an image

the moon swoons slowly in its blue loom
listening to crickets dispel their crispy cry.

Snowrrealism

A man? wakes up from the snow, naked.
There is blood in his footsteps.
Someone whistles a baroque tune in the background,
It happens to be the wind.
SHe carries a candle in His/er hand.
The whistling wind puts it out every time.
He pronounces the words of a poem
that speaks of oppression, by a peruvian
author: Cesar Vallejo.
The poem: Los Dados Eternos.
And the whistled song ceases:
God was whistling.
And as this naked being defies god,
with his petty candle in the cold,
he finds in his path a crown of thorns,
and wears it, for what is pain?
if not more pain? the candlewax
falls on his hands and solidifies on his skin,
he further walks, whispering the old poem,
feet bleeding, thorn crown cutting his forehead,
several shots are heard, a scream, he walks on,
he stops to look up at the sun and clouds,
then proceeds to walk into scene two,
where the lover is dead on the cold ground,
and red flowers bloom in his chest, one white rose
in the mouth, and two carnations make the eyes.
the palm lies, face up, the other palm covers the genitals,
the first person places the candle on the open palm,
and lies down beside death to die.

Tonight is a night of insanity.

When my life is set against the length of time,
the entire length of time,
it becomes a particle... insignificant.
It is these instances when i could die
without regret.
--------------------

Of course, it is these instances my mind becomes detached
from reality. Reality states "you have to work tomorrow."
Reality always has a 'tomorrow' for you to consider.
But what is tomorrow? what exactly is tomorrow?

Tomorrow is both the dawn of a new day
and the digging of a thousand fresh new graves.
Tomorrow is the timid expression of Today.
And in passing, it is the dream of Yesterday.

It is nights like these when insanity
takes a twist of reality
and is gently poured into a cup, with ice.
It is a drink called "life on the rocks".
The universe drinks it. Slowly.
and when it gulps it,
some stir and weep, and scream
the word 'unfair'.

But is death a matter of justice?
only the sadists would like to think so
those who condemn at the twitch of an eyebrow
who fiddle with the buttons of their shirts
and curse in whispered, stuttered words.

It is unfair of this mind to think such things,
to negate and deny and doubt truths
to kill hopes and breastfeed uncertainty
into the mouths of the confused.

It is unfair of this mind to think...
and the television takes on a new dimension,
the faeces that flow from the t.v.
that people eat in spoonfuls, visually.
The eyes are two stones that reflect.

Yes. I see it all too clearly,
my eyes have accustomed to the dark.
The reflections on the wall
no longer seem so scary.

It is now tuesday morning,
the very early hours of the morning,
before the larks begin to pray.
Yes. It is a new day,
and I must sleep, and then
work.

Pennies

"The total is 2 dollars, 91 cents." I hand the 5 dollar bill to her. She seizes it and as she stuffs it in the register I realize the huge mistake I had just made, and rush to tell her "I have a penn...!"- SHUT. She hands me four pennies and a nickel...

Years ago, they would have asked you, as a courtesy: "Do you happen to have a penny?" In order to save you the effort of having a shit load of copper weighing you down. The lady was quick: She knew that in this world, today, you can't give away all your nickels, dimes, and quarters; even when they don't own the money...

So here is what I'm gonna do: I'm gonna get as many pennies as I can, melt the copper, and fashion a gun out of it, which I will then use to let them know what wonderful things can be done with the unwanted pennies.

SUV jackasses, part 1

So, I arrived at this intersection the other day, having flicked on my left-turn signal half a block before like a good citizen and driver should, and waited for the traffic light to turn green.

The light goes green.

I'm waiting for that gap to make the turn when I immediately hear honking. Honking directed at me. Suddenly I'm thinking maybe my turn signal has fried itself out and the person behind me thinks I'm some moron merely holding up traffic. I later confirmed this had not been the case.

No. The case was that this douchebag in an SUV saw me as an inconvenience. Sorry, your holiness, if I'm being a splintery thorn in your self-entitled ass.

I'm sitting in class today
an I.R. lecture,
the professor up there
figure of respect, or perhaps should be perceived as such
being a professor and all,
he's standing there, these two frat boys behind me
yapping about about some senseless nothing
noticing nothing outside there self contained bubbles
and on proceeds the professor with his lecture.
they run on in it, i ask them to be quiet,
they quiet up, but in that idiot manner
where giggles can be heard under their voices.
And almost instantly, right beside me,
a blonde, her phone in hand, begins atyping,
I sit there, with my push pen pressing,
replicating noises for her notice.
She doesn't notice, but continues pushing buttons,
clicking away at my right flank
I feel like chucking the f$cking phone down the aisle
and calling her out, like witches way back.
I hoped to take her phone and close it for her,
I felt like pulling out my own, and teaching her how to type,
I felt like reading her messages, so close she could hear me breathing
enough to feel harassed, and quickly leave the class,
and me content, notebook on my khakied lap,
writing away, a happy man in learning.

You see, the way i see it, is this ignorant Amerika spoils its children, what makes them thinK they are allowed to come to class and disrupt in such a fashion? Who do these people think they are? the two juggernauts could talk outside if need be, and she could meet her typing pal to settle that which they so disruptively beat around the bush for. Half the class could leave, because half the class cares not to learn, their parents pay for it all, and the loans pile up in dark bureaus. These people are privileged to have an opportunity to learn, but instead they opt to steal my own. Next time I will carry a can of tic tacs to shake when the time is right, and when the prof asks me "what's the ruckus?" I shall respond, "I'm just adding to the noise."

The quality of learning in this kuntree needs to rise. That is to say, the teachers do a great job, but some of the students... Some of these people don't even kno how to write. They sure know how to drink though. Impressive... the creative potential they have when it comes to inventing drinking games, or stylish ways of getting high, in order to finally be able to socialize, and get a 'piece of ass' to pass the night. They drink and smoke to forget their empty lives, the fact that many kultures means no kultures in the eyes of all those states within the map that have things to call their own.

I do not bark and bite on the decent peoples of this land. I am with them, a part of them, and they of mine. I keep in mind that gentle hearts jog upon this gracious earth, and smile, and speak, and laugh, and cry. They which i speak exist only in my mind and in the moments i witness these actions that i judge- those moments in which screams collect in the crevice of my throat then, finding no exit out my mouth pose their weights in my shoulders, and, in posture, of Atlas I remind the world i suffer.

Of Some Famous People and a Random Fatal Occurrence

Stephen Hawking bent sideways smiling blinking
metallic voice orating deep shit
to which some repressed star war freaks
on mondays masturbate.

Nietzche's madman walking through the market
yelling god is dead god is dead god is dead
without ever meeting the necrophyllic Marilyn Manson
yelling god is dead god is dead.

These words you see imply that god was once alive
and breathing, but forget
that a god never dies but merely exists
outside of conscience where he can't be blamed on
like the devil can.

And the devil, poor scapegoat
for human lack of self discipline
and sense of personal responsibility
takes his tail, ties a knot,
and whips Dante mercilessly.

And John, who only knew candles, but spoke
of the light, if he had known
there'd someday be no stars left to be seen,
would have kept his mouth shut,
bitten his tongue until all four muscles
that composed it were dissolving in his gut.

But yes, I wish Plath would have met Marquis de Sade,
and lost a nipple to his potato peeler,
punctured a lung to his switchblade, and,
lying in a pool of her own blood, some conveniently
stored in Gerber bottles which once held pear puree,
might have found a reason to keep living.

But she had to kill herself,
she was blonde,
she was thin,
she was sick in the head,
or too sane for her society.
She stroke the paradox of death
with her two favorite fingers,
that which spoke of her weakness in
giving up life,
and her strength in taking it.
Maybe the bitch got high off dying.

But the pans piled up in
someone else's kitchen sink
and the roaches rummaged through the ruins
and the mice mingled and convened
in corners chewing at this
grain, at that gum, at this furry toe
which belonged to some feline creature.

The cat caught rabies bit the bastard owner
which went crazy and was tied to a oak tree.
Fortunately, previously, he'd been bit by a tick
and died of rabies before he took seat
among the candidates to Lyme disease, which
if I'm right would impair his ability to think clearly
and thus adapt to this world of savage beasts.

What more, at the foot of the bark there resided
a pack of black widows which sensing invasion
took care of the warm body and concluded it
in a current of neural pain and
the stilling of the fleshy curtains.

family or individuals.

How often do you walk down the street you see some brother man packing his mouth with food, or breaking some building's window for the sake of breaking it, or simply just stare stare stare you down when you walk around the corner? Well, check this out, we think, you shouldn't do that... We, or I, think, you shouldn't do that. But here's the catch: I think, you do. Which goes to say that even though I see someone obese feasting off a banquet of rices, potatoes, and porks, I am still I, thinking that person should not be doing that, and there is that person, eating all those things, whom, if told by a stranger not to do a certain thing, would be totally offended by the suggestion, even if it were beneficial for his health.

There are those who write virtue, those who preserve virtue, and those who destroy virtue. Virtue dictates all's behavior, but most specifically, the behavior of the individual subscribing to the virtues. It is easy to call someone out on something until you realize you've also got your hand on the hammer and your finger on the nail, right there beside the brother you were just judging. And then right there, from the corner, someone else, another you, looks at you, disappointed, and cannot believe what horrible kind of person you must be in order to do such a thing. Of course the such a thing could be minor, but the essence of it all is that virtue cannot be expected from others, let them go to hell, but hope that by living your own virtues, they may learn something from you, and change.

No need to utter a single, evangelically oppressive word.

Hummer drivers

Image by the Nebes

Is it "Broo-shetta"? Nope. Try again.

(A condescendingly semi-educational rant)

I was beginning to like the place. The bread was decent; the soup a tasty treat; the ambiance survivable. Not bad, I said to myself. However, when it was finally time to order the main course for the evening, my heart sank with a plunk. All the main courses were listed under the word entrée. Nothing odd here, you might say. A common word in American menus, n’est-ce pas? Sure. Do we know what it means? Absolutely not.

Restaurant-wise, this French term means ‘starter’ or, more literally put, the ‘[meal of] entry’. Hence any ‘entrée’ with a price tag between $20 and $50 either contains some of Earth’s finest and rarest ingredients or merely contains your run-of-the-mill garden variety…planted, fertilized, grown, and cultivated on the Moon.

And to address the question, “How am I supposed to know what ‘awn-trey’ means – I only speak American!”, allow me to suggest that fluency in a Latin language should not be necessary. Let’s see (keeping in mind that the context is food): entrée…entry…entrance…doorway…the doorway into a meal. In case you lack the fabulous god-given gift of inquisitiveness and a library card, there’s always the Internet – look it up.

Regardless of whether your linguistic knowledge remains within the confines of the English language, I believe the real problem lies elsewhere. This type of hideous misusage not only stems directly from ignorance, but – more importantly – does so indirectly from a general apathy towards fighting widespread ignorance. We accept things without questioning. It’s the whole, “Let others think for me” attitude. I also sense a certain laziness when it comes to doing a bit of research into that which we’ve not a clue as to its meaning. Hey, I’ve fallen into that trap many a times.

Let us remember, of course, that marketing’s strategy of simplifying products through the “cunning” use of brands and labels is certainly not helping. As far as I’m concerned, the more gullible and ignorant the consumers, the easier it is to shove this deception down their throats (foie gras, anyone?).

For instance, let’s take the phrase “panini sandwich”. Heard or read of it before, vero? Just in case you’re one of those individuals that use this phrase, please allow me to clue you in on what you’re really saying. Ordering a panini sandwich is literally ordering a ‘sandwiches sandwich’. A panino is the Italian equivalent of a sandwich; panini is the plural of this equivalent. Ecco! – a linguistic abomination born from some perverse ménage a trois between ignorance, laziness, and marketing ploys.

And if you think the horrendous use of the word panino might chap some Italian’s ass, make sure you’re not in India when ordering ‘chai tea’…

Listen, the bottom line is this: Question. Research. Investigate. Use the Internet – never before has such an unfathomable amount of knowledge (and porn) been made available to us at our fingertips! If you decide to remain culturally complacent and intellectually lethargic, do me a favor and stop butchering all these foreign words. As a matter of fact, try applying for a passport and leave the confines of the American bubble once in a while.

Illustration: Choke, by Virgilio Nebel

The Ubiquitous Penis

Boy am I tired of seeing guys take a leak and leave without washing their hands. They’re leaving their penises all over the place – starting with the bathroom door-handle. Of course, the intensity of the penile smear decreases throughout the day. But who on earth urinates only once a day, restricted to the privacy of their own bathroom?

Ever seen this ridiculous sign: “Employees must wash hands.” Oh, I see: no food-industry penis in my plate! Perhaps. Yet it doesn’t matter if employees wash their hands; if customers are free to act like chimps when urinating, then the penis escapes containment and roams free once again! So what are restaurants really saying? ‘Care for some penis appetizer a la clientèle, sir?’ Bring it on.

Even within the confines my own apartment I try to keep penile spread to a minimum. It’s my private space, I know; I can make it into the grandest of shrines to the greatest of the scrotal gods if I wish so. I just could not bear the sight of my guests snatching up my penis like Velcro throughout the apartment.

Guys, is it too much to ask for? I know you – especially you circumcised males – might think your equipment is as sterile as a 10-inch thermometer (or whatever your ‘big-penis’ fantasy is), but wash your hands anyway. At least rinse them if you’re the type of person that possesses the oozing lethargy of an obese man seriously contemplating liposuction. Having your phallic ointment make indirect contact with countless strangers is simply a lack of common courtesy. At these heights, I bet even your poor grandparents have obliviously bathed with the balms of your crotch.

Fortunately, for you filthy wee-wee bandits, there’s an alternative to conventional hand-washing. I’ll call it the “Free-Willy” technique (look, no hands!). It requires some pelvic maneuvering, good aim, and a bit of luck – I say luck because although nature has granted men easy and convenient urinary manipulation (just ‘point and shoot’ in any general direction except backwards), we are never completely sure which spray setting our nozzle is on.[1]

The penis is everywhere! It’s on our hands, in our food, and perhaps even in the air. Religious zealots, beware: that’s concentrated evil on your hands, and its undermining your perverse attempts to one day establishing a sin-and-penis-free Earth. Hygiene-freaks, please stop because you’re pissing me off; there’s no escaping from germs – and you’re stupid for trying.

---

[1] Ladies, I know Mother Nature has not made peeing the, eh, prettiest bodily function for you: a dire need for toilet seats, lots of sprinkle and backsplash, soaked ankles out in the woods, that sort of thing. You’ll be glad to know that we males also experience similar trouble. Among several of the ‘bathroom backfires’ men must endure (and later clean up) we can find – what I call – the ‘leaky pipe’ (chaotic, multi-directional low-pressure spray), the ever-annoying ‘wayward drip’ (steady, controllable stream accompanied by fugitive vertical dripping, of which only ONE of the two can make it into the bowl), the ‘rebellious teenager’ (bursts out the doorway in the wrong direction, but with a little extra exertion and pressure can be forced back onto the right path), and the beautifully perplexing yet incredibly messy ‘golden fork’ (bifurcation of the stream; twin jets of uric fury showering everything at a 90° angle).

FOREWORD (for those who stumble upon this blog)

Dear Visitor,

I love human beings. I value human life over any of earth's material offerings. I value people's experiences, creativity, and diversity. More importantly, I try my best to follow the path of tolerance, compassion, love, and forgiveness.

But sometimes human beings piss me off - plain and simple. They have the ability to perform some of the stupidest, most obnoxious things on a daily basis. Like its members, "Society" also chaps my ass occasionally. I get frustrated. I can't help it. I apologize.

At The Vent I plan on turning that frustration into a good laugh, on blogging about the good and the bad, about positive reactions and negative ones; it'll be a place for me to show my appreciation for things in life or merely to blow off some steam (in a caustically cynical but humorous way). All in all, it'll be a space for me to archive my zany ideas and opinions on the world, culture, and everyday life.

To those who share similar experiences and find a kernel of truth in what I write, you're not alone. To those who see the humor behind my seemingly unforgiving criticism, enjoy. To those who are easily offended by it, lighten up.

Peace,

the Nebes