What does it mean
When all the stories have been told?
You can stand upon the plains
Feel the dry, cold wind on your face.
See the dust blowing through titanic skeletons
And the weight of those stories pushes back at you.
Cracks in the mud flats,
Jagged canyons in the oil fields
Civilization collapsed as the surface did
And burned as the air did.
There’s nobody left to fight the elements
No one to defend our legacy from the ravages of time.
As metal will rust and cement will crumble
The Earth forgets we were there.
You can place the stone upon that spot,
Surrounded by towering ruins.
It says that we were here, we grew on this world
And consumed it.
You see, it isn’t that everything died.
It isn’t that the planet looks dead.
It’s that we grew in its old nature
And we can only remind ourselves of what it was.
That old warehouse down the street
From the place we all would eat
Has a history like most buildings out there
And unlike most, it’s left it out to share.
Old equipment scattered around an open space
But it i not like any other empty place.
The equipment hasn’t been moved or been victim to theft.
By vagrants or vandals, it’s simply sat where it was left.
Rotting boxes beneath a hole in the metal roof,
Mold encrusted shipping labels, barely reveal their proof.
That within are medical supplies, by the ton.
Why wouldn’t anyone take these? Or destroy them for fun?
The offices are oddly full, computers from 10 years before,
Filing cabinets, still neatly organized, save a few, their contents on the floor.
Upon a desk, beneath a “Safety First” sign affixed to the wall by rusty tacks
Are scattered papers with names, numbers, and emergency contacts.
I read a few, that cold night in late November,
With Colin, Nathan, Joanne and Amber.
They’ll tell you we were there, and more you might hear,
But only to this point in my story, and no further, for fear.
The names on the papers meant little to me,
Their wives, their fathers, a dangerous allergy
But I checked on my phone, just to know,
That every one had died, 10 years ago.
Now this is a coincidence one doesn’t ignore,
The rest of my group, however, wanted no more,
Thought maybe it would be better not to remain,
Even though, at that moment, it had started to rain.
We went to the doors, that led out of the office,
We’d come in the back way, to avoid any notice.
The lock, though unsettling was merely a stall
It was the newly jammed door in the back that unsettled us all.
The rain poured in through that rusted out gap,
And something came out of those boxes and oozed like a sap,
Mold and pulped cardboard, Colin said it might be,
But that’s when we saw the derelict form of a wrecked AC.
Beneath the sagging boxes, previously unseen,
Sat the wreckage of an industrial air conditioning machine.
It dawned on me, then, that this place was not overlooked,
And the reason this place was empty, was for the lives it still took.
Upon closer observation under the stacks all around,
We found pools of toxic black sludge all over the ground.
The supplies had defrosted, molded, and grew,
Into something toxic and deadly, a poisonous stew.
We fled in all directions, searching for an open door,
Our frantic steps echoed across the cement floor.
Our determined silence was broken shortly thereafter,
By a scream that shook our nerves, and clanged off the rafters.
Amber had tripped and fallen behind a pallet
We rushed to her aid and found she had gone pallid.
She’d narrowly missed a pool of that forboding black scum,
When she tripped over the rotten leg of a long dead bum.
Our nerve finally broke, as panic took hold.
For that homeless man’s corpse had already foretold
Our future in this forgotten crypt of disease.
We’d succumb to sickness and die by degrees.
Finally we found it, a hidden emergency escape,
Behind a tall pile of boxes, wrapped in shining red tape.
The door opened easily, and we ran into the night,
But the handle I pushed, was buried in that black blight.
I knew you’d not listen, if I’d told you that first,
But I needed you to hear that I’ve avoided the worst.
I washed my hands soon after, and scrubbed the black off.
There’s no sign I’m dying, I’ve just got this cough.
The stacks are quiet towers now,
They spew smoke and soot no more.
The boilers, cracked and empty, are cold
The product line is a pile of unfinished pieces.
Once the foremen shouted for more,
The workers would sweat and run.
Fires like volcanic fissures burning their faces.
An overture of deafening clangs and hisses.
The people in the streets and the stores would buy.
They bought their livlihoods. They bought their distractions.
The people that sold to them
Told them how much they needed those things.
But people aren’t always fools.
They got angry. They didn’t like what they bought.
The distractions would last minutes. The necessities; hours.
They would not buy what would not last.
The sellers insisted “You’re using them wrong,”
“The new one is better, we’ve fixed it all.”
The lies were obvious, the product failed.
The people stopped buying.
And now the wind whistles through dusty vents,
Spider webs hang from rusted chains,
A single office chair in the middle of a sagging room
Twists toward a broken window,
Where the hundreds of other silent stacks
Touch the sky.
You can feel it.
Your eyes swing back and forth,
Looking for the trouble, looking for the shadow.
It’s all cloudy, fog filled thoughts.
Ambition reaches out in all directions,
And finds nothing.
Touching, switching, moving,
Where are you going?
If you felt it before, now you know what it is,
If you don’t, you’re terrified.
Death? Tumor? Gas?
It hurts, but it doesn’t,
You’re scared, but you’re angry
Or maybe not.
What are you?
The pit is coming. The cliff crumbling closer.
It would be easier to jump and ride the worst of it.
But you don’t know which way.
You’re sick, but you can’t throw up.
Your joint is stiff, but it won’t crack.
Your lungs suck in, but you can’t breath.
When will it be over?
Can’t feel it start…
You only know when it’s over.
To be young, to wonder at the world,
(Pogo stick and ray gun adventure.)
To see it all in an unformed mind
(C:/>cd games, C:/games/>dir/p)
To grow up slowly, to learn what they told me,
(Pick a side, build your base)
To form my habits, and be made to play outside
(Sandblaster, Boris is always right there)
To be opinionated, to know the world,
(Action – Attack – Soldier)
To believe that the world works simply, and for you
(Avoid the police, new paint job is anonymity)
To be exposed to it all, to feel heartache and lonliness
(Aim for the head, conserve your ammunition)
To realize you never knew what you really wanted
(Crawling across the catwalks, incoming transmission)
To slowly wake up to what needs doing, responsibilities rise,
(Do not be detected, defend the truth)
To take action and make your own way,
(Lightning from your fingertips, an ocean above)
To find my love and friends anew,
(Defend the galaxy, gain your team’s trust)
To marry her, and come back home
(Evil rises as one, the heavens shall tremble)
If you’ve stumbled on this site within hours of this post, I’ve not the faintest clue as to why you would.
As to where you find yourself, I can offer some insight.
Upon this spot you will find a beginning. It’s new, it’s blank, and nobody but those who already know me has any idea what may rise.
Expect political rants and epic poetry. Expect random thoughts and contemplation worthy concepts. If you do not think about what may be, what definitely is, or what isn’t, I hope I can stir something within you.
Bookmark this page. Visit it every other week. If nothing becomes of it, I’ve failed you and I will apologize.
But if something DOES appear, I hope you will be impressed and grateful you did find this place.