Tributary

Please. Help me fix this...
you always have.
-------
Liar, liar
Pants on fire--
sinking in dispassioned mire.

Tell me "listen",
beg me hear
excuses that account for fear.

Give your answer,
make account
for all the trech'ry you amount.

Here's the paper,
there's the pen
Write down your reasons for the end.

Love's no answer,
hate's no cure.
Maybe there's others, it's not for sure.

"Leave the emptiness,
leave the cold."
Tomorrow morning, that gets old.

Apologies
nothing abate
Warm water thirst can't satiate.

"Forgive me, love,
and I'll you."
Hand me a flower, I'll forget too.

One more attempt,
one last try
to tell your story without the lies.

Then to our room
with still white sheets;
If we lie down, we can go to sleep.

Echoes, echoes
through the wall:
maybe they know what makes us fall.

-RLL (c) 2006

Whomsoever is concerned...

Three more minutes left on the clock - dammit, we don't have a lot of time. Like twigs from a great tree, broken off, and dropped in the river -- we travel at the rate of time, dearest darling. And if you haven't noticed, we don't have a high tide. So I'll start, then.

To Whomsoever It does so obviously Concern(or something to a degree near that),

I have run the tests twice, trice, and quadrupple times through, and I have come upon only one logistically sound fact: I fear the whole understanding we came upon at the close of last week was a terrible misconception.

Perhaps returning to the original source of the first generation material would lead us to some more concrete explanations - perhaps even some finite definitions and absolute considerations as to how the complication can now be resolved. However, at this point, I cannot offer any other subjects for your investigations. You may find yourself soon searching the archives of all elderliest stories; and I believe in every one-in-three, you'll have a chance to find what you are looking for. It isn't exactly a foolproof procedure, to be sure - but our experienments were foolhearty enough as to overcompensate for us now.

You'll find on your desk there's an envelope tucked away neatly in a book cover (however the book may have fallen on the floor or under the boards of the bed, for they had been setting there for quite some time previous to this memo). Should you find them where I have expounded, please take them up at a timely manner. The contents, I quite assure you, is time (and thus relativitally) sensitive. Should the delay be much more, the contents will already have been outdated. This would be unacceptible. Thus, please find the previous envelope and deal accordingly.

I believe instructions are on the back. Perhaps on an insert within the front cover or first page of the contents. Either way, please set to work on this remedy - as it will be to the best interest and betterment of us all.

Thank you, and godspeed.
-Rk

Let's say, we're beautiful. Let's claim, we're lovely.

We must have said it more than once before. Must have repeated it a million more times hence. But let's hush this time, listen to the quiet. See, instead, what we can find out--

Haven't we spent our time turning ourselves into beautiful messes.

So you're just indulgent, impulsive, and unreliable. I'm only cruel and crass and careless. And, in the end, we only try to make a lovely dance out of it, you and I. We've got charts and diagrams and all the steps set up in place, just as long as we get the rhythms right, then our dance should turn out just fine...

But really, you're still wetting the bed while I'm still messing on the floor. Then, we leave it there for someone else to take notice of it. And tomorrow, when someone gets sick of it - they'll do their best to clean up our pretty little mishaps.

Toms and Daisys, that's all we are. Expending energy painting ourselves up with layer after layer of ugly masks from all sorts of places - feathers from here, beads from there, paint from across the sea, wood from around the world. And aren't we proud of ourselves when we're done, when we're painted and covered, as safe as can be. Don't we smile and congradulate ourselves.

Don't we claim we've still yet some purpose to us? Don't we claim some far-off god says he "loves" us? Can't we prove we're all from righteous blood, all from perfect descent, all from well-calculated evolution that makes us more perfect every single day?

Darling, I think I'm beginning to see; beginning to think maybe our holocaust is complete.

-Rk