Aformentioned Kid

A Series of scrawlings

[aformentionedkid-blog]

You're Real, I Promise

Dear Girl (whose last name I now remember, but will not divulge),

Your first name will not be included either. I wrote this about you, but don't know if you will ever see it. Or, if you would assume it was about you, were your eyes to grace the page. I hypothesize you'd feel pretentious in nature to assume it were you. Maybe you would start playing that old 'Cher' song in your head. The one about being vain. You're too humble. Or maybe you're not. I suppose I should get to know you before making extrapolations come to life:

"A little boy with bright eyes fell asleep trying to remember her name. Upon waking, it became glaringly apparent why he could not correctly construe letters together, the likes of which would give him the answer to his puzzle:

it was the mesmerizing effect and affect her smile had, the pretty little lips, rosy-colored, skin clad those pretty, petite eyes so carefully placed into a decorative, utilitarian face, never glazed; always attentive, delicately connected to a frame so small, yet strong enough to house her inner glow and it shone, through the windows to her soul, when she spoke, when she laughed, and when she looked right past all his faults and his fears; the things that made him insecure .

Her name is 'smells like flowers' her name is 'caress me and hold me close', her name is 'let me kiss you for hours'  her name was—he didn’t know, because he fell asleep dreaming." 

Perhaps I should have included 'idealism' as one of your names, since it is my profession, and in part, the aforementioned piece is positively such. I will inform you, I like to write letters. Usually to people and things, sometimes to myself. Sometimes both. You see, writing is easily coded; sure, you can read it, because you understand English, but can you understand it? I doubt so. And again, the problem of you not being cocky...what's a better word for cocky? I'm not talking about a guy. Thesaurus says conceited. I don't think you are that conceited. And, I apologize for the repetition of subject matter, but I just don't think you are. In this case, you are lucky, 'cause there is no coding, just coating. Mostly with syllabic sugar.

I'm not sure if you comprehend the abstract description or, more importantly, the fact that I change my mind like an incontinent woman changes her diapers; often. And both situations are messy; the difference between the two, is the conjecture that my idealism usually smells like lavender, vanilla, aaaaaaand, I'm thinking--and. I guess just lavender and vanilla sound pretty darn delectable to the old olfactory glands. 

So, if you get a waft and it smells good, you can be assertive and make a move, presuming you thought it was you, which again, I find unlikely, or sit back, relax, satisfy the stereotype, and just wait for me to come to you. It'll happen. One last thought, plus equivocation, I would like to include: please do not feel mean or rude if you thing I am weird, erratic, annoying, too emotional or crude. These are a few of my flaws, some situational, and I understand the theory of deal-breaking characteristics as good as any human. I also like to bestow claims to being expert at things. For example, and I quote, "...I understand the theory of deal-breaking characteristics as good as any human."

Well, for now this is sufficient, I hope you can soon say you read this.

Sinceriously, 

the aformentioned kid

[aformentionedkid-blog]

Bank of America Security Guard

Hey there,              

             I went to the bank this morning and your behavior got me wondering: What are the odds you would actually put effort into stopping a bank robber? You must be what, at least seventy? Even if seventy is the new sixty, the odds are that the individuals who come to rob the bank are going to be at least half your age. Whatever age they are, it is certain that their lactic acid will take far longer to build up than yours (this is imagining they don’t bring a car for some reason).

            Say they are twenty-five. If seventy is fifty, then twenty-five is anywhere from ten to eighteen. I’m not sure how to go about scaling down ages. Anyway, you versus a bunch of potentially pre-teen physique people equals a pretty trying situation for yourself. They likely run a lot faster than you, are assuredly stronger than you, and though they may not match your unmistakable chivalry by courteously holding the door for each other on the way out, I suppose it’s safe to suggest that the second or so that slipped away since their mother’s didn’t teach them manners is no matter as they would quickly gain the time right back when they begin to move at any rate faster than a snail’s pace...I’ve seen your version of speed as you semi-swiftly swing the door for an attractive old lady.

            Assumption: boldly holstered automatic weapon has never been fired in the line of duty. This concern creates consternation in this customer’s considerably over cluttered mind, as my imagination is inclined to think that there is a pretty excellent potential for you to instantly surrender the doodad you were supposedly strapped with to sustain our safety.

            In relation to how you got the gun: What kind of training did you have to enjoy in order to be qualified to acquire this gem of a job? I’m interested because you get paid at least minimum wage to sit and eat sunflower seeds outside of a bank in sunny San Diego, in a sleepy suburb that is somewhat of a safe distance from the freeway. While it is possible you have been in the security circuit for some time, I would beg to bet that is not the case. I have yet to see a security guard be between the ages of thirty-five and sixty. My speculation is that people get their shit together by thirty-five and then by the time some are sixty, they have retired, but don’t wanna sit around all day.

            Getting back on track, it troubles me that you seem to eat sunflower seeds all day, every day, and whenever you please. You need to cease and desist. Picture this: robbers come, you go for the gun with hands covered in seed spit, grab the grip and the gun slips. It falls to the floor and pops off a shot, then the robbers ensue massacre, is that what you want? Stop eating those seeds. It’s making me uncomfortable. Also, sanitary reasons are reason enough. You hold the door open for a lot of folks, but countless others touch the handle as well, and I’m betting your hands do not excrete Purell, so stop sucking on seeds and sticking your saliva on the silver brass half squares that protrude from the doors. I hope this is an acceptable request.

            The last topic I would like to broach is simply for my entertainment. You are pretty old, and you still seem to have the necessary biological impulses to pursue females, as is evidenced by your inability to let one go by without your eyes giving a lengthy glance. Your English might not be that great, but your sight is just fine, and this visual observation makes me giggle inside.

            I mean no disrespect, I just had to ask these questions, I wouldn’t choose another bank guard, cuz I think you’d feel somewhat dejected.

Keep Livin' the Dream,

                               -the aformentioned kid

[aformentionedkid-blog]

A Letter to Moths

Dear Winged Folk,

            After little consideration, it has come to my attention that you suck. It makes my person feel a bit bad inside to say such a statement, as I am very passionate about creation. I often enjoy the act of moving snails in danger to a safer, tastier location...usually grandma’s garden. She wouldn’t be psyched, but this example provides some concrete evidence in support of my self-serving statement regarding the condition of my heart as it relates to you, the little guys. There was a period of darkness, though.

            Aformentioned kid with the tennis racket in the front yard. Guilty.

            Our neighbor has ice plant. The low-lying succulents attract bees from all over the neighborhood. Add a tennis racket and super decent hand-eye coordination, and you have a small child wreaking havoc on a population of bees.  This is the only time I can recall abusing any member of the animal kingdom, besides my ongoing murderous tendencies toward arachnids. But now let me address you, little metamorphic moths.

            Many a fine moths have caught my eye throughout life, beautifully blended colors; textured, soft, and entrancing. I’ve seen you in lights dancing, caught you in my hands while laughing, let you go to fly and go for free, then you eat my sweaters joyfully. What is it with the clothing? I can’t quite understand why you guys have taken to eating the clothes on my back. Especially wool. Don’t you think it would be more convenient to feed on a flock of sheep? You could just hang out in their hair and be fat and happy. You never have to fly again! Although wait, do you actually digest the wool? Cuz that would change things. Eh.

            How many licks does it take to get the center of a tootsie pop? The world may never know. 

            Despite my frustrations with you folks, I do admire your mastery in the art of camouflage. But you know, a lot of other less obnoxious insects are equally skilled. You guys are like the blind kid who wears black to play hide and seek at night, accidentally ducks behind nothing, squatting right underneath a 60-watt incandescent porch light. One of the other kids rings the doorbell and runs, framing blind boy falsely. The tools are painted on your person, but you fail to fully utilize the finite function of your fuzzy, flapping, protective pinions.           

            Not to exhaust the mind-numbing machination of metamorphosis, but metaphysically, your transformation is quite inspiring. So, I suppose it would suffice to say that you unintentionally inspire thought and contemplation, which has, in the past, led to the formation of intrinsic insight and information in my mind. I keep the ideas close and they stay in my mind, informing impulses and helping drown out sound logic, but other than that, you’re fertility is strictly biologic.

            One plus one does not always equal two. Ask Dostoyevski.

            Were I a mathematician, this inquisition may have proved hard since you have only two beneficial functions and the fact that you eat my clothing detracts from the validity of your philosophically significant metamorphic one time only transformative time, which you spend by yourself, so lonely. So, you have one and a half uses by way of my reasoning and if you don’t think that makes sense, then tell me why the average American household can have 2.5 children...

            Just please stop eating my clothes, it’s really not warranted as I have done nothing to provoke the actions you folks have taken against me, unless you’re inciting retribution based on previous iniquities enacted by my kin. And one more thing, I’m not sure if you are capable, but it’d be pretty cool if you mated with butterflies because you could stop being so dull looking and perhaps be awake during the day. 

          - the aformentioned kid

[aformentionedkid-blog]

An Ode To Smoke

With all do respect, Fuck you. Never meant it more than that one, because every one of your sources I consume, sinks me a little further into the shallow pool of mixed up priorities.

            I hit the base.

            Broken and broke is the best place to be, because it means it's time to push off the bottom of the pool, propelling my body to the top, so I can breathe again. There is beauty in desperation; you mess around a lot less if your lungs are filling up with water. But, you need the water. Without it, black ash piles up like an hourglass, managing to harass you until the last second of your life, unless you permit the water to penetrate and purify the infected site. 

            Boredom is a deceptively dangerous diving board. Sitting on the edge, I stick toes, one by one, in and out of the water, watching drops drip from feet, as the rest of the recently re-introduced molecules make their way across the body, swimming smoothly across the small space. I want in. There is nothing better to do, but I can’t swim. Impulsivity at it’s finest.

            I am not who I always knew I wasn’t, but convinced myself I was, anyway. That’s confusing. Read it twice, because I know you do it too; convincing yourself that you aren’t a silent assassin slowly stealing seconds from sisters, sad sons, and all other possible phonetic utterances that stand for another sad soul, as a result of someone listening to your seductive speech for too long.

            Sorry to suffocate you by surrounding myself with sincere individuals, but as we have discussed already, you are not welcome. I walk into your cloud and it takes days to come out. Like the windshield of a car, parked on the side of the road, with two lusty teenagers in the back seat, my mind struggles to find clarity. There is no defroster inside my mind, to simply, quickly clear the view, when transgressions are done.

            I’m not trying to condemn your existence all together, but I just think we can’t see each other anymore. It’s unhealthy for both of us. I would also appreciate if you could refrain from telling the Devil, because we just talked the other day, and I don’t think he would appreciate it very much if he found out you and I were parting; I’m afraid he’ll try and place an obstacle in my way, to obstruct honest efforts.

            A lot has been learned from my relationship with you, and there is still a lot to be done for me to get over you, but just know; you’re dead to me. I’d appreciate if you didn’t call anymore.

  Sorry, there’s no other way,

                                                the aformentioned kid

[aformentionedkid-blog]

A Letter to the Devil

Sir, i would like to congratulate you for this monumentally mentionable thing: It’s the one-millionth time you dirtied my heart, right after it was cleaned

Drunk overtakes the High as he sighs from the sky Together, we watch a perfect pass of the baton Faithful minions touching base, then contently carry on

I’ve always known You to be so blatant Even if i knew You were going to win, i knew exactly how However, now, i receive past due notifications Requesting me as prisoner, without any altercations

Does it upset you when i utilize Love and out-will you using undying strength? Or do you have a stronger word, perhaps one You’ve made, One You prefer, that can better purvey, Or more effectively explain, as some folks might say, The hate that You have for the Love in my veins?

I come to you humbly, but believe this is the problem You failed to figure it out, so now you sleep with Sodom And while we’re speaking in metaphors, your Geisha is Gomorrah

You got me good the other day, and the day before... And the day before that, too, but this is not the point i’m trying to prove. So, (if You would so kindly direct Your vision Over here, Your attention To the upcoming section of this poetic convection, Which just so happens to be prose,) I will show you.

You spend a lot of your time waiting around for my results to come in each day. I don’t understand though, because every time that scantron (Sin scantrons are filled out each day. They are triplicate, as well. The yellow copy goes to me, the white to God, and the red to You) comes back, its markings form a hand, fingers flipping You off. And, the detail is impressive, too.

I just think, that with the resultant summaries of every test in my life being a middle finger to the face, You should be tired of getting poked in the nose by ‘Fuck You’s, because Saddam, deliverer of scantrons, has awful depth perception; even he has a hard time seeing something so shallow.

Peace be with you, nonetheless. May God be in your weary chest.  As your soul escapes, your heart goes to waste and the Y in your name returns to lower case.

I win, theaformentionedkid. 

[aformentionedkid-blog]

A Push Button Opera

Sir on Sunset Cliffs,

It has come to my attention that i have fallen short of the simple suggestion to sit by your side and watch a sun set  over the sea on Sunset Cliffs.

It seems to make sense you have some sort of idea as to what i am doing since i know you still see Her  when she's running,  every once in a while.

This is what i thought of you and a little bit about how i feel towards her too,  but i don't think you'll mind, in fact i think you'd approve  that the day was a blessing and your thoughts were impressive.  So, sincere sir, i give to you, this playful and privileged message:

Influx of information affirming my intentions, from an old man.

Old couch, red in principal, with gold stitching and nice patterns. 

Old woman,  sweetly sits in her chair, wispy old wires for hair, she stares intently at this man, who speaks with the assistance of a button in his hand. And though, monotone due to microphone,  since he's missing something in his throat, he continues to praise in his little home;

Speaking the goodness of the Lord.

You should know, it's been some time since i've been interested in conversing about matters of faith, exchanging my opinions, or perhaps even learning.

But i must say, the Opera singer without a voice, stirred my free will, made ME make a choice inside, no voice was necessary to be activated, sitting next to all the fuel i needed, not in the old man, but in the girl who had heeded my self-invitation to selflessly saturate with knowledge.

As we sat in that spirited situation, wisdom surrounded, compounded, expounded, exuded, protruded, profusely, which was a nice change since i'm usually simply, sorely sitting; solo is nothing new to me 

Fed by fervor having found forgiveness, this witness, listless, went on about love and heights,  no valleys in sight, it's just light, like the room we sat in that day. 

Red Couch.

A girl, undeterminably shy, undoubtedly nice; legs folded under when i noticed her eyes. Highlighted by her sweater, an appealing hue, coming in second only to the two Beautiful, Blinking Orbs.

Green eyes trapped my sight, now i'm caught inside a struggle to focus my eyes and retain my mind  from wandering to worlds of pictured prestige;  a chance to take her out and dance a chance to share a little romance, and perhaps, even hold her hands.

But that is not where she is.

Ivan kept striving, so enlivening, not listening much. He says he's gotten better, but it doesn't appear as such.

A man without his voice still makes a lot of noise but it's beauty when chords strike, words patiently poised.

Ready to deliver a quiver of knowledge from a lifetime; listening closely inspires the mind.

Linger on, leave. Let the day continue to lose itself, as it is taken by the same constraints it utilized to become the day. It held reign for twenty-four hours, only half of which i witnessed, missed it, slept in for fitness of my mind.

I'm awake now though, no more sleeping for my soul.

I'm awake now though,  no more sleeping for my heart.

I'm awake now though, and this girl is still sitting here.

She must be real.  

Well, Ivan, i suspect the message and short digression will be enough to hold you over until we meet next. You can give me motivating inspiration as we spend some more time in deliberation about the importance of love and the fine line, upon which our life's balance lies. And it would serve no shock, if one of your thoughts were to ask about a girl with Green Eyes.

I look forward to seeing you soon, the aformentioned kid 

[aformentionedkid-blog]

letter to a Long Lost love

High School honey gone and grown I too from my coup sprouted wings and have flown Common knowledge notes our old abandoned nest still exists Thoughts turned to tense tangibility; we took a few visits

Concurrent cross-cultural experiences Convey changes encountered; now life seems so serious Discussions on dead grass as ice had already melted Sun shows but face fair for feelings not dealt with

Seasons shed as speaking slows Long since gone is the reciprocal glow Of childhood hearts Previously perceived as a puzzle: Containing two co-dependent parts

Dark like ink preparing to poke a misplaced piece of paper Negatives of nights percolate and penetrate Deep dwellings from where they originate Mind paws to procure thoughts but they precipitate to vapor

Like at the end of every light there is a tunnel As every silver lining has its cloud Our rut got flatter we found a latter And then we both climbed out

After that we went our separate ways for a while, but of course we cross paths now and again. That’s pretty much the way it’s been for the last year or so. But, now

You have a suitor soon to be ceremoniously stated as your spouse You have ideals of a life and a family and a nice, comfy house You and suitor stare at the screen as a romanticized life is projected My emotional mishaps tend to turn towards tragic and defective

When the film is over only positives left We’ve been friends for a while and a while still yet Remains reveal I never stole from you nor did you ever take from me The sole surprise still stands to be seen We did love each other no matter how childish it seemed

Love Always,  the aformentioned kid 

[aformentionedkid-blog]

It Depends

Dear Constitution, 

Before i begin the Gettysburg Address of Constitutional Rhetoric, i just want to make sure you know i am addressing you, the Constitution of the United States of America:

Papyrus skin defending my dreams, I can achieve almost any wish But sometimes, dear young Constitution, You are a fickle bitch I can say that because of protected free speech First and fourteenth; you may check, i beseech

You can do anything in this fine nation, unless there's a reason why not   You can ask someone where they are from, unless it will get you shot Nominally, it's considered to be what gavel men call opprobrious speech And indecent exposure if i were a nude woman on a California beach (Pasties are acceptable, though. Nipples just have to be covered.)

Your lack of specificity allows for leeway, like a Catholic's confessions for absolution But you almost let folks sue Shamu for selling out shows; call it animal prostitution? Certiorari...judicial review, sorry, was not always set and so Until someone who probably wore a powdered wig suggested "A hub-bub-bub-ba, the Judicial system must grrrrow!"

Equality still struggles to be birthed, even after multiple assassinations Of individuals all indelibly devoted till death, to standard deviations Ku Klux Klan kills more than enough; America's lengthy version of Kristallnacht  How do we avoid the mistake of making the same mistake until all is lost? Bewildered, bedazzled thieves, robbing our own lot in the night Too obsessed with our vanity and ignorance to realize the plight

Constitution come back, let the words on your page be the matter of fact On the street, only rain, not the blood from our veins Let the love in our hearts be translated to our brains Then released through our fingers, our feet, mouth and eyes As we open our ears and our doors, letting our country-kin inside

It began with you, paper that tamed a lawless land Leading way to industry and sucking oil from sand Find your way back to the root of your core Figure it out, you've a pen and a sword

Encouragingly, the aformentioned kid 

[aformentionedkid-blog]

A Real Hallmark

Dear Hallmark Company,

I know American consumerist society is not that smart, but don't you think we know enough to realize you are charging too much for your cards? Where is the government regulation? You have a monopoly on the greeting card business. I bet you even have vertical integration. We need price ceilings. The rent is too damn high, and so is the price of powder-roomed paper. 

Bring in OPEC, have them regulate card prices, too. It would be good for them to diversify their business.  Reams of cards and barrels of oil. 

Holidays have been implemented because of your presence in this nation. Not to mention, you have greatly contributed to the desensitization of a nation whose holidays now amount to little more in meaning than meeting, greeting, giving gifts, and leaving. Never thinking about the actual cause for familial jollification. 

For example, Easter and christmas. Easter is about Bunnies and Christmas is about a fat guy in a suit (sorry Santa, i have to make a point). The fat man in a little red coat would no doubt be played by Chris Farley, were he still alive. It would be much harder to be frustrated about the miss-crediting of Christmas, were Chris Cringle Chris Farley, forget Mr. Christ, which is exactly what we've done. 

As a product of disney, television, the internet, idealism, and Dr. Seuss, I find myself wondering how we have allowed a third party to tell our friends how we feel about them for us. It seems affirming of the theory that we can buy anything to do anything, especially when some of those things play music or can be programmed to recite a pre-recorded message. 

Do us a favor and let us write our own cards, use our own words, or perhaps even, our own actions to show instead of tell. I would greatly appreciate it if you gave all your profits to an ESL program or something productive like that, and cease all card making.

Thanks for understanding, the aformentioned kid 

[aformentionedkid-blog]

The Reigns

To our baby,

Your mother and i wanted to let you know how much we love you We don't know you I don't know her

Condition of your heart uncertain; beats have yet begun People say having a child instills unexplainable love Will you show us when you come? 

I watched the sun rise this morning I saw your smile, a beautiful forewarning

The innocence of your soul was the warmth on my face   As the rays penetrated inside with grace, deep and visceral A feeling beyond visual A description insufficient with any use of the literal

I love you Even if you turn out to be a ginger

As for my role in your life And your mother's, my wife We will share with you, our hearts Only death has the power to break us apart Even then, i contend, never to let go of your hand 

We cannot discern the decisions you will make Or the path, no doubt confusing and contradictory, you will take No intentions to control your life by remote You will always be our baby, but we will let you go You aren't truly ours, there is something you should know:

You were created quite intentionally by divine design we can't comprehend mentally, because it is beyond our capacity as participants of a flawed humanity. One day you will understand the under-riding undertow as the ebb and flow stretches your heart and waters your soul, sewing the seed which allows you to grow.

There is a light that you won't always see, but it always exists; it's an abstract idea, but it's truer than the purest wish.

Follow your heart, regardless of criticism. Fail. Fail again. You will succeed at some point.

Share your heart with others so that they might avoid some of the pain you endured. My mother and father did that for me a hundred times over, and then a million more.

Give what you can, but make sure you receive the love you need; we are all human, all our hearts bleed. And, reach for rich relationships of which you can never have too many.

Don't listen to cliches, they will only get you enmeshed in a society that abides by the safety of paved roads and telephones. Instead, make up your own. You will not go wrong, you will never be alone.

Let your spirit shine through and do not ever grow up; adulthood is a sham, but you must be mature and learn how to discern between the two.

Patience prevents haste and develops a capacity to love. The ability to love insists integrity, which encompasses honesty. Love also yields patience; cyclical, like the circle of life. 

For now, i am the child, but one day you will be mine,  the aformentioned kid 

[aformentionedkid-blog]

No Return Address

Dear Darling,

Inequality exists indisputably in this indignantly ignorant world, but it has come to light there is one pursuit in this realm that cannot be padded or altered, despite fate or fortune:

The only obstacle equally experienced by all individuals, regardless of race, class, or ethnicity, is the honest pursuit of love. 

Romantic or plutonic.

People are afraid to be loved. People are scared to be scarred. People are tempted to become numb, so as to successfully stave the experiencing of emotional instability. People are people.

This is the problem; Plurality of personality. 

Convinced in convolution there is something constructive in the absolution of vulnerability, we close eyes and dodge bullets, wearing flak jackets made of false fears.

You have to feel the fall to know you fell, And embrace the pain to cherish the gain; Arguments otherwise are only in vain,  Like appreciating sun when you've only seen shade.

Good luck and good morning, cause i can't sleep. I am far too busy trying to earn my heart's keep.   

Vindicated in the veritable vocation of a viable vendetta, the aformentioned kid 

[aformentionedkid-blog]

A Letter of Letters

Fabrication is a fundamental fact in the formation of faith or in following out of fear.

Dear,

 Remember the time we tore down the walls and tried to rebuild. Recollect retiring from our dogmatic duties, foaming at the mouth. Recount for me, if you would, the time we ran until we realized we had no legs. Recall attempts to shake shudders of uncertain cerebral decisions, thought to be ours.  Reminisce the precipice we came to when we got old, hollow and cold; we had to jump. Perceive our prospective freedom if we had listened to the non-existent in the first. Picture leaving behind something we could have never known, for a few seconds. Propose for a minute, we didn't abide by a belief in thirds.

Ultimate adjudication: unnecessary. Justification of actions: erroneous.

Animalistic abstractions become real. No more humanity, only an existence.  

But, it wouldn't be as easy to idle through life like a blind man slowly starving in a lifeboat without paddles, belonging to a ship that sank years ago, which was tossed into the middle of a pond during a treacherous storm at sea, thus making it currently on land; all the while the old man sits, waiting for an improbable salvation from a non-existent rescuer, when all he has to do is stick his arm in the water to find out it's only six inches deep; he still has four senses.

Instead, he starves, and thinks he'll be rewarded for it.

Sincerely sorry we squandered our souls, the aformentioned kid