On Hate

I hate the tall-fat guy wearing a ten-gallon hat that
always seems to sit deliberately in front of me at
the theater; and when asked
to remove his hat, i hate the realization that it is not his
headwear that is capable of holding ten gallons.

I hate the conversations I don't want to be a part of, but
always get sucked into anyway, either by force or by
my own loose lips flapping over there ... But c'mon.
Goddamn. I mean, Wicca is an accepted Theology.
But. There's. No. Such. Thing. As. Vampires, dude.

Seriously.

Now I realize Hate is a strong word. Too strong for
anyday, everyday use. I reserve it for things I cannot
escape. Irrational fears. Personality traits. Loathsome things.

For example:

I hate that I am a handsome tall drink of water from
an L.L. Bean catalog, but I must act like an arrogant
prick to pick up women, all because it's socially
unacceptable for me to be intimidated by them.

I hate too small coffee cups.

I hate limp handshakes.

I hate nonconformists that want to be unique ...
just like everyone else.

I hate being called a liar, or stupid. (Conversely, I
love calling both myself and others Stupid Liars.)

On a similar note, I hate hypocrites.

It's not as bad as you think. A little self-loathing
goes a long way. Keeps me from saying racist or sexist
comments, since I hate racism and sexism. Really
I hate most -isms to varying degrees, If only because
most are born simply of rebellious bull-headed
close-mindedness ... and I hate
rebellious bull-headed close-mindedness.

I hate fighting over religion. It's all the same thing, anyway.
May as well call it The Force.

Speaking of, I hate people that haven't seen the
original Star Wars. Moreover, I hate people that
refuse to see it, because there's never a legitimate reason.

I hate the stressful strict structure of time.

Most of all. Over everything else I hate that without
this untenable emotion, there could not exist the reason.
I hate because of its opposite and unfortunate
bedfellow.

I believe the yin and yang. I believe in hate so that
I may believe in love.

The up will come down, the sinful will claim penitence,

I hate to love.

On Hate by Michael W. Hyde is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial-Share Alike 3.0 United States License.

Metaphor

This morning I awoke at 7 am, I never do that, and I
noticed a robin sitting on a slim branch out the window.
He was dancing.
He hopped and fluttered and half-flapped in a transcendent
flow, and for that moment, there was an understanding between
me and god. And we just sat.

A white and brown calico looked on as well, and as
Robin was finishing the third act, Calico JUMPED FROM A
SIT-STILL, POUNCED ON ROBIN, CUTTING A MILE-WIDE SWATH WITH
HIS CLAWS, TEARING EVERY BRANCH FROM THE TRUNK and leaving
nothing but a reddish feather, and a heart-shaped negative space within
the wooded canopy.

And a pale, silken wind started blowing. And the glass made settling
sounds. And I contemplated the breeze, made movements with its
movements, and caught up to the swaying limbs of trees. And everything
was right between me and god. And we just sat.

It started to rain. At first a patter, then a splatter, then
a downpour. It was all I could do not to move, and within
moments the entiRE ROOF CAME OFF IN A 3,000 MILE-PER-HOUR GUST,
MISSING MY SITTING HEAD BY THATMUCH, FLYING OFF INTO THE
WEST BEYOND KANSAS, and leaving me to soak in the world's
tears.

And a warm rain came to slow the torrent to a sprinkle,
and the breeze came back, this time on my face, and the water
catalyzed the moment, and immediacy I hadn't felt before, but
the picture cleared, the moment lengthened, I was struck by the
motion, careened face first into the motion, and everything was
right between me and god. And we just sat.

The clouds started swirling around me. I thought they were
just a happy part of the proceedings, and indeed they swirled
into a funnel and the funnel got faster, and as it got faster
it got lower, until it struck the ground at such a furious
force that the house immediately lurcHED INTO THE AIR AND WAS
THROWN LIKE A KEWPIE DOLL ACROSS THE COUNTY LINE, WHERE
UPON FINDING GROUND AGAIN, THE HOUSE WAS BLOWN
TO SMITHEREENS! I lay bleeding, unconscious, missing the
feel of the wind on my face.

When I awoke it was dark. I was too
far out of town, or the power went out all over the
state, and the clouds and rain had vanished, replaced by
more stars and more night than you've ever seen. Every time I
focused on one star, three more were behind it, and when
I refocused, twenty more behind the three, and continued until the
starshine looked like clouds in the void. And for the first time
everything was right between me and god. And so I sat up.
And we just sat.

Metaphor by Michael W. Hyde is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial-Share Alike 3.0 United States License.

crescendo.

where is that thing you see, because it's not there, and i'm
trying really hard to search for it, and nothing's there. i've
looked high and low, close and far, far and wide and i
don't see it, there's nothing there. what is it that you see, again?
will you describe it for me?
is it some ephemeral bond that you can sense, is it
some bidirectional network connecting us in a series of tubes?
is it some clandestine right that you get and i don't because i
really don't catch any of this, it's going right over my head, but
i'm being a persistent prick for bugging you, and i'm going
to continue until you break some light on this subject, because i really
don't have a clue what you're seeing, there's nothing there, and i wish you
would describe it for me so i know what to look for, because right
now i don't see anything, there's nothing there. is it that
since we touched each other there's a
chaos string attaching us
at the fingertips?
or some form of spirit animal that just
so happens to be compatible with
my spirit animal
and so look great stacked on top of each other on a totem?
it must be something i can only sense and not see,
since you're so blatantly disregarding everything i say,
because i tell you friend, there's nothing there. yes, it
must be a sense ability in the sixth power, sensible enough
for a simpleton like me to understand, but i still can't see it, i only see
in colors, not usually images, and i can't see anything,
there's nothing there.
no color but the color of void, the color of null, and i can't
tell much more than that through the murk beyond my own bedroom window.
is that a telling sign? it must be. because i can't look
outside in, that must be it, because i tell you stranger, the way
i see it, there's nothing there. from inside the turtle shell it's only
bones and darkness and silence, wearing natural earmuffs and
screaming into a vacuum. there must be some greener
pasture with a webcam peering into my little apartment
with laser-guided precision and wifi --
can i get an ip address or something,
visit a webcast, download a torrent -- anything?
or is it pay to play? do you want me to subscribe to your
channel? is that the only way for me to see what you're seeing?
because i'll tell you something, from my viewpoint, there's nothing
there.
and i've been all over my room,
all over my car, all over google, all through my murse,
looked in my computer, in every disk i've collected,
every scrap of napkin, every
matchbook, every hokie birthday card from
relatives, every book since the eleventh grade, every
morsel of clothing, every lego in my
toolbox, all through the skeletons in my closet, into my hopes and dreams,
my nightmares and fears, my sobs of joy and cries
of ecstasy and shrieks of pain, and even the mumbling of mundanosity.

i tell you: whatever it is you have convinced
yourself to believe, however you tricked your eyes into seeing
something i don't, thinking something i cannot,
dreaming of whatever it is you obviously must be dreaming, because this
is not reality; this is quite a stunning fantasy, this thing
for which you have no description, no location, and no
clues whatsoever. the illusion is faltering, and you can't
keep it up for much longer, i will get it
out of you what you see.

because the way i see it, brother.
hm.
i tell you.

crescendo. by Michael W. Hyde is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial-Share Alike 3.0 United States License.