Jealousy

You smile at him as he lights your cigarette,
but you've seen the blood on his knuckles
that wasn't there before that night.
The blood summoned by his fist
punching the bathroom wall of the bar
instead of that man's face.
You see the blood and know
he loves you too much in the wrong way.

Aaron Molden

Humanity

Humanity's religion is greed and pride.
My religion is humanity, but not as it is.
It is a humanity I foolishly believe
we are capable of achieving.
I did not create this religion.
I believe I stand on the shoulders
of flawed and troubled genius's
whose disappointment with humanity
could not sway their love for it.
The shoulders of those tested for their beliefs
because they had no use for greed
and believed that pride is something earned,
not assumed.
The shoulders of those who would choose
a view of the mountains
over a one hundred dollar bill,
and would never believe anyone
should have to pay a premium for such a view.
There are legacies of pride.
There are legacies of greed.
There are legacies of those
who have found success in greed and pride,
but still remain unfulfilled.
Then there are the legacies left behind
by these genius's, whose shoulders
I feebly stand upon with these words,
that give me the ability to continue believing,
foolishly, in humanity.

Aaron C. Molden

Three Passages of Women

Wounded Woman
A wounded woman lays beside me,
my bed a station on a journey
through joy and despair
to seek something better.
She believes she is ruined,
but I adore her the way she is;
a blend of humane imperfection
and startling beauty.
She is depressed, as I am,
and I believe I understand
her melancholy in a way
I am aware of from seeing her,
but simply cannot explain in words.
She is in love with another
and this is okay.
It was enough for me
to lay beside her for awhile
and know, for a moment,
she was alright.

A Paragraph
 A very beautiful woman rests on her stomach on the floor next to her bed. She is copying passages from The Diary of Anais Nin. I do not know what volume it is, but she is writing very quickly in a state of rapturous lucidity. I stare at her from the couch, envious of her clearly focused joy. Her legs are crossed; they are mostly bare, toned, with a very natural tan. We are listening to electronic music that I understand, but do not recognize. The one thing I know is I will not go to bed with her tonight. This is probably the best choice for both of us, but I still want to. I want it enough to end a sentence in a preposition. She is going to bed and I am going to ride my bike home and write this down instead of only thinking about it, then letting it go. It seems significant considering the time and place and situation: well past two in the morning, in her bedroom, drinking and smoking and reading poetry to one another. She asks me if I want to smoke before I go. Marijuana. I tell her not tonight, not again. She sleeps with another man. I tell her good night and to sleep tight. When I get home, I am overcome with a moment of emptiness, utter loneliness; the natural progression of such things. It always eventually passes.

The Morning After
Stay with me in this bed
so free of adornment and conceit.
I do not know why you chose me.
I can only cherish it;
your skin so soft,
your hair so messy;
smelling of lilacs
and cigarette smoke.
The sunlight shines upon you
through a single window
in my second story apartment bedroom.
There is no reason to leave this bed;
we have covers,
we are both semi nude and the breeze
blows a fresh spring gale through the screen.
Meet me under the sleeping bag
I use as a comforter and kiss me,
our lips meeting yet another time.
And when you have tired
of such moments I will long for
until they are true again,
let's get breakfast.

Aaron C. Molden





.

Memory Cues in Times of Dissolution

You are laughing, lips stretched, plump cheeks
defining the curves of your mouth;
your pale blue eyes bashful and glinting.
You are crying, knees akimbo,
leaning against a building; your face swollen and red,
displaying a grief I could not halt
no matter what I said or did.
You are smoking a cigarette you do not want,
trying to think of something to say.
You are taking a picture with your phone.
You are filtering water from a mountain stream
that I would likely drink unfiltered; so cold
on that mild December day on the trail.
You are dancing with me; we hold each other closely.
You are dancing with someone else,
hands and fingers bent and wiggling
in a charming and naive way.
You are telling me to sit down next to you
when we were stopped by police officers;
I was trying to get you back to your room
so I could lay you down in your bed,
kiss you goodnight, go home and sleep well,
knowing you were safely home for the night;
you had drank too much that night
and your mind was full of desperate
and justifiable sorrow.
You are walking in lovely hiking boots
that stick out like a sore thumb
in juxtaposition to your jean shorts
and leggings and baggy tan sweater.
You are drawing, writing, reading,
because you are bored or you are with others
doing the same.
You are considering the menu
at a restaurant, biting your upper lip,
eyes down on the entrees on the page.
You are rolling your eyes at the things I am saying.
You are kissing my cheek as I talk to a friend.
You are ignoring me, though I am desperate
for your attention;
I would never say it, but I certainly wanted it.
You are choosing the song
you would like to hear on the jukebox.
You are watching a movie you love;
your facial expression changing
for a sad scene coming up
that you love and remember.
You are looking up at me, sitting
on the ground, on the wood floor
of the second story apartment
in a run down Victorian house on Ninth street,
at the party on the night I first laid eyes on you:
I feel, at least a little, the same way
I did when I first saw you,
every time I see you again.
You are saying goodbye again
at six in the morning; the sun is not yet
above the horizon.
Your eyes are sleepy and you are wearing
the shorts and loose tank top you wear as pajamas.
You are hugging me and I am squeezing you firmly,
holding onto you for as long as I could bear,
until I finally know I have to let go again.
You are walking towards me.
I see you, walk up to you, and pick you up
with my arms embraced under yours
and I spin you around in circles;
your legs are elevated from the ground
and stretched out by concentric velocity;
your leather boots the tips of a pinwheel
whirling around and around.
You are in my presence,
but most of the time you are somewhere else.

Aaron C. Molden    

8 Quotes, Both Real and Imagined

"The Pseudo-Modernist communicates constantly with the other side of the planet, yet needs to be told to eat his or her vegetables to be healthy, a fact self evident in the Bronze age. He or she can direct the course of national television programmes, but does not know how to make him or her something to eat -a characteristic fusion of the childish and the advanced, the powerful and the helpless."
-Dr. Allen King, PhD

"The psychological effects of literary anything that can happen to someone, be it traumatic or mundane, seem able to incite adverse results on nearly anyone, given they are in a specific state of mind at the time."
-Chet Brentman, Psychology Undergrad

"Humans, at their core, are fuckers, killers, liars, and assholes who trust the latter three, so long as they can live more comfortably because of them.
   What's messed up is that they're still capable of feats and feelings of love, devotion, and occasionally, self-sacrifice.
    Beyond that, depending on where they are in life, they are also capable of defeating their established bids of nobility with the temptations of fucking, killing, lying to, or trusting those who willfully lie to them, so long as the willful liar (or liars) make them feel comfortable enough not to react.
    It also helps if they are not quite comfortable enough to completely relax. Their fear and anxiety is abstract and possibly unknown within their conscious mind-frame. They imagine a vague threat when they are not otherwise preoccupied and try to imagine how to destroy that fear if it remains persistent."
-Stan the drunk, reaching lucidity at the bar

"I need the ecstasy of seeing your smiling face to maintain my day to day life."
-A person in love

"A pretentious person is an individual who judges another persons character based on their taste. It doesn't mean there isn't an ideal aesthetic. It means that the person does not know or care about aesthetics. And I assure you they will most likely know something to an extent beyond your knowledge, despite whether you care or not. You will care sometimes."
-An art history professor who bought you a drink

"A tile on my bathroom floor looks like Nebraska, but could that matter in the broad scope of things?"
-A person taking a shit without a smartphone

"I start tomorrow on the Paris book: first person, uncensored, formless -fuck everything!"
-Henry Miller

I grieve for all animal life I have killed. The scale ranges from 1 to 10, and these grievances have not stopped me from eating meat."
-Me

Aaron C. Molden

Artists

    I don't think I have ever learned about an artist without eventually discovering that they are or were, by definition, "stubborn" about their work.
    I understand that because, for the most part, people don't give a shit. And artists, ever more so from day to day, as things we perceive continue to accelerate, must try to conceive, to build, to make someone stop and look and stare and read what the artist has made in order to make it worthwhile for the viewer to stay awhile, possibly with: coffee, beer, soda, punch, popcorn, wine and cheese, sour batch kids, etc. Esoteric mini pancakes.
    It's really hard to explain that to someone looking up from their complimentary grapes and Gouda, wishing only that a football game was on in front of them. It's also conceited, but possibly unavoidable. It's an expectant ego that manifests itself in the act of making, but broods pensively in presentation.
    I've heard a lot of people describe artist by saying "they do what they love." That is bullshit. The most unnecessary pain that ails an artist is their art. It's not love. It is a cathartic expression of their belief that they need to continue what they are are doing, and fuck all, if it doesn't feel good to breakthrough to ecstasy and epiphany with what they eventually make. There is nothing I have discovered in this life, outside of possibly a good orgasm or a perfectly cooked scallop, that is better for connecting with humanity.
    Well, except maybe music.
    Artist's do not suffer. Well, they do suffer, but not constantly. They endure, despite health, social norms, financial situations, lack of modern comforts (both nearly essential and superfluous.)
    A lot of them become famous after they die. It's because they never had an agent. This sucks, because an artist without an agent is usually a goldmine after they are dead.
    I have no explanation for this, only examples:
    Vincent Van Gogh is an easy one.  
    Henry Darger is a queasy one.

Aaron C. Molden    

She

She runs through my mind like a saw blade,
cutting up lyrical thoughts of prose
into short outbursts of vulgarity.
She was never truly mine,
but this does not stop me from seeking her out;
sometimes overtly and sometimes with restraint.
She is not beautiful, for the word beautiful
carries too much an air of cliche.
She is vital, and she is flawed.

We are all flawed,
and this lesson I learned painfully.
It taught me a lesson I would not soon forget.

Despite how often I try to play it cool,
when I am with her
(when I am so blessed to be near her)
I suspect she knows exactly how I feel
about her. Let's not call it love.
Let's call it, at least, mild rapture.
This both terrifies me and exhilarates me.
I miss her, for she is so far away:
geographically, psychologically, physically,
but still within eye's snatch of a screen shot.
She is both a woman and a kinetic starburst
to me.

She has a favorite book that I do not like,
even though I tried to read it
before I had ever met her.
I tried to read it again. I still do not like it.
Some thing about Brit Lit doesn't fit me.

She has a more interesting occupation
than I do. I pay attention to that
because it is always genuinely interesting
to hear about. It is a way to get a glimpse
of someone's life; how they are living.
It is why I like singer-songwriters.
It can be like hearing a Neil Young
or Elliot Smith or Tori Amos
or Bruce Springsteen...
this could go on for awhile,
so I'll cut to the chase...
Leonard Cohen or Bob Dylan song.

I want her to see the movie
The Red Shoes, directed by Emeric Pressburger.
I want to see her face as she watches
the final dance sequence.

I don't know if she likes the band.
I wish she were here now so I could dance with her.

"See the man up there with the stage fright,
just standin' up there giving it all his might.
He got caught in the spotlight,
but when they get to they end
he wants to start all over again."
-Rick Danko

Off topic:
I'm not worried about insects evolving
and eventually rising up against humanity,
the way Heinlein speculated in Starship Troopers
or Vollman did in You Bright and Risen Angels,
because, I figure, for how long humans
have been luring insects to their deaths
using the temptation of light,
by now, the insects would have developed
a religion that warns against that temptation
in order to truly become a threat to
modern humanity.
By my understanding, the complete overthrow
of a global or semi-global status quot,
takes, at the bare minimum, at least 2,500 years.
Twenty five hundred is how I would say it,
speaking this tangent to her;
hoping I wouldn't be met with her blank stare.
We don't see eye to eye on some things.
It makes this tangent glaringly pointless,
but I would never erase it.
In fact, I don't think I can.

I listen to Joni Mitchell and think
about the last time I danced with her.
As of now, it is still enough
to keep from embarrassing myself
in front of my self.

This is why I write:
to excuse myself by owning a dictionary.

We both think about suicide
in both a rational and academic way,
and an irrational and emotional way.
It's an existential portal to the core
of someone's mind.
I gravitate towards this thought,
healthy or not.
Seeing her activates an impulse within me
that I sometimes cannot control.
She can be, at most, ecstasy
and I can't shake that.

I am always hoping she is well,
unless she finds a way to hurt me
in a nearly complete way.
I lick my wounds
until they do not hurt anymore.
Then, I find her again.

Aaron C. Molden

Decline

This is America.
We do not live within the context
of daily tragedy
like a lot of the rest of the world
we occupy as a nation.
The necessity to strive for survival
gives way to the boredom and pathos
of excess thought process:
a beautiful gateway to consumerism
as holy,
so long as your local storefronts
and digital screens
continue to provide
new and interesting distractions.
I write this knowing I am,
and will be, guilty of such distractions
from time to time...
Sometimes more than I wish.
We are allowed to dwell on tragedy;
we analyze it and absorb it
deep within our skin,
sinew, muscle, bones, organs, mind.
Such benefits of thought render us
invalid in our reaction time.
When my reaction time exceeds
the average American
I begin to worry.
I worry.

Aaron C. Molden

The Abortion

    She decided to have the abortion.
    When she first found out she was pregnant the only thing she understood was that she was unsure how to proceed. For the first two and half decades of her life she never imagined that she might want to be a mother. Now, she was unsure.
     After she graduated from college, she found a job a an administrative assistant at a clothing company she followed in a New York fashion magazine she had been subscribed to since she was in high school. She came from a modest, but lively Midwestern town. At an early age she would have already known this position was nothing short of a dream job. She would be in the fashion industry.
    She had always been a pretty girl and she made sure, as soon as she understood it would be to her advantage, that she would always be prettier; more attractive to both men and women, if she was conscious and discerning of what she wore. For as long as her friends could remember, when she saw something in a catalog or magazine or in a department or thrift store and she truly believed it, she would tell them how good they would look in it. "You have to try this on."
    Can't you see? It was a dream job.
    She put up with a lot of shit her first year at the company. She put up with it with a smile on her face for the first few months, but eventually she started to give shit back. She also gave her opinions and her ideas about fashion to people she respected, as well as, people she did not agree with. Someone from the company noticed and was impressed. Within a year she was hired on as a fashion agent. She and several others had a collective budget for research and development. She understood that fashion was never finished and, at her age, she was very happy this was true.
    There were always men around (there always are) who would make advances: old industry creeps, mail-boys, corporate men, moody man-boys in the copy writing and creative department, etc. She had sex with some of them when the loneliness of being by herself another night seemed unbearable. Some of them were just friends though, and she would spend the night with them, laying in her sweatpants; they would talk as they would hold her in their arms; both men and women she knew and loved.
    Those nights where we must not be alone.
    She loved many of them, if only for a time, but she required herself to be eventually disappointed with the relationships at least 50% of the time. The other 50% were banked in her mind for longing when she needed it.
    With this mindset she met him. He was smart, but not overly arrogant. He was attractive, but not overtly narcissistic; this would later manifest itself more apparently when he revealed his true life goals which did not involve her. He was bookish, but still faintly athletic, with enough muscle structure to make her believe he could be a model if he tried a little harder; for some reason she was glad he didn't try harder. He cared about the things he wore (of course, for he was in R and D, as well), but had a hard time flat out admitting it. He remembered being a know-it-all when he was younger, so he tried to fight the urge as an adult; sometimes he failed at this. He apologized when he was wrong, always hoping to make amends, earnestly, for the mistakes he made.
    She told him she was pregnant with their baby.
    "What should we do?"
    "I don't know."
    There was a long silence. He had his head down and she pensively ran her fingers through her long brown hair. She was looking out the window of her small Brooklyn apartment.
    "You should get an abortion."
    This surprised her; his blunt statement. He was the only suitor she could honestly remember thinking I could have this man's child, and after just a short thought, he believed she shouldn't. He couldn't.
    She said "I need to think about it."
    She decided to have the abortion. He paid for it and held her and kissed her after they left the clinic. She cried into his shoulder. "I don't if I can take how I feel right now." she said, her voice muffled in his shirt sleeve.
    "You're going to be alright." He said earnestly. "I'll be here for you." It's not that he didn't want to have children. It's not that he didn't want to have children with her. It was simply too soon. As talented as they both were (she was an agent and he was a field photographer for the fashion company) it would have been nonsense for them to give up on their dreams.
    She suddenly felt flush with a white hot rage within her. "Why would we have to give up on our dreams." She screamed as she pushed him away from her. She punched him in the chest with as much force as she could muster at the time. It did not hurt him, but he knew she meant it. "Tears began streaming down her face. "We could have been a team. We didn't have to give up anything, you asshole. We just would have had to adapt."
    He put his head down and clenched his forehead with his fingers.
    She looked at him with his head down. "Despite what you may think about this relationship, we are not together. I can't be with you after this."
    He looked up at her.
    "I thought I loved you, but I was wrong."
    She found a better job at the same magazine she had been subscribed since she was in high school. Before she found out she was pregnant, she had sent her personal portfolio of recreational fashion writing to the magazine and they turned out to be impressed. "The way you describe these printed pencil skirts is divine." The slender woman with solid white hair, all black pant suit, and thick rimmed glasses with circular lens announced as she sat in her office. "It's as if I'm seeing them myself, or better yet, wearing them."
    She was offered the new writing job after the abortion and she took it. She eventually became head writer. After that, eventually, editor in chief.
    She got married. Or she didn't.
    I wrote this story.
    It's not the worst thing she regrets, but it haunts her from time to time.
    It haunts him sometimes, too.
    After she started writing professionally they never saw each other again.

Aaron C. Molden

Free Speech

Banning what one can write or say
will never ban what one can think.
Thinking is inevitable
and it only hurts those
who do not understand.
that the words they so recently
read or heard
are just that: words, ideas.
Everyone of us
has everything we are capable of
within us, somewhere.
Guilt is the plight of the self-aware,
the human.
This is a burden as well as a skill.
And it is not the definition of smart.
It is the definition of aware.

Aaron C. Molden

In The Canopy

In the canopy, the city disappears
beneath the trees.
The low hum of the cars on the highway
can be heard through the rustle of the leaves.
Thankfully, facing south,
they are not seen from the canopy.
The wind is persistent
in it's general flux in direction.
Swinging this way and that.
The tree branches move;
the inconsistent, but gentle lull
of your mother's arms.
It is lovely in the canopy.
I don't think I could have picked a better home;
fourth branches up, here in the canopy.
It is so much higher
than anyone's home I know around here.
It is all branches and trees,
pastel flowers and leaves,
with a nice view of the river.
At night, I watch the stars burst
in the midnight sky,
wishing always
you were here with me.
Be well and know I am happy here
as I hope you are there.

Aaron C. Molden

Myself

Here I somethings you may not know about me:
    I have never thrown a decent birthday party, nor do I ever intend to unless it happens I want to cook a certain person something delicious. I'm simply not big on decorations.
    I do not give presents to people on specific dates very often, but I do dole them out regularly, sometimes even to strangers. Speaking of which, who wants a book by Bill Bryson? You will not be disappointed.
    I enjoy sitting on the floor. Much of the time I prefer it. It has a native feel to it anywhere you happened to be, except for maybe a swamp that is lacking a raised deck. Watery weeds are basically eels or snake if you can only feel them.
    I do not enjoy talking about sex all of the time. Although I do like talking about sex regularly, even to the point of vulgarity. It simply becomes tiresome and unoriginal if that is the only topic one seems able to address; similar to weather as a topic in a way.
    I do not believe a movie is over after you finish watching it for the first time. This is actually true of all story-telling. There are no new ideas, only variations in telling them in a new way.
    I value the virtue of mythology beyond entertaining people with stories that seem unreal and wholly fantastical.
    I am conscious of my use of prefixes and suffixes. I also am rather anal retentive about correct spelling, and am slightly anxious of my understanding of proper grammar. By contradiction, I rather enjoy receiving words from women I like that are intentionally misspelled due to coyness; etymologically speaking, it can makes me blush.
    Most of the time, I am okay with being alone. Many times, I prefer it. In nearly thirty years, not a thing has changed that. Some have tried to take that part of my mind away. It is not a good idea because so far -eventually or suddenly- it has only ended badly.
    I prefer biking over any other transport: then walking, then canoeing, then commuting, and lastly driving. I would say I hate driving, but in all actuality I do enjoy driving occasionally, so long as it is through at least a scenic forest or glen; mountains and oceans I particularly prize and horses always improve a view.
    People have the ability to hurt me on many levels, but that, as of yet, has failed to kill me. Some day I suppose. So far, so good.

Aaron C. Molden

Rainy Day

We are not allowed to choose who we love
even if we so desperately choose
to believe we can.
And sometimes it is hard to justify love
in an environment where God is a falsehood
or only an advertisement.
But love is still there, eternally.
Through the saturation of modern daily life
love still manages to appear,
with its meek and apprehensive face,
and shine down upon those who are mostly unaware
or at least pretend to be.
It's raining. It's been raining all day,
but the flowers are all out in full bloom.
Anyone who believes we are no longer affected
by the primordial muck that is true nature
is a fool. I know this because it is springtime
once again. It is a very beautiful and violent season
in our yearly cycle; truly an awakening of our senses.
I hold no sentimental thoughts for it,
but always appreciate it for its visceral gusto
of being, of once again growing
and again giving life to this eternal cycle
that I, as many, take for granted far too often.
This wet grass, these tulips and daffodils,
that broken birdhouse, the turquoise Mazda truck
rusting at the wheel well across the alley,
this notebook I am writing in; struggling
to keep flat in the wind that continues to blow
in a gentle, yet demanding way.
These chalk grey skies.
We know them and sometimes suspect
they will never go away.
Then, eventually, the sun shines once again.
Then, you find yourself encountering
the thing you need to encounter,
even if you didn't know you needed
to encounter it.
This is a sermon for the godless,
the flawed, the thoroughly human,
who do not know why they care, but still do.
Confusion is a virtue you can work with.

Aaron C. Molden

Chasing the Sunset

The simplest, yet greatest phenomenon I have had the pleasure to witness happened when I was traveling west with two women, who I love to this day and I will love eternally, in a Toyota Corolla. Due to the curvature of the Earth and the altitude of the Wyoming Badlands, the sunset seemed would never end. It was all glowing pinks and purples for longer than I ever imagined possible. In those glorious and sober moments I could not fathom a better place to be than in the back seat of that car, watching those two woman talk to each other, but unable to hear what they were saying. Through the wind shield that glorious skyline was the back drop to my utterly mundane, but absolutely beautifully shot silent film. We were chasing the sunset, and to this very day I believe we almost caught it.

Aaron C. Molden

Desperate Compliment

I love your smile and your head of hair the most.
It's such shallow things to dwell on.
God damn it.
I can only become religious
in describing your physical features.
You are angelic.
You are transcendent.
I know this because I make efforts
to avoid the metaphysical,
even when the odds are insurmountably
against me.
It is inevitable
Humans are nouns behind a reference desk
that is their own minds.
Woman saints in paint and sculpture
which left me rapt.
The Ecstasy of Saint Teresa
by Gian Lorenzo Bernini.
There you have it.
I sometimes view you as a work of art.
This is your skin (even with blemishes.)
This is your hair (even greasy or smokey
from cigarettes smoked at the bar.)
This is your body, draped in second hand clothes
(and it is so thrilling because all of my favorite
clothes were found at a thrift store)
in the sunlight I was so lucky to see you in...
And your lips.
Not necessarily how they look
(they are lovely to look at)
but more of how they feel against my own.
Conducive.
Sublime.
News Flash: you are not special in this world.
You are mostly insignificant.
You are important to me.
I don't know if this really matters,
but it matters to me in an very selfish way,
and it will always matter to me.
I am native to this land,
but this seems to rise above nativity.
Hello stranger.
It is always good to see you.
How are you?

Aaron C. Molden

Excess Brain

The Penurious nature of America.

Epicanthus: A small fold of skin sometimes covering the inner corner of the eye; as in Asian people.
Is my dictionary racist or simply anthropological?

Lafayette's Brain Against Boredom Society: building the best way we can here

Lafayette: Try Again

"East to the city. West to the college. A river runs through it."
-Kickapoo Scout

Fire from the Fringe.

And to the left, where strangely, no one seems to check, comes the call of the linesman: off sides. He is blind, but remains intuitively aware of the actions on the the football field. He is ignored as much else is.
Green Bay wins: 14 to 13.

37. There is something twisted and unsavory about this number. I like it.

F is the ugliest letter. It was not me who determined this. I merely experienced it, then understood.

Anomic Suicide: reflects an individual's moral confusion and lack of social direction, which is related to dramatic social and economic upheaval.

Peer into the void that is your thoughts when you are solitary; alone in your memories and imagination. Discover what you mind is capable of.
Do you fear this?
There. So far back there.
What did you find?

Wha Chu Want?

The American Civil War was defined by the colors of the troops' uniforms: blue and gray. Based on what I've learned about that war they should brown and red. I am not writing about uniforms or body paint. I am writing about mud and blood.
How lucky to be alive in this world.

A Dating Website Post:
Male seeking female. Over aware mind seeks spiritual oneness with another human being.
Note: also horny.

Craigslist Rant:
It's Orwellian how paranoid some people are about their children. I read an article about the pros and cons of taking your children sledding. I'm pretty sure one of the highlights of having a kid is taking them sledding... and you get to sled too.

Comparative Pop Music:
I used to love her, but that's all over now.
You're just somebody that I used to know.

List of things to do:
1. Make the world better
note: how?
2. Seek/attain proper nutrition
3. Rest/Recreation

Aaron C. Molden

Mutual Life Insurance

    The man woke to the sound of the alarm clock beeping and moaning in an electric shudder. The numbers glowed back at him in an illuminated green light: 5:30 A.M.
    He blinked, then sighed.
    Her arm was wrapped around his stomach.
    He looked over at her and took hold of her arm gently, setting it down on the comforter. She took a deep breath, then began to stir. "Go back to sleep.
    She turned in the  bed. "Have a good morning."
    He raised his arms upwards and stretched his muscles until they popped. "You too." He walked down the hall to his daughters room. The door was ajar and his daughter was snoring faintly in her new bed; her first bed that \was not a crib. She's growing up fast. Faster than he had expected.
    He walked downstairs to the kitchen to make coffee. While waiting for the boiling water to drip and filter into the coffee pot, he sat on the cabinet counter, in the bare fluorescent light above him, appreciating the patience of the process. He poured a cup of coffee into a mug that was in the cabinet. There was a teddy bear printed on the side of it. It read Key West. He took a sip, even though it was still to hot.
    He looked at a section of the newspaper he had saved from the former day; the crossword, half finished and in need of new assessment; Winkin, Blinkin, and _______.
    He rubbed his eyes.
    Nod.
    He turned on the hot water in the bathroom shower of the master bedroom.
    "Keep it down" She said Jeeringly from the bed.
    He let the hot water spray and drizzle over his face. He scrubbed the dead skin lingering on various parts of his body. He took a deep breath of steam and hot air, with it's lingering domestic fragrances of lilac and lye. She always bought lilac scented soap. He toweled himself off after the shower. He looked at himself in the bathroom mirror.
    The walk in closet also had a mirror. Silk. Red hounds tooth neck tie. His hands folding and cinching the noose. Thinking about the noose. Double Windsor .
    He stepped out into the bedroom fully dressed in suspenders and a tie.
    She was awake, staring at him from the bed. "You look fantastic."
    "Take a picture then." He tightened his tie. Noose. Thoughts of a noose.
    "Maybe I will"She said smiling. She had messy hair, smudged eyeliner, and drowsy eyes.
    "Go back to sleep." He walked back down the hallway to his daughter's room. He approached her bed and kissed her forehead. "Goodbye sweetie."
    He went downstairs and walked out the front door to his car. He had been doing this for two and a half weeks. Pretending. Pretending he was still employed; everything was as it always was. Stability. Family. Home.
    How to make it look like an accident for life insurance purposes. He tightened his tie in the car. A noose would not do. He started the car. He pulled out of the driveway. The train he waits to pass every day at the same time on his drive into work; what use to be work. He drove to the track 5 minutes earlier than usual. It was his secret route to work to avoid traffic. There was no other cars on the road. It was a longer route, but he could get there faster. He parked on the tracks and shut off his headlights. He waited for the inevitable.
    He thought, this better work and closed his eye.
    The warning lights began flashing. The guard rails on both sides of the track dropped. The trains whistle bellowed.
    This better work.

Aaron B. Molden

Night Encounter

    I was walking back from the bar. It was early, but the sun was already beneath the western horizon. The sidewalks were slick and shiny with black and grey ice; they were reflecting the yellow twinkle of the overhead street lights.
    I heard yelling on the street in front of me. It echoed off the dark houses and down the corridors of the ice capped alleyways.
    "Fucking bitch!"
    "Fuck you! Did you hear what I said?"
    A man slipped down the shadowy steps of the house, illuminated over with motion censor stoplights mounted to the facade of the almost-Victorian style home next to twelfth street.
    "This is all bull shit! Don't you come back here. My mom. My dad. My brother's will fuck you up."
    "Fuck me up! Fuck me up? Go ahead, fuck me up.
    I slowed my pace and stared, bewildered by the scene in front of me. The man who had fallen down the icy steps then turned to look at me. "Who are you?"
    I stopped. "No one."
    "Well mind your own fucking business."
    He walked off towards the river. I walked the other way.
    The next day, I read in the newspaper that a man had froze to death underneath the Columbia street bridge.

Aaron C. Molden

Gone Again

I woke up and found

her sleeping on the

mattress set out

in the front room.

All the floors in the house

are wood paneling,

except for the kitchen.

Contemplate the

logistics of this

reasoning.

She has a boyfriend

who is thousands

of miles away.

If she hadn't I

would have asked

her to sleep with

me in my bed,

only four hours

prior, when everyone

was trailing off towards

their bedrooms and

beds as quickly

as the could get there,

only an hour before

the sun would rise,

though none of us

would ever see it.

Gray skies

gray skies for days

gray skies for weeks.

Of course we were drinking

of course we were with

friends.

Of course.

I must have said good

night to her

because I know

I would never

allowed myself

not to.

In the morning

I found her still

sleeping on the

mattress.

I crouched down

by her head and

touched her shoulder.

"I have to go to work."

She grasped my hand.

"You should stay here."

She smiled.

She pulled my

hand to her cheek.

"Jesus, I'm going to

miss you."

"Visit me" she said.

"I will."

I kissed her forehead.

"Be safe."

I drove to work.

She got on a plane.

This is the truest

thing I have written

in a while.

This moment

cuts me the deepest.

No cum.

No cunt.

No matter.

The cum and the cunt can

come when they want.

After this,

my thoughts are on

tomorrow.