Womanizer.

Thundercloud.

Most recent drawing, now that I have my Genius Tablet.

Venasque.

If there was ever a different tree that I climbed,
One without long, strong branches and a trunk like molasses, I don't know where my head would've been.
It's easy to understand with this mindset that the sand that cascaded the landscape,
Back when my soul was nothing more than an egg under the incubator,
Was not merely thrown there, but was heaved up by some underlying energy.
But it doesn't matter to me now, as I walk across the pure yellow grain,
And tilt my head backwards to catch a full breath of the liquefied air.
Then my gaze wanders until it's caught hook-line-and-sinker on the rocks and their monotonous crashing against the water.
We meet hardships, hardships don't meet us.
And as I walk the extreme landscape,
With colors so bright and bold,
It seems as if there would be a war, for there were too many intense differences.
I come upon my tree and climb it, in order to look down on everything.
I felt like God.
Looking down upon all of his creation with nothing more than love and awe in my heart.
And I still go there sometimes,
If I can find the time to want nothing and to love everything.

Unfinished 1984.

Quiet time.
Quiet time now, please.
It's that time when the cyrsanthimums shouldn't blossom.
I'm at that place in my life right now where I wish the moon wouldn't invade my thoughts.
I asked the waves to settle, but they only upset me with disobedience.
Quiet time, quiet time is an idea, a philosophy that I've developed over the course of years and months.
It's taken many journeys, many trials, love, and an avid hate for everything.
I'm loath about the turnout of this meeting, of the apparent apathy for the quiet.
When everything is still, everything is quiet, that's the new paradigm.
That's the only paradigm.
If only you would listen to the thoughts of nothing, you wouldn't need to tolerate.

Tomorrow.

Tomorrow I will go elsewhere,
somewhere where I can't be found by the justice blanances the float around and dry the waters and boast the earth, the same eyes that dried the drips from the hearse, and the lips of the seal that flat-out blubbered its teal feelings of nothing,
the ones that found me and something else that was of importance to it,

for tomorrow is the day that loses its wits because there was never a day so mentally intact as to chose its humanity with the right track of decisions and careful incisions into the proper God mind that feels the terrible contracts that contract our kind, because tomorrow is a day that knows no harm, but by the law of humanity should be heavily alarmed to the status of the dawn no approaching, now rising, moving on like a clock that is nothing to the findings of trains and of leads and various coasts and reeds, because tomorrow is a day that knows no harm, with a infantile body and a cherub-like garm, head in the heavens with no sight and no arms, sitting beside nothing waiting to be spawned, which makes me feel the weight of drain-o and the lever cleaving leaves that insist on the sanity of the patriarchal community, for immunity in tomorrow is the penicillin it must borrow from perfection which is out of its reach, an inhabitant of a universe outside of our sheath in this closed universe of closed minds and still time, which is snynonomous with the name of my cellophane rhine, and breaks the seeds of this leading tall kneads, so I fall to my knees and love the only thing I see, for the mind is always searching for something out of me, something better than my condition with a falsely drawn premonition of a day when the mission is to simply be an addition to the world and the peace of it all, and that day is tomorrow when I go elsewhere and claw at the fabrics of civilization and the handholds of simulation which in turn upset this body, because there's nothing to pour but coffee that's poured at the same time everyday, never changing its sway, because of the peace that dies today that thoroughly shows me the words I say when I utter that tomorrow is innocent when it's already killed so many, tomorrow is not innocent because it's already taken so many, its already fed on lives to keep the constant cycle pretty for the eyes of some elated child-like giddy-grit, who decides to drive tomorrow with its horrible slave whip to do what today has not accomplish and to break open our whits, to take over tomorrow's mind and control it to the stitch, however I still love tomorrow, because it's basically not today, and it can hold something elsewhere that can be a shiny day, but as I lay my head tonight, I think of what follows; the thoughts that go through my head: hopefully I can sit still and say, tomorrow transcends today, and I will love tomorrow.

NOW and THEN.

I am Russia, in love with Big Brother.
I am the flat note, the one that a player mistakenly plays.
I am a short skirt, for no matter how much you pull me down, I still reveal too much.
I am a sacred fire, one of which is the severed part of a renowned civilization.
I am a disgraced dragon, one with a limp leg and a broken wing.
I am water, which transcends all cracks and ninnie's and covers all with its glittery apathy.
I am a cloudy shroud worn around the shoulders of a Chinese Communist, as if it were not enough that it was a Chinese Communist.
I am a the sporadic heart beat of a dying old man.
I am the reaches of humanity.
I am the drawing of a steering wheel; I can't drive without someone behind me.
I am the calm before the storm, the storm, the sunshine afterwards, also.
I am the fall, because everything dies, everything's remembered in the fall.
I am the gentle smash of the waves against the eroding rock, slowly and unknowingly weathering it away.
I am a cascade of images splattered across a wall, belonging to an artist who doesn't remember he drew them.
I am an artist displaying his images, without memory of drawing them.
I am the universe, and the universe is me; I am its infinite energy, the space, the time, the understanding, the misunderstanding, the reality, the matrix, the feigning, the realizing, the misjudgement, the beginning, the end, the struggle, the success, the want, the need, the satisfaction, the love.

I am manatee gray, with cuts along along my sides.
I am a psychologist, compensating my problems with the problems of others.
I am the glorious aftershave to a god's slashed beard, and the hairs the adorn the floor in the razor's wake.
I am the fiery upset of the world, confined into a container for compact transportation.
However, I am the face of the clock, not questioning its existence, but realizing its only purpose is to pass time, time, time.

Android conversation.

HA-HA.

1984 PLAY GUYS.

CLOONEY: (standing in the middle of a riot, shouting at a rioting brunette beside him) Lady, where has your love gone? Don’t you understand, can’t you see? This is no way to start a relationship! Are you even listening to me?

ROSETTA: (blonde beside him who stops rioting in order to shout at Clooney) Can’t you see that you’re… you’re just one in twenty-four? Have you ever thought, just for a moment, that we’re not doing this for you?

GEORGE: (a thin man standing to the right of Clooney) Yeah, I… I do believe… I do believe that your… yer selfish-osity is quite the… epitome… of…

CLOONEY: (interrupts George) Oh, hush! But sometimes, I do wonder, (turning back to ROSETTA­) are you putting us under? How many times have we had it at before? Have you even understood my inherent need? My incessant lust? Or do you just jump to tease me, and do you speak just to be abrasive?

MAUDE: (brunette beside Clooney) But they’ll make examples of you!

ROSETTA: (Jumps in before MAUDE can say anymore) No, I wanted him! (Bumps into MAUDE and falls into GEORGE’S arms)

CLOONEY: Say no more, say no more, because I see now… You were never here for me. Last night… what we talked about… It made so much sense. But the haze is descended… Now… it doesn’t make sense. But what does? Why are we even here? Where are the gas tanks and flooded pipes? Are we even here for a cause? I was here for a cause. But that cause flew out of my arms, because she didn’t know how to start a relationship.

GEORGE: (Looks at CLOONEY with upset eyes) But love! We did… speak of summat, but… it was too dark for… a full-throttle analysis. What do you think…? Betty? Have you…

ROSETTA: You might wear classic Reeboks, but you miss the point! We’re not here for you! We’re not here for you! There’s no romance around here! We have our minds made up, and look. Over there there’s broken bones… Well, if you would like (looks at GEORGE)

CLAUDE: (looks at GEORGE at the same time)

CLAUDE and ROSETTA: (speaking quizzically to George) We could tell them all tonight.

CLOONEY: (Looks terrified at an approaching police car) No time, no time! On rolls the riot van! We have to run, or we won’t be able to chill our bones correctly tonight. Enough with the romance on rolls the riot van!

CLAUDE and ROSETTA: Or we could tell them all tonight.

GEORGE: Tell them all tonight.

(Out of the police car comes one police man, though there’s another man sitting in the front seat)

POLICE MAN: Why don’t you run? Haven’t you heard? I’m here to kick you out.

GEORGE: But… we’re going to tell them all tonight.

CLOONEY: NO! We musn’t! (Pulls out a shotgun) Let me tell you a story.

(ROSETTA climbs down from GEORGE’S arms and hugs her knees on the floor. MAUDE sits on top of ROSETTA’S knees and eventually falls. George stands behind the two, leaning on the police officer. The police officer looks unsure, with his hand on his holster, but still stays to hear the story)

CLOONEY: (begins to pace, and then spits) You people are vampires! Do you not know why we’re here?

MAUDE, ROSETTA and GEORGE begin to improvise, each character saying nonsensical things)

CLOONEY: NO! No, you guys are wrong! If you wanted to truly become ignorant fucks, then you would go back to 505. Go back to 505! No only is it a 7 hour flight, but it’s also a forty-five minute drive. Now, I know what I’m here for. I’m here for your love, lady. I always imagined you lying in that room… with you hands between your thighs. But the dogs came, and we were cast out. You saw it, you smelled it! You smelled the castor oil and the piggish hands! You understood me when I told you that our bull meat was being eaten by those nasty, piggish hands. When we were sapped up by those disgusting pigs mouths, yet we just… stood there and caressed our minds with thoughts of love… of 505, of thinking she’s the one. Though you say that may’ve been me, you must wonder: just ‘cuz everybody’s doing it, does that mean that I can to? Ask yourself that question, and tell me, why do you give in to the hands of the pigs? Now, let me tell you a story about pigs. Though, I do realize that it won’t… change a thing… When I was a child, my friends, my family… we made chocolate cream. Indeed, we harvested our crop and we put chocolate to our cream. I was the pride of the family with my fast hands, and my bullish meat and mind. We supported each other, we supported our family and our neighbors. But the pig came! That terrible day, with that terrible pig. The pig wanted to show us the wonders of everything, and played to our desires. He gave us everything, nuzzling our spotted brown muzzles with the idea of rich and famous. But then, my friends, the pig took away our chocolate creaming ordeal and sent us to factories.

Button Speaking. 1984.

I stared at the button, it stared back at me. I asked it the time, and it said it did not matter. I asked it the news and it said it did not matter. I asked it the weather and it said it did not matter. I asked it its political viewpoints and it said it didn't matter. I asked it what did matter and it said to me this: Nothing matters but relationships, and being able to fasten things together. I asked it if it said this because it was a button and it replied to me no. I asked it why then? and it replied to me: Because how can you be kept warm without a fastened coat? How can you protect your neck from the cold without a fastened collar? Now, think of all the things that could be fixed with buttons. Think of all the things that have been fixed with buttons, only to be popped out by a piggish body. Think of all the times buttons have been taken out and mitchmatch buttons have been put in their place. Think of all the surgery done on coats, think of how many have been thrown away without their buttons. Do you understand now what I say? You can not have successful politics without a fastener, nor a oneness with weather, nor functional relationships, nor positive news. But you know the interesting thing, you need to be willing to find the fastener. Too many relationships don't recognize the button, because they're too concerned about the unfastened parts. However, it's funny, because most people I see do not try to look at the buttons, maybe because they're always buttoned? Or maybe just because they're always negative. So, my friend, I implore of you to return to your people. Tell them you spoke with a button. Tell them how important that is. Tell them to fasten their shirts, their collars, their coats. Tell them that a simple fasten can change the world.

Edward Albee

has won three Pulitzer prizes and an Emmy. He's done many plays, and believes in living a useful life.