The First Two Murders of a President
Nevermore, the tune of Escher and
parallel lines crossed his eyes. The painting blinked. The writer
is torn between these initial thoughts. He knew there was
religion, if nothing else. Who is this man to destroy
Norman Shins lived in a large bland
city known as Festin. It was tall and strong and grey with
stunning skyscrapers made of glass but a thick fog that held them
from those on the streets below. He was a bookkeeper and wanted
to make an honest living. His fame came from his lies that told
of two friends that really had their say.
He wrote one note that stated
"They knew of only one man who
stayed in a form of madness that seemed out of place in an
otherwise matriarchal household. "
This was odd in Festin, and odd for
Norman Shins. He had a tendency to write aimless letters with bad
grammar and more small marks from tears than of punctuation. In
the factory he worked, the main platforms were brown, small
rectangular rows and columns he needed to fill with minute
details of the past days work. This meant he stayed up late
pushing paper nearly every night.
This would have been lonely to some
but he had a colleague who felt forced to keep him company in the
same small cubicle. This action was simply because the boss
needed to instill fear and power for respect. He had nothing that
truly bothered him besides the small gap between the blades of
the forks and he told that to Norman every night at
It was easier to believe in that
sort of thing than tear the tormenting darkness in the world away
from his inner light. It helped keep him centered.
Norman sometimes thought aloud that
he was the only fair bookkeeper in this land. He may have thought
he were the only fair person. Their leaders and the common folk
held strange regard for those who abused their power and set this
norm. It started as fear, Norman figured, but became a triumph of
culture to demand people did one's bidding.
But Norman just kept books. His
boss would command to make sense of things on threat that he
would simply die. It was he or his staff, in the end, as Norman
and his cubicle partner Harold needed this position to keep their
Neither had family to care for.
That seemed for the best because it was how their boss had raised
them. No one had a family in this land. The eerie Guards would
take all children to the nearest orphanage as soon as they were
born. It was considered a sin to avoid telling a superior that
you were expecting a birth.
It was argued that this sped the
process of growing.
Studies backed by the Main Office
of Ready Birth in Festin suggested that orphaned children left
home and became self sufficient much quicker than those children
coming from more affluent backgrounds. Norman was sure that some
simply died though the official numbers that were available to
the public stated clearly that overbearing parents often ceased
the development of their otherwise stable and capable
Norman turned one night to his only
true friend and said, "Harold, we have no mortal shell outside
this office. You sleep two blocks away and I sleep one block
away. Is this what life is?"
Harold refused to answer and they
did not speak the rest of the night, passing even at the end of
the night when Norman waved as they took their leave and headed
in opposite directions from the front gate outside the building
and into a hazy morning light.
So the next night Norman asked the
Still Harold just looked at his
books. Silently and simultaneously they wondered and subliminally
left the office without missing a pen stroke. By some sort of
luck, or perhaps just fate, the papers moved away and they found
a small grey book.
This book appeared old, as the
inside cover claimed it was written in 2009. Harold read the
title to Norman in a calm yet nervous manner, trying to hide his
glee and shaking hands. The title was bold and black on a simple
matte white background. It was gritty to the touch. A symbol
neither man knew was in the center, marking a brief red outline
that played tricks with their eyes.
"So You Say You've Committed
Genocide - A Handbook For Going to Hell."
The book read like this:
I walked through the dense forest
on a beaten path. The moss on either side was hanging about three
inches from the dirt so we stepped through to find the
The tall evergreen trees
surrounding us were all a foot in diameter and the underbrush was
thick with green bushes. And we saw a small yellow flower growing
through the moss covering a trunk. So I reached down to my belt
and pulled a flask of water which she drew to her lips.
She asked me to fill out a
What do we know about
Whitey the Crime?
What is his/her
Those small apple cakes
you can buy at the store.
Where does he/she
She lives about 6
blocks from the bay, in a small cottage with a cement garden. It
has been over grown for years and the lush tree hanging over her
circular rock garden in falling towards the grass.
Open his/her fridge and
list what you see and smell.
Ice and mist. The white
metallic box opens from the top.
Look under his/her bed
and list what is there.
Dust, wood flooring and
paneling that is darkened red.
Open his/her medicine
cabinet and list what is there. Of course you would never do this
in real life, would you?
Placebos of various
shapes in marked prescription bottles.
What books and
magazines does he/she read?
These old dusty books,
with black covers and faded letters. She likes them with rounded
What lie does she/he
tell about self?
That she deserves
What secret does she/he
A gem, red with a cross
on the back. She keeps it in a cigar box in a desk in her
What is her/his
greatest desire or ambition?
To see paradise.
What gets in the way of
What does s/he like to
do while alone?
Read, write, play her
small brown piano.
How does s/he move? ie.
degree of tension.
She is calm with no
need for disguises. She is in denial of her self so she remains
very respectful of her superiors.
So make up your own
question and answer it.
What does she do for a
Although we know more that this
about Whitey the Crime a simple silent moment that one has alone
with or without a reflective surface can send numerous thoughts
towards a sovereign people who refuse to believe what they are
This is an unintentional
The idea that Whitey the Crime's
beliefs are better than someone who disagrees should be read as
an ironic statement about the balance of the universe. Everything
seems to have two schools of thought, those with it and those
The wise understand that the
equilibrium of these meetings is apparent in every day life.
Repression causes violent outbursts in the most psychological
sense. Perhaps this idea embarrasses us. But repressed memories
of our past do come to our minds from time to time. These
embarrassing secrets challenge our code of behavior, as it seems
we wish we could be altruistic in our convictions. Dr. Phil
taught me that, amongst other things.
Due to understood and misunderstood
circumstances, or perhaps the content of my early writing I was
told I was under the influence of the Devil. In my most
altruistic tone, perhaps to explain that I didn't feel I was, I
told a youth Pastor a rude statement of awkward
I feel by now he was trying to save
my soul, as people do. For a number of reasons, including this
rude statement and the form of poetry that I was writing, my
claims of reincarnation, philosophical questions other art that
were deemed notably out of place, stupid, insane, wrong and
I eventually felt the need to leave
and I grew up.
It is important to note that 50% of
people believe that George Bush Jr. was the coming of the anti-Christ and in the
news today one can easily find as much material stating that
Barak Obama is.
The truth seems silly, as the same
proof that worried me of Bush's numerology is used to undermine
our new president.
I am, by the way, entirely aware of
the implied grandeur in that prior statement. It was a
I woke up this morning feeling like
it was a new day.
No order in chaos, no preaching but
Funny lines say time stands still
In my dream she held my hand. We
walked down a street staring in to each other's familiar eyes. I
knew her. I wish I could have actually said something to her but
these are of course,
As they are just dreams
And the moon fell from the
Smoke rings and chaos
I ran down a deserted street in
some post-apocalyptic New York City that seemed to be trapped in
panic and struggle. Dust and tension were hanging in the air and
I was yet to learn that people were trapped on the island of
Manhattan, yet there I stood. I was with my wife.
And for this very reason I ran down
the street to find her. We walked down the road and I recall an
old man in ragged clothes lying on his side facing us from the
gutter. He looked at me with all the love in the world in his
eyes. I thought about this later. I have been suffering from
writer's block for about a week now. (I wrote) I have lost the
skills to play the guitar.
But I am dreaming more than I ever
have before in my life.
Documentary epics. Drawn out,
clear, one hundred-day dreams and I rise awake an hour after
slipping into rest. I am learning that some things cannot be
True man laughed at him and the others watched his horrid dreams
with token, clear, still nights. But that was just fine. His
family had been living in Houston, Texas for a while now.
The name she spoke was one that reminded her of the man she lived
with in a false castle in a deep before confederation south. She
had always been spiritual. That's what he loved about her, and it
didn't need to be a statement. It just needed to face these
opening words. He found when he share these words she would at
least get angry. When he did not she sat silently and drank tea.
Their engagement was considered their modern dilemma; a mindscape
scraped and studied, opened to a point of desired submission and
truth in scientific study. They will take lives from those who
spoke lively of certain situations. He knew she did not
understand. That was what he liked most about her.
And for those reasons specifically our hero had never wanted to
kill in his life.
So the woman decides it is best to walk to her sisters to talk.
It was a lively afternoon marked with dancing shadows caused by
trees. Big poplars lined her stone tile walkway and they always
shook in the wind at this time of year. Otherwise things were
soft and calm house around the house that day.
The fourteen-year-old girl who answered the door was excited and
shouted, "Aunty Alice, is Richard here?"
"No," Alice replied, "I need to talk to your mother."
She was let in the house and her sister came to the corner of the
door. They greeted each other politely.
The woman stands in front of white lights. Her forward leg is
bend at the knee and high in the air in front of a flashing
behind her. The surrounding yard reflects her motions with long
narrow shadows the people in the doorway.
She smiles, "I'm losing it, sis. I need to settle down." The
niece shows her protest and is motioned inside the brown suburban
"Talk to me, Stanly," she says. Alice's sister used to call her
Stanly often. It came from a game that they would play together.
It was one that needed those silly hats and cardboard boxes. She
kept it secret until later but began to call her younger sister
by that at sixteen. It was just what she needed.
Alice's sister had stopped using that name again by eighteen
because she got into the club scene. This was the first time in
20 years that she made that snide reference. It made her smile.
"It is that the minds of reasonable people are never influenced
by outside forces that meet men of former glory," Aunt Alice
began, "If men of words and men of action are taken in distinct
directions, and men of face are sent for glory than the only man
of face that exists is some one true God. The one that the Gods
all claim is their God. He was lying to us because the one that
hides so far behind a tree that you could only see layers. These
are of the beings followers but they guard you as they show you
that the creator is behind them. And you know to trust these men.
But martyr beware, you do not know one space from the other. The
other that left us open, sister. That one. Richard was wrong."
The sister listened politely and asked Alice inside. Alice
politely declined. She wished her family a good night, making the
best smile she could and walked down the shaded boulevard.
The road was beginning to face the end of summer now. There was
only one word to feed that hymn. And she thought of another
benefit to bureaucracy. Commoners appreciate the security in one
million people between you and the man you made the law.
If you think you are in the dark
Taking a lot about the town
You gave it all away just
And how you lost it all move
Fix yourself make it up now
As you move on in to dust I've
Think about what you want
And all you really put up
So think, dream
To be clear that is all
Request the unintelligible
Believe to keep faith and
This place is too far inside
That cave with dark silence
The part underwater
With a chest
With a lock
In the dark silence
And remember the faith you
When it all fell back I hate to
Its great without the help of
You are all I need
You are all I want
However you are
Perfectly there amidst the
confusion I still see
Scared and far away like that one
Which was close
All I wanted is to be with
So perfect so nameless
And all it was clear that you would
When ready or perfect you are
But so perfect and clear you can
If you are perfectly placed not
In a name the word name
As you had requested to keep the
So please be patient with
As you have taken the time
To ask this in a kind tone
So I act so selfishly taken
And the tree taps lightly on the
The way it was were these little
The way things are staying the
When I left you is just a
If I could have been like
The way life was or the way one
The dichotomy is innate to our
I hate my self-destructive
Breaking in they crash all over
With the way the seconds
I fucking up the preamp
Near where the mountains
Try to crash into the sea
Terms that worry and minds that
The men walk silent on checkerboard
When opening to the simple some
Torn matter seems to fall towards
As it seems people like me have
While breaking in though
I doubted that I would see
For as the seconds tick like find a
Near death experience that takes me
back to Life
And the waters that tested
Lord, I needed that west to
The stunning of all time
For this test was a blessing
So make in your mind to see
All these pencils or anarchy
Finding those hopes when
The man who sits drinking gasoline
Place yourself in the water,
A bring your friend too
These checkerboard floors
The minds that were
And hearts that drew nothing
One person had argued that
Day and night are but one
I never have felt this way
Want the same things
To live happily
Be all we can be
For once we achieve peace
The rest is easy
Rest is achieved when people
Of varied faiths live alike
My dream is how I live my
But you decided to commit
And I am hard at work for the
And with the poem ending such as it
did, Richard Channing realized he had done things wrong. His wife
was right to leave him hanging. He thought nothing of poetry and
the cliffs that lined the San Francisco Bay. He had never taken
the streetcar there.
Because I figured that I had been
lying about what everything I told myself, I decided to listen to
this spirit who was physically doing the writing and drew a over
emphasized game of checkers.
I drew a chessboard and lied that
if one placed other objects on a large surface that held other
objects to the same basic shapes than the effect would show that
I was correct. I swore in what I believed was madness to confirm
a doctrine of abbreviation; a tone and phrase that I should keep
in my head.
It may have been
But psychosomatic beliefs I am
"Learning the game of power
requires a certain way of looking at the world, a shifting of
Robert Green - The 48 Laws of
I fear that this idea is easily
transferable to all education. It quickly explains that learning
is a shift in perspective. It is smart and broad, implying a
variety of things including an unwritten tone sales pitch for the
ideas that follow.
I intend to use this reference to
explain that I found the value in learning as much as I could.
When I was prescribed psychiatric medicine I lost the world that
surrounded me. There was very little introspection in those days.
I slept too much and went days without music and weeks without
writing my ideas. I do not intend to blame the medication for
past woes. These mistakes were mine. Members of my circle decided
that I was going in a different, spacey and artistic direction
and decided to be what they wanted. This hurt, but I learned
later that we had been friends the whole time. That was heroin
withdrawal at 15.
When I was stressed I took a pill.
When I wanted to sleep I took a pill. When I woke up I took a
different pill. Before I drank, I took a pill as so the other
three would not make me an antisocial lightweight. But I was
cool, for what I had done before this point in my life.
These must have been classified as
depressants. They make me slow moving and paranoid. They were
there to make cure me of this affliction but I don't remember
having that one any time before or after the use of psychiatric
medicine. Either way, at the time I was too paranoid. I feared
nuclear war caused by a conflict involving the USA.
I was having dreams that my floor
was filled with hornets and if I were to step over the edge of my
bed I would step on them, though they refused to fly. I tried to
avoid tall buildings for the chance occurrence of an out of place
earthquake could bring them down. I do not remember ever being so
afraid of the devil.
But I don't want to hold any grudge
against the people who prescribed me this medicine. They didn't
realize that I had been aware of my own situation and should have
devised a plan to keep it to myself.
It was that people with mechanical
minds don't know much about Niberu, a planet that is said to show
up every three hundred thousand years or so. When I hear of this
legend I consider a scene from Independence
Day, hope that it is not
that technology, chuckle quietly and get back to work.
People like me wonder if it is just
a phenomenon. Perhaps legend has it that every three hundred
thousand years or so something like both Bell and Gray inventing
the telephone simultaneously happens and the world is in better
shape because of it. This may have been represented as giants
Servants were blessed and brought
to the king.
Maybe it has been that long since
the invention of steel. This could give credible thought to the
development of the various ages of human civilization, (the Iron
Age, the Bronze Age, etc.)
We have just gone through a series
of incredibly fast technological developments.
Robotics has made of science
fiction every day use in just less than 40 years. Yet the
Internet is filled with tales of a mystical planet that crosses
our path in an odd elongated orbit every so often. This seems
similar to the personification of lightning by our ancestors. I
reflect next to my computer about what wonders we will be blessed
One can find out predictions by
looking into a sort of mirror that appears to be filled with
webs. When looking closer one can read that by using a certain
attachment a person can see a modern looking glass. Has magic
always been this sort of technology? Is it that just now we are
beginning to understand those ways of thinking?
Perhaps this time these chilly
space giants will respect us and cure our ailments again. The
mystery is if it will occur before or after the impending
If you are unable to reach a
computer, yet you have a debit or credit card, you can simply
drive to the coffee shop and borrow theirs. Furthermore, if you
are unable to find a car or Internet Café, you could fly to a
region with these resources at hand so you can see these
But I recommend learning in any
field. It is also important to read and watch creative
With this in mind and dissertating
a video about the subject of Niberu, I rebut.
Perhaps this is simply a
phenomenon, and certain people choose not to believe in irony. To
lose track of this thought, is the study of irony somewhat like
the study of creativity?
They both seem indefinable.
Behavior of patients 520-1
So I sat here talking to some
deadheads and needing a bowl of soup. Tell the men that left our
head that our hero was filled with words. But we need some heroes
and criminals to grow and learn and tell them an entertaining
I hope I haven't left you with the
impression that this book is about me.
This book is about a strange young
man that lives in this turn of the millennium. This man will grow
up to become the president of the United States of America. His
life started with quite the bang.
"Each word is longer than the
next," he said, "So I need a drink."
The man at the counter glanced at
him and said, "There are three things direly wrong with that
statement. First, you are not yet twenty-one. Second, you are at
work. And third, it is noon, you fool."
And Richard Channing stammered,
"But I need a drink. I do own this hall, page. I am the first
born son of the Channing family."
"There is a beer in the fridge," a
sullen old black man told him.
When the old black remembered this
event later, thinking as well of a memory. He still saw tracers
from the last time he had looked at the sun.
It had been years since he had seen
young Master Channing as the man had fired him for writing and
singing that song. Or maybe it was one to the tone of, "Jesus,
just put away their guns. Before they kill someone, I remember
thinking this, so I stared into the sun. And sir, ask him if you
want to keep your son."
Somewhere around the time he was
last able to sing the whole song, an awkward man in a funny hat
showed himself to the page as a silhouette.
The skinny black man smiled and
whispered, "He is this silence, my dear friend."
And the butler left Richard
Channing; never knowing whom the awkward man was until they met
again in Summerland. The young white man who fired him did not
know what he had done. It was best that they had left when they
did. There was little the old servant could do but smile.
Though Richard Channing remembers
this day quite differently. "You are an angry teen," he was saying to
himself. He was worried that every schoolmate he passed could
hear his awkward and peculiar thoughts. He grew concerned when
they looked as if they did.
"You were happy," he choked in
order to stifle what he knew was coming, "You were nice… And
unabashedly friendly for three full days, but your playground
superiors do not approve of your revelation. So you turn black.
You are pulled into a rage. You quickly stormed out of this
school." While saying this, he pushed a younger student on the
stairs and spilled his books to the ground dramatically.
He had to flee his first
Our hero quickly called a cab from
the street and takes it home to his father's large mansion. The
driver left him at the end of a winding driveway. He marched past
a guard, cursing in some daze about the lush grounds surrounding
As he passed the front porch the
maid had not brought the cheddar cheese squares on sticks, so he
smashed the overhead light. It fell to the ground and he stomped
it with two feet sure to twist the ruins of the broken glass into
dust and marking the expensively varnished wood.
Richard Channing's grey suit pants
were covered in dust and he suddenly burst into tears. The crying
lasted but a moment, until he slapped his own face. "Bitch!" he
screamed at himself before running inside, catching his pressed
pants on a sliver he made in the varnished wood and tearing the
leg up the side.
He began to do what most teenagers
would, jumping towards the couch to try and break his neck. If he
had truly wanted to he would have. But there our hero rested,
holding a throw pillow and twisting back and forth.
So he stood from the couch and
stormed towards the kitchen. He grabbed a knife from the drawer
and ran back to the living room. While he stabbed through the
pillow little Rick smiled, pausing to carve through the couch on the other side. He pulled
the knife through the middle of the cushion and tore the blade
back towards himself.
He nearly cut his suit pants and
threw the knife to the floor before running crying up the nearest
He found his thoughts in an
upstairs bedroom. It was on the left at the end of the hall
furthest from the stairs. It was the first time in ages that he
sat on that bed cross-legged and crying. When he stopped his
tears he was shaking back and forth with his eyes fixed tight on
the mirror behind the dresser.
He sat there still after a moment
and mouthed words at his reflection, "Yeah, man. Keep crying.
Ladies like that."
He had learned from his father that
strong words make strong people. It is okay to be hard on
yourself once in a while. Always be faithful. Learn from tough
words. Do so with fortitude. That is the right thing to
So Rick Channing stood from his bed
and straightened his sheets out.
He took off his school suit and
began to speak his actions as he preformed them, "You slip out
from here and put on a ragged tracksuit. You put on your fine
leather dress shoe and stomp down the stairs. You pick the knife
up off the living room floor. You stomp your way through the down
remains of the couch. White feathers mark the floor around the
room and the gash in the couch seems remarkable. You think that
you will have to blame the oldest Mexican servant for you, of
course, were at school. For this purpose I smile at the idea of
the woman who raised you to be hurt by your actions."
He strolled out the front door of
your family's mansion, "This means you are better than the
servant. So you slide the kitchen knife into your kangaroo pocket
and begin the march down the driveway to that big black gate.
When you reach the end of the driveway you step past the guard,
mentioning in passing that you must get back to school…"
This was a lie but it made him feel
His hooded sweatshirt is grey, like
the clouds above his bitter world's sky.
He knew that he should go back to
his private school. The next course was math, taught by that sexy
long-legged redhead. Dick had told a few students that he had
bought her dinner and jewelry in exchange for some tutoring and
None of that matters now. They all
heard what he said. The funny thing was she hadn't rebutted. The
people at school must have known it was rude to discuss a pretty
teachers history with students. The student he had told felt he
had a chance with this teacher if only he kept silent. He spent
most of his classes grinning. He would wink when he answered a
question, quite as Richard suggested. And Dick Channing smiled
his half a smile, crooked on the right of his face in such a way
rumors of his health sometimes surfaced.
But Dick Channing would cringe at
the thought that people in those hallways heard him when his
thoughts drifted to fantasies of his father's military brigade.
The old black and white photo had his fathers face burned out.
Our hero had told friend he did that in a fight with him and he
regretted it. The truth was he regretted it for other
He even doubted that the classmates
even believed such tales of such a redhead.
The truth was, he didn't even know
if she was cute. It came from a conversation overheard in the
hallway between classes. A calm terror made his left eye twitch
Richard cracked a crooked half
These out of place thoughts came
furious and scattered on some odd afternoon in May.
Lights and colors flashed around
the streets and busy men walked along the winding boulevard.
Richard moved to a side street to avoid seeing traffic to his
family's estate. The street climbed slowly and he was soon tired.
He liked strange days under cool air. It was the kind of day that
could change your life forever. Richard found out what your life
was to be.
He would be an outcast of pedigree
blood, trying to live in high-society. His life as a homosexual
was not one that could be glamorous. It would be the life that
led to very little respect from your peers. This was a curse that
was laid upon him.
Richard did not apply for his
position. He felt dealt some cursed and damned cards.
He had been taught to be religious.
The nannies mentioned saints and claimed all this time that a
creator existed. The Saints would teach that this world was not
without fate but the last thing he wanted to be was an outcast.
It was his fate to be outcast in such a way. But was that the
only thing he could be?
Our hero's thoughts were coming too
fast. He could not grab them as they flew past, let alone
organize them in any usable way.
This Channing screamed in his head,
"Why had you told these women this cruel truth? They had simply
laughed and told the boys from your grade's A-Squad rugby team.
You were standing next to one of their lockers. Then the teasing
began. Those pretty-boy jocks you only knew from pictures. They
finally knew your name and they thought you were… I can't even
say it. You would never have a date, perhaps ever."
And he strode through the commons
at the private school, stopping quickly to use a bank machine to
break a twenty for soda. A group of girls he walked past pointed
at him and giggled. Richard's eye twitched again. He smiled at
them, exposing a dimple on the right side of the face. The
tallest girl shouted at him, he raised his arm to wave and then
heard the word, "Freak!"
But if there was a creator, Richard
thought, then he made he made me too. If he made the entire world
and all the nannies then there may be a reason that people build
churches. This thought was brief but it was just so the people
passing by would not hear the last one. Was there a God?
It was the first time Dick Channing
had told himself that there was such a possibility.
He had lived under the roof of a
tycoon his whole life.
Dad was a businessman who was
rarely home. Mother spent most days in the city. Dick wondered
briefly if they believed in the creator. His mother who once told
him the most honored note in his rather noble name. She
referenced the name with a reverence for a still around king.
This king was from England. He remembered the light fixture and
its oak engraving. Alternately he remembered these matters with a
lighted focus, some of his will regarding the Toad of Toadsmere
And our hero would think, if there
ever was a Creator, did a king have to believe in him? How about
if the Creator never was? Was Richard the Lionhearted too busy,