I lie in fetal

wrapped in my

yellow blanket

reminding me how the

sun wraps around my

skin like silk.

I'm a cocoon

not yet the butterfly.

I linger in the breeze

as the wind kisses my face.

Clouds whisper nine

heartbeats to the blue

skies, filled with rainbows double.

I lie in fetal position

yearning your touch.

timeloopstimeloopstimeloopstimeloopstimeloops

April 12, 2025

Some call it Groundhog’s Day.

Others refer to it as vuja dé.

I know it as a time loop.

How?

Because I have died 352 times.

And counting.

I wake up every morning. It is a Thursday. It always is a Thursday. I will be dead at 6:19pm tonight. I will get shot. No matter what I do to avoid my death, I will still die. I may be able to change the intangibles, but never the outcome.

I eat breakfast at a diner. The waitress drops my bottle of ketchup and I always catch it, all without looking. The orders of the patrons never change.

I walk from the diner to the hardware store. I have their prices memorized. No one believes me as I answer the patrons questions without being asked. Normally, someone like me would receive an offer of employment for being so helpful. I receive a threat of trespass for being so creepy.

By noon, I entered the movie theater. I have seen “12 Monkeys” more times than I can count. Brad Pitt should have won the Oscar for Best Supporting Actor. Bruce Willis should have at least been nominated.

IMHO.

After mouthing the entire script, by heart, I leave to go back to the diner for dinner. I will encounter the same woman without the strength to open the door for herself. I will mimic the conversation between the father and son about him joining the army. The cook needs to take a shower before work. The table has the stickiness of grape jam that needs to be cleaned.

I place my order and begin counting. My food hits the table exactly at 5:13pm. Always at 5:13pm. Ironically, the food is always great here. It had better be since it will be the last food I will ever enjoy.

At 6:01pm, I will leave, not by choice, but by compulsion. I will have to encounter a police officer who thinks I have committed crimes against humanity. Whatever I say, he will want my ID (I do not have one). Then he will begin interrogating me, trying to intimidate me. Each time, I try something different. Once, I did not move when he came up on me. After he bumped me, he shot me. Another time, I kept moving backwards to match his pace, thus maintaining the distance between us. He was too out of shape to move as I did, so he shot me, claiming I was escaping. Other times, he shot me from a distance or in my back. One time, he tased me when I asked the exact questions he was going to ask me just before he asked me the questions. I heard him call me all sorts of derogatory names prior to shooting me.

I wake up at the same time, in the same place, ready to relive my day before dying.

Until now.

Today, the cop is now my waitress. The waitress owns the hardware store. The man who owns the hardware store is the cop. I still die.

Every day thereafter, each person I encounter becomes another character in this play. Everybody changes places. Everybody gets a chance to kill me. The randomness was a change I initially found puzzling, then ironic, now just sad.

Then it hit me. The only person who never changed their role, but changed their clothes is the woman without the strength to open the diner door by herself. She is the singularity of the ensemble of 118 characters I encounter or pass by this day.

She is the constant.

As such, today, I will permit her to suffer.

If she CAN open the door, I will hinder her from being successful. I will sit with her. I will grab her. I will do all I can to speak with her. This woman is the key to my escape.

I have nothing left to lose.

I send my grandchildren off to school after they finish their breakfast. I have accomplished this small task every day for the last 352 days (or weeks or years, who knows what is true?). I don’t know why I have to go to the diner, I just do. I could eat at home, but I don’t. It is almost as if I am compelled toward the diner.

I don’t have the strength to open the heavy door. Normally a nice man opens it for me. Today, he is not nice. He has an attitude. He is making this difficult for me. Why is he acting this way? While he eats, I leave the diner and flag down a police officer. He reassures me that he will handle this. Funny, but I could swear this police officer looks like the young man who wanted to join the army.

I have clawed my way

through dark masses

lived among the stars

hung from galaxies

swinging between the

moon and the sun.

Noon in the Forest

April 12, 2025

Iridescent

Opulent

A coruscating kaleidoscope of wonderment

Designed for all

Delineated solely for me

you deserve her

you don't know who she is yet

she hasn't walked into your life yet

at least you won't think so

fate is uncertain, a path of mysteries that develop perfectly

each strangely shaped seemingly random piece

falling into place oh-so exquisitely

she's caring

proud to be yours

ultra-intuitive

never hurts your feelings

funny, sure, but thinks you're the most hilarious thing to walk the earth

tells you everything

and you remember all of it

talks but she's okay with silence

you like silence

you find it comforting

whether she's like you or completely different is still yet to be discovered

left up in the air

she speaks quietly when she's serious

uses her head

she looks at you like a muse

she inspires you to wake up every morning

she's cool with being cringe

you like slow-burn

best friends slowly developing feelings

calling all night

the way your legs touch and she doesn't pull away

the way her hand rests in the crook of your elbow

the way she runs to you first

both of you with secret knowing smiles on your faces

knowing you've found your person

realizing you can tell her

both with a secret

but when you call to confess

she says

'i like you too'

or maybe she calls

gives you a gushing explanation

everything she loves about you

the way you always notice when someone's down

the way you care enough to know the smallest details

the way you aren't ever embarrassed of yourself or your ideas

the way you don't pretend, ever

and you say

'finally'

she will appear only when the time is right

life creates destiny when ready

and promise you

she'll be there waiting for you

It’s kind of messed up—the idea that you could be world-class at something, truly built for it, and never even get close. Not because you didn’t work hard. Not because you gave up. But because no one ever pointed you in that direction. No one said look here. Or maybe they did, but you were too busy surviving to notice. Too busy doing what you were told was practical, responsible, realistic.

That’s what gets me. How much of life is just... being angled. Shaped by parents, teachers, systems, money, fear. Most of the time, you’re not choosing—you’re reacting. Following the path of least resistance. Or the one with the least judgment. And if you’re lucky, that path intersects with your talent. But for a lot of people? It doesn’t. Not even close.

So maybe you’re carrying this sealed envelope inside you. And maybe it has the name of the thing you’d be incredible at. But you’ll probably never open it. Because no one told you it existed. Or they buried it under bills, expectations, and social pressure. Or worse—they told you to be grateful for the path you did get. That wanting more was selfish. That dreaming differently was naive.

And here’s the kicker: you could live your whole life doing “fine.” Competent. Decent. Even successful—by someone else’s definition. And still miss the thing. That real thing. The one that lights you up. The one that makes you not just live but burn.

But most people don’t burn. They simmer. Quietly. Contained.

Because the world is better at building fences than handing out matches.

People say the mystery is beautiful. And maybe it is. On some days, I believe that.

On others, it feels like a consolation. A way to forgive the system for failing you—or yourself, for never getting the chance.

So yeah. I think about that envelope. And I wonder:

Am I supposed to be okay with never opening it? Just keep walking with it sealed inside me, like a joke I’m not allowed to hear?

I don’t know. Some days, that question is heavier than others.

Perusing that abyss known as Gmail, I find myself deleting a lot of digital flotsam and jetsam that is about as useful to me as a condom dispenser in a convent. Still, I have to admit, some of these garbage emails make me think. For example:

There is an amazing number of products out there for those who suffer from erectile disfunction. The pills, lotions, drinks, and even gummies (keep out of reach of children) that're advertised are guaranteed to hoist even the limpest of meat main sails. Personally, I don't suffer from the condition, but that's nothing to brag about because a light switch that can stay flipped up for 2 minutes is no big deal. "Delete"

Apparently, there are hundreds of single Asian, Russian, and women over the age of 40 who're eager to date me. Let me be clear on two things. First, I'm happily married. Second, any woman who's eager to date me is probably clinically insane and a possessor and practiced user of the Lorena Bobbitt cutlery set. So, no thank you. "Delete"

An urgent correspondence from a politician is being sent to me because the members of the opposing party are out to ruin America. Of course, said politician wants my help in the form of a donation and my vote to aid them in their quest to save America. Personally, I think all politicians be they donkey or elephant are responsible for the massive lube-free cluster fuck that has become our country. So, expecting a politician to fix our nation's issues is like asking a clan of hyenas to save a wounded gazelle. "Delete"

For a limited time, the Danbury Mint is proudly offering hand-painted collector plates that commemorate Elvis' slow transformation from svelte child sexual predator to the fat. white jumpsuit wearing, mutton chopped, Vegas performing hack he died as for just 3 easy payments of $19.99 per plate. Each month, I will receive a new beautifully painted porcelain plate along with a certificate of authenticity that visually chronicles the physical transformation caused by Elvis' steady diet of Quaaludes and fried peanut butter and nanna samiches. These magnificently created plates will surely increase in value and are so realistic Elvis' cellulite and that famous double chin will slowly appear beneath his greasy mutton-chopped gob with each new addition to my collection. But this offer won't last forever and if I act now I will also receive a replica of the check Elvis signed that bribed his bride, Priscilla's parents into not having him arrested for having an illegal sexual relationship with their 14 year old daughter. "Delete"

I am missing out on securing a mortgage in my area of California at the current 5.2% interest rate. With just such a mortgage, I could finance a desirable1-room shack located near running water on enough land to dig a his and her outhouse for the low-low asking price of $500,000. "Delete"

Amazon is hiring delivery drivers. The pay starts at $20/hour and you will receive medical and dental on the first day while receiving training in how to heave packages marked, "Fragile" like an Olympic shot putter more that 15 yards to land somewhere near the (hopefully correct) customer's front door. "Delete."

Of course, this is just a small sample of the useless drivel that lands in my email. However, I can't complain too much, because after all, a lot of what I write that ends up on the internet probably also deserves a...."Delete"

Every time I see something about ancestors being proud of you, about you being their gift to the future I think this:

No, I'm their abomination, the child they never wished to be, the end of the world as they knew it, I am queer and the fact that me, that, originated from them, makes them roll in their graves and I love it. I have learned to feed off their despair and discontent, turning it to love instead of desperation. I use this knowledge to love those like me: the abominations of this world that only ever wanted a home.

I remember this and I keep walking, I keep loving, I hoping hoping out of spite. I keep trying to make this world a better place as revenge. It spurs from anger. My ancestors were colonizers and I have dedicated my life to undoing everything they ever did. I hope they feel worthless and unloved. I hope they watch their own culture of domination disapear, just as they did to so many others. I hope they watch, as I, their descendent, do what they never could, and turn their dreams of a new world into a pile of ash.