off lucky
(If that bear could shit his pants, I believe he just would have)
Alright, who's next?
Brer Rabbit?
Okay, get ready
(click) No, not this time
Now who?
Spongebob?
Sure, put him on the table
(click) Not that time either
Alright, we got three left- who do you want next, Daisy?
Tinky-Winky? Sure
(click) Damn, not that time either
Alright, two left
Daffy or Sally- who is it?
Daffy? Okay
(click) Nope
Well, we know what that means, don't we, Daisy? Yes, we do
Alright, put Sally on the table
Get ready
One
Two
Three

The Lady or the Tiger
I would
I would not
I choose not to
I would make another door
An exit
I am taking my exit
Fuck the lady
Fuck the tiger
Fuck it all

Goodbye.

~Ben Pass~