Pushed

All I wanted was a front row seat in what feels like a war and looks nothing like it.  I keep reciting the procedure and double and triple checking equipment, and in the mean seconds ticking by the pilot is sweating marbles trying to keep our helicopter away from flak and small arms fire and the occasional rocket, circling where I need to land once I jump off of the side.  I'm sweating too fearful of what happens after I step out into thin air, but I know what happens.  There's nothing to be afraid of.

Walking into my apartment after getting groceries the long fingered man with the reading glasses glances up and turns around and taps the only skin on his arm not flayed away where a watch was.  Time is of the essence.  I know.  There is not much time to waste.  I know, I know, I know.  Where are you going?  Out, don't follow me.  You forgot your wallet.  Thank you.

I suppose, a sort of writer's block for persons who don't get writer's block?

Consider this your gentle, two palmed, straight armed shove.  You know what has to be done.  Pull the trigger.

I worry sometimes that it won't make sense.  I worry now if it's not good.  If the entire pursuit has been a waste.  Why poetry?  What is locking up inside you?  It's nothing.  Absolutely nothing and you know it.  Don't be afraid, you've just had your eyes closed for a few months.  Listening to the air and the land and space and people eating each other alive and giving birth and dying and sleeping and breathing and talking and talking and it's not so bad if you'd only open your eyes standing on the ledge of the gunship.  Make sense out of chaos.  Or chaos out of chaos.  Make sense of it later.  Every thought lost to time is one less beacon, one less point of reference, one less story, one less epic, one less chapter, one less relationship you could have brought into this world from your travels.  One less love.  Do it for you.  Do it because you can love you and that's where it all starts.  Come clapping toward the bright pink smoke flare while the shells fly.  I'll be back to pick you up sooner than you have time to think to ask "where did you go?"




///Sylvan Esso - "Hey Mami"    higher resolution

That Instant

it blossoms that you're too drunk to fish, too drunk to drive, and too drunk to masturbate, but just drunk enough to sleep like a new born.

Dear (_____)

Dear Electronics Websites,

Can we all just agree that a skin for a product that happens to have circuits and wires and batteries inside it is not an electronic product.   Here's a revolutionary idea: when customers are sifting through your offerings just make a separate tab and call it "skins."  The people looking for skins will know where to go and the people looking for low cost, practical, headphones won't blow their brains out scrolling through 400 different skins to put on the back of their phone case's phone case.

A skin is not an electronic device!

Colonel Gentleman

Colonel Gentleman's list of things that belong in a flaming trashcan:

1: work gloves that I paid good money for that don't protect my hands from dick.
2: tear free shampoos.
3: Justin Beiber.
4: toeless socks.
5: erasable pens.
6: liquors tailored to people who do not like the taste of liquor.
7: people who do not like the taste of liquor and drink it anyway.  You're ruining the market for everyone else.
8: light beers.
9: 36% of Major League Baseball's teams.
10: band aids with impossible packaging.

Breaking the Horse

Sometimes it feels as though I can do no right.  What happened in my past lives to be cursed so?  I lost a cat yesterday.  I gave him everything he wanted.  I gave him everything he needed and then some.  It makes no sense.  I can still feel him.  I can still see bits of him in my vision.  I can still smell him.  His ears smelled like french toast sometimes.  He was only about two years old.  I have to remind myself that I didn't kill him.  I wonder if I did perhaps by accident.  I flushed my fish down the toilet a while back, but that was because I shouldn't have had them to begin with.

I thought I did pretty good with him.  He was my chief officer on board my ship.  The other guy was my first mate.  The first mate has been promoted.  I'm sure he didn't want to get his promotion that way.  He keeps meowing constantly to call up the deceased.  He doesn't understand that our chief officer is gone for good.  I kind of don't understand it either.  As soon as I touched him I knew he wasn't just sleeping.  He was my cooking buddy.  I'd meet him in the mess hall to talk about our course and how to squeeze a little more oomf out of the engines.  He was my napping buddy too.  My sleep in pal.  He'd lay on my phone so I wouldn't have to hear it.

No, no, no, sweetie.  Come back to me.  I need you!  My first mate needs you too.  We had a good crew.  Was the music too loud?  Was the bass too heavy?  Did I not keep the temperature high enough?  I couldn't turn it up any higher.  It made my nose bleed too much.  What did I screw up?  Who's going to wake me up in the morning now?

I thought about burning his body for a very long time.  Give him up to the air and the stars.  I'm giving him back to the city instead.  It's where he came from.  If I gave him to the stars, he wouldn't know what to do with himself.  I am from there.  He is not.  He'll be home.  I am glad our paths crossed.  I do not know how to explain it to my first mate.  If I spoke cat, I might be able to.  I'm not sad.  I am angry.  Why didn't you tell me?  Did you?  Did I kill you?  Involuntary manslaughter? Agent 001 Jack: K.I.A.,  Mr. Morton codename "Lauren": K.I.A., Chief Officer Torus: K.I.A., First Mate Boots "Hatswitch" Mustachio: T.B.D.

I am happy though.  One of the last things I remember doing with him is letting him climb up my jean leg and hook his claws into my hoodie all the way up my back so he could get a good perch on my shoulder and ride around up there while I walked through the ship and pointed out the things he liked to sit on from the view of his colossus.  We were a fabulous team.  I thought we'd have more time to enjoy our voyage.  He loved to sit in my lap while I wrote in my notebooks.  He'd rub his face on the corners of the pages and make little wet nose prints on the backs of my hands and the paper.

Each week, each month, each year, I am trying to break the horse.  I am trying to break myself and exercise control better than I did the year, the month, the week, before.  Sometimes with success.  Sometimes with failure.  Some of the voices scream "somebody has to pay!!!"  It is unreasonable.  It is irrational.  I want to cut you open so badly.  I want to hook my hand into your mouth and press my fingertips underneath your tongue until the break through the skin behind your chin and rip as hard as I can and hear the sucking pop of your jaw breaking away from the rest of your skull and listen to you drown bleeding into your own esophagus.  Somebody has to pay.  I am trying to break that horse.  I am trying not to hurt myself to show you what we want from you.

Happiness is fleeting.  Pain endures.  Pain is infectious as is happiness.  I am not broken.  I am tired of dealing with death.  The horseman that rides with me.  Our ghost army behind us.  Having to continually modify not by choice, but necessity.

I know I have to use my words more.  Not just more, but with greater frequency.  I have to use art more to break the locks and the seizing to escape the killing fields.  I have to pay more respect to the blast radius and recognize that it is not a game and if I take it too lightly, if I lull myself into believing it will sort itself out without careful and constant monitoring I will wake up too late and infection will spread far and wide defeating the entire purpose of closing the cycle of violence began a generation before my birth.  I am trying to break myself.  I am trying to limit myself.  Meta-jail is real and I have to do my part too.  You are there for a reason.  You can manufacture happiness.  The children are always present, do not listen to them, no matter what they say.  While you've been ignoring it, the factory floor has been busy and now coming to that basement and seeing the stockpiles of things you only imagined existed my heart falls.  Where the hell were you when the furnace fired again?  Where the hell were you when the new blueprints were spread out and the flywheels started turning again?  I tried.  Try harder!  This is not a game!

It is good that some mobility has been lost.  There are those you cannot reach and it is good.  It is important.  Remember why you laugh, jackal.  The freedoms you have were hard won, do not give them up easily.  Do not give them up lazily.  Take time.  We have been patient and we will not shed it.  A crew of two instead of three may not be so bad a thing as you imagine.  The first mate will adjust and embrace his promotion, regardless of how it came about.  Know that, do not say it, know it.  You did not skin him.  You do not wear him.  He will be remembered.  Bury the tools and keep an eye on us.  I will.  Somebody has to pay, but not today.

I took a long walk around the city.  A very long walk.  Control rage.  You were born.  Get over it.  I was born on the twenty second of April in nineteen eighty five.  Remember what you are doing.  I was born into conflict.  I was born into violence.  I was born into love too.  I was born onto a battlefield not of my own making and that is okay.  That is alright.  We learned, we grew, we got stronger, we learned how to kill and how to eat, how to feed ourselves, how to breath, how to hide, how to fight, how to see in the dark, how to trap, how to sleep, we learned and we grew.  We learned our genealogy was a lost cause and our history before our time will never be mapped.  We figured out the tree was a hangman's and the damage was already done well before we opened our eyes for the first time on Staten Island.  We understood hunger and the sound of an empty stomach and the shiver.  Do not forget the mission.  Lay a road map for those that are coming after you are gone.  Do not forget what it is you must fulfill.  Even though your heart is kind of small you were built for something more.  Embrace it.  Learn the truth and love your life because you only get one shot at it.

Your shipmates will help you.  Your inmates.  Your internees.  They will help you along the expedition through space and time.  They are part of the fold, jackal.  Use the words, not the weapons.  The child will come and go.  Supernature is simply part of the spectrum you were born with.  They are not demons or angels or phantoms and errors.  They are not only that, please stop crying sweetheart.  You will die and you will take all of them with you and they will be gone for good too.  That's okay.  I don't know if Torus saw them too.  I don't know if he felt them.  I kissed him before I let him go.  I rubbed his fur into my nostrils and ate some of his whiskers before I put him back in the trash where he came from.  I hope you're happy you disparaged him saying he came from a dumpster.  Pluto used to be a planet.  We want to name a constellation after him.

I dislike my bad wiring so much.  I know I cannot increase my strength, my power.  I cannot be allowed to break down the electrified fences and razor wire atop.  I cannot let it go.  I cannot be allowed to make more money, it will turn into more combustion chambers, more cylinders, more lead, more trigger mechanisms, sights, and chemicals.  More wires, dead man switches, boxes of nails and washers, nitrogen, ammonia, and springs.  More casings and pellets and carpet knives.  Bang on the left ear so it all falls out of the right ear.  With greater knowledge comes greater responsibility and I am not sure I am to the task.  We absolutely are.  For the love of God, get the hell away from me.

Who massages your shoulders?  Who plucks your eyelashes?  Who sets your makeup?  One gold tooth.  Break that horse.  Change those shoes.  Wash those gloves.  I need more power.  No, you don't.  I do!  NO YOU DO NOT!  Imagine the kingdom we could have.  No.  Do not lie to me.  I am not lying.

I definitely wanted to become a musician.  A composer.  A librarian.  To get lost in the stacks and get paid for it because alphabetical order never lies.  Growing up, so many have lied to me.  Washing dishes and playing the bubbles like a battlefield always put a smile on my face until standing on a milk crate on Brighton Avenue I heard them screaming at each other and I tried to wiggle my ears to remind them that I was standing there and they started to say he's listening and they took it upstairs, but I could still hear them.  My nose is running again.  No blood though, that's good.  I haven't pissed blood in a while and that's good too.  I know how it ends, I do.  I am halfway home.  Remind ourselves not to do anything stupid.  Remind ourselves the visions are just that, visions only.

Time will fly and before we know it we'll be polishing my skull and looking at the healed fractures and running our fingertips over them like welds on an engine block trying to reverse engineer the forces and machines and hands that made them.  Do you have a torque wrench?  A shoeing hammer?  An arc welder will do in a pinch.  A continuous retrofitting.  We were built for a war, but the war is over.  It is not.  We were built in war time and repurposed.  Built not to feel.  Built to not need to see.   I got out.  I got out.  The horse must be broken.  Distance must be kept.  Do not lose heart.  Finish the deal.

Enjoy the view from the edge of the arm of the Milky Way and do not curse Sol or Terra.  Aboard the ship we are secure and secured.  Take care of the equipment and don't stay long.  Coexist.  Someday you too will shut down, but understand there are many paths to that end and much to be explored before the channels go dead.  Do not forget where you came from, do not be consumed by where you're going.  I am not broken.




///Chairlift - "Guilty As Charged"   ...footprints on the carpet....go on and punish me...

///El-P & Killer Mike - "Early"

Stresses and Stressors and Life On My Tardis

Life is stressful and full of stressors.  That's not news to anyone.  Time is money and money can be converted into time.  The time it takes you to read this is time you could've spent making money.  Or maybe it is time you are spending making money.  Getting paid to read blogs.  Or maybe getting paid to do something, anything, besides read blogs.  Shame on you.  The time it takes to write this could have been spent working as a dishwasher at Eat n' Park.  Or could've been spent getting shopping carts at Kmart and trying not to completely lose it and burn the place to the ground.

Life has many different stresses to it.  Some of those stresses are more intense than others.  Just about all of those stresses demand some sort of relief, some sort of answer, and you can only ignore the bell for so long before they break in and tear you to pieces and sack your fortress and leaving nothing more than a few shreds of clothing and broken cookware and a few charred pages in their wake.  You have to answer the bell.  Eventually.  It's critical to your survival.

The sad part is, in order to answer those stresses, you have to introduce stressors.  Jobs, tasks, relationships, a stressor is anything you take on, voluntarily or not, to help alleviate the stresses, the ambient tensions of your existence, of being alive in a shared world.  If the world were not shared.  If the world were entirely yours, there would be a single bridge.  A single leap from stresses to peace.  A back and forth street, a channel, two lanes wide, and perfect. However, it is a shared world.  There is no single leap and there never will be.

To achieve any sort of relief from stresses you must introduce or have already introduced stressors.  Stressors which often times do introduce stresses of their own.  The channel becomes layered denser and denser with lanes upon lanes of tasks and responses all in the name of achieving a peaceful state or a state of greater fluidity and less tension than what your own ambience, your own existence, demands by the fact that you are alive and breathing and as such will not remain so in an entropic universe.  By the way, did you ever see Tropic Thunder?  Hilarious movie.  I highly recommend you watch it if you haven't seen it.  Came out a while ago.  Should be available for rental or something by now.  Robert Downey Jr's in it.  Tom Cruise to.  Surprisingly good.

Anyway, it's truly mystifying sometimes when you step back and look at and draw the circuit board, the ridiculous interstate  highway map of what you have to do just to feel good, normal, and whole, on this shared planet, in this country, in your state, in your city where you call yourself a citizen.  It's troubling sometimes.  From the time you are alone as a child until the time you die, so much of your energy will be spent on trying to return your state to a single bridge.  Return to the two channel direct connection.  The single bridge.  It's amazing the damage adding a single extra link, one more node, to the graph does.

Time is money and money is time, so let's move this thing forward.  I get that time is money, but I also get that what America values my time at is not what I value my time at.  I have precious little of it, not because I'm particularly busy, but because it is very difficult at times to function on a, for lack of a better term, "normal" level.  A level normative to my peers and expectations of someone my approximate age, build, and general intelligence.  My head wears out very quickly and I have to rest and gain space to gather myself before re-engaging.  I don't blame mental disorder as much as it's part of how I function and maintain myself now.  It's not something distinct of myself, it's incorporated [really, it's only a matter of perspective, part of yourself, outside yourself, what difference does it make from the outside observer looking in?  Very little.  The only difference looking in from the outside is viewing it one way sounds like you make "convenient" excuses when you do not perform and looking at it the other way sounds like you are a person who is unreliable and irresponsible and maladjusted, but you try to work on yourself.  "Attaboy, chap!  If you work hard enough you'll get there."  Eat me.].

At any rate, the way I understand it is spending your time allows you to convert it into money which you can use to purchase things you may need or want, things you would never have the time to learn how to make, gather materials, and then produce on your own.  The question is the conversion rate.  If the fastest I can convert time into money is a certain figure per hour, it will cost a certain amount of time to get X or Y thing, necessary or not.  Then the question becomes how much time will it cost to maintain X or Y thing at that time to money conversion rate.

With all of the time being drawn out of you, how much time is going to be left for simply living.  Will you spend most of your "free" time recovering from work so that you can go back to work so that you can keep X or Y thing you thought you needed or wanted?  How fast is that going to kill you.  How much stress is that stressor going to introduce and are there enough channels flowing back to ever break the loop long enough to have time to feel whole?  My time is worth more than the conversion rate offered.  I'll do without, thank you.  If my conversion rate changes, I will reconsider.  Until it does I am happy maintaining what I have, where I am, keeping the channels as simple as possible so that I do have time to enjoy life and write and breath and sleep.  I get it, the more money you make the "better" your life will be near the end.  I am sorry.  My mind will not work that way.  I wish many nights and days that it did.  That it functioned properly and reliably and all of the other words that make an effective and productive, ever climbing upward, American.  It doesn't.  I won't get to enjoy that.  I won't get to see that.  But hey, I could always win the lottery or something.  Wouldn't that be a gas.

Life on my Tardis is pretty okay.  Often times when I do manage to save up money and get near the cusp of making a capital improvement to my life or my ship, something breaks.  I laugh saying it because it's happened so many times it feels nearly inevitable, to the point where whenever I save up any significant amount of money I start to get anxious and wondered what the ship is going to pull out of it's hat next.  I sometimes think the answer may be a credit card, but after being buried by student loans that turned out to be all for nought I refuse to live beyond my means.  No credit cards unless they're already paid for, in which case they're not really credit cards are they?  I still have never owned a credit card and I'm damn near 30.  I had a Target card back in the day, but I think we all know that doesn't really count.  Besides, that ended in utter disaster too.  I will not do it.  If you have to make payments on something, you probably shouldn't have it right now.  Simple as that.  Of course that also leaves no space for emergencies and heaven knows there have been emergencies aboard my ship.  Gross injuries to my musculoskeletal system as wheel.  Pretty sure I still have a torn ligament in my thumb and being uninsured, that range of motion is just going to be gone by the time it heals on its own.  "You should have gone to the hospital!"  Yeah, right.  Of course.  It's a part of my life I've kind of resigned myself to.  As fast as I can improve and repair things is just as fast as they'll break and splinter and burn up and fizzle out.  Life aboard my Tardis.  One step ahead of the fire, but boy it would be nice to be a couple more steps ahead, or even a block away would be swell.

What day is it?  Sunday, 6 P.M.  Are you sure?  Yeah.  No.  Wait a minute, it's 6 A.M.!  What the hell happened?  It's Tuesday!?  What happened to Monday?  Weren't we supposed to be somewhere?  It's 6 P.M. on Tuesday.  Are you sure?  Well, okay.  We'll call them tomorrow morning at 6 A.M. and explain everything.  Yes, that will be Wednesday.  I'm pretty sure they don't want to hear it now.  What do you mean we're 5 miles from home.  This is a park bench?  Come on, man.  Get it together.  The Tardis will get you to any point in time or space within a 5 second 5 inch radius.  Except when it doesn't.



Bjork - "Enjoy (Dark Jedi Remix)"  There have been a lot of great reimaginings of Bjork's music.  This is one of my favorites of late.  So dark.  So playful.  So wonderfully and beautifully mechanically.

That Instant

you realize your coworker back in Queens at JFK airport while you were baristing at starbucks inside the international kiosk on the second floor of the terminal was hitting on you and not giving you occasional rides to work in her Tiburon for free.

The Best Thing

about outer space is that no one can hear you scream.

The other best thing, though,

no one can hear you howl either.

The Come Down (i know i cannot keep skirting)

I will try to keep this brief.  There is a lot on my heart and my focus, my eye focus is getting, cheap.  I will have to rebut this hard when my eye focus is getting better.


A story of betrayal.  Yan, ayn, yan yan, ayan,.   Let me do that better: yan yan yan,

Bad rehearsal.

Allow me to do that better.  Punching keys like putting a fist into water.

Blank faces.

Allow me to o that better.  It's funny to see my fingertips mashing things up into words because I cannot hit words into words by accident.

It's funnnnnnny to do that and well there should be a comma inside there but there isn't because that is just how it happens oh fuck!   Time's out for////  fpr what growing conscio0usiouts of, growing conscioutious of.....  growing consciouscious of ....  did i still not spell it right???? growing conscious of the spinny things?

This is the come down,  /'  Comining down off of cutting,  Coming down off of consciousness.  Coming down off fo consciousnesss.   Coming down off of consciousness and coming down off of mobility.  Coming down off of the abukuty to come at folks and understanding yhsy with coming at peoople.... coming at people requires a certain something out of you.  A certain something that I have shut off from myself that I do no and should never be turned onnn again no matter ther input.

Yes I am drunk, but no matter.

I can drive. There is no one I  can't ew

RIP RIP RIP RIP CANCEL

THERE IS NO ONE I CANT REACH.

I ALWAYS COME IN BLOOM.

Focus.

Focus.
















I always hate boundaries.

I fear for the day I forget them and who I will hurt when I do.

Imagining myself in court

attempting to explain my actions

and unable to scribe

reasonable doubt.

Thursday (explication of what came to be "I'll Come See You" the poem)

I don't know how you read it, but this is how I meant it.

Knock the slag off, with air piston jacked hammers.

When I kicked this off, the intent was to put something down in writing that was blunt force enough to make me need to go further to explain it because I know I do paint myself into corners, at least I feel that I do, to add clarity to what I say.  From that spark, the spark of shedding light, everything else developed.

Sitting on a crate opposite you
sitting on another,
printed in yellow block stencil
underneath, 98 mm high explosive x 75.

From that spark I imagined our meeting.  What I said before about knocking off slag with jack hammers was a reference to work.  From that reference, I immediately jumped into the warzone of language and how often times that is how I view my relationship with the world outside of me.  It really is a, put it on whatever scale you want to, some kind of war and this blog is a bit of a foxhole and we are literally sitting on our mental ammunition boxes. 

Underneath my ass 150 mm
aye pee
times 30.  My feet dangling like our cigarette's
smoke mingling on a windless afternoon.

This verse is kind of a wink and a nod because I do avoid actually smoking as much as possible, but I vape pretty hard.  The main thing about it though is that I am prone to large gauge action while most people are happy to work with suppressing fire.  My actions are much more leaned toward "kill them all in one sweep of gun barrel barking."  I can go accurate, but it is much more fun to swamp them in flames the way I have been.  Hence, the large gauge ammo underneath my bum and the smaller gauge, but still deadly, ammunition box underneath the interpolated.

The front is 220 miles out
East as the crow flies.
We will have to refuel
over the mediterranean
and I am looking forward to seeing
how you do it.

This is where we bring in the mechs and how the mechs will get to the front lines, where the action is happening and a short reference to how we wage ware once we get there.  This is a reference to the fact that what is about to happen is not new to either of us.  We know exactly where it is and what needs to be done to get there.  And also speaks to the fact that we have no problem with how the mission succeeds as long as it succeeds.

Our conversation has already broken down
into objectives and way points with a little
bet mixed in to the after action report.

This verse simply speakes to the fact that we've been there before.  Our conversation does not need to be enumerated here, only indicated, hinted at, ellipsed.   We've done it so many times that the only thing that needs to be done is counting up how many people, targets, installations, were destroyed by the time we succeeded.

It is unfair
to where we land and to whom we mount against,
because they are not in on the game.

Again, this verse is a reference to the previous verse, assuming we both got back home after the operation safe and sound 

Us both waiting for the KA-CHUNK
of couplings leaving us in free fall
to where our bombardier's decided
we could do our best
against the populace.

This verse is a credit to the people who get us to the target zone and an acknowledgement that we do not neccessarily know who exactly it is we are going up against inside of our mechs, however.  However we have full faith that they, the pilots and/or controllers of our evening will not drop us into a situation that our equipment and skills directly related to our equipment cannot handle well, if not outright destroy them.

A little cheers of coffee.
A little double check of flight suits.
Is the mic where it needs to be?
Trial fit the helmet again
after a quadruple check;
be sure the reticle is in line.
Double check my nail polish
before the glove comes on.
Smash shoulders and opposing tattoos,
before the top of the flight suit
is zipped on.

This is an inside joke to a close friend who helped me tattoo myself.    It is part inside joke and part coffee joke.  "the best way to start your day" when you are going over your manifest for the day.  You know whatever it is that is required of your skills will take all of your skills and you have to be sure when the time comes to pull the trigger, that trigger cannot fail, take practice shots.

Finish the coffee, with pills in our mouths.
They will learn what we live for,
they will learn what is loud.

They will learn that you do need coffee and that you do live for challenges and that you do know what horrible drugs are and that you are not about it.

Our flights will be long.  I'll sleep inside the mech
along the way.  I don't know what happens to you
while we wait out the sandbox for play.
The thup thup thup thup thup thup
I can hear, because I never turn off
the audio input once I am strapped in.

We both understand how to get to the battlefield.  I don't understand how you are so calm.  I feel like you've been here before and I have not.

For me, it is a very long long long grin
to watch you work.  Guilty.

You know I have not been there before but youare looking forward to my struggling.

Watching, zone cleared against spear chuckers
who happened to have come into
a fushionable pile
and needed reckoning before
something terrible happened,
you break out a "grenade"
two tons strong and willing to-\
-/Christ, where is the pin?

A mixture of edge of tommorrow and starship troopers the book.  In Starship Troopers the book they had miniature nukes.  Miniature nukes could clear an entire area as long as they got clear. In edge of tomorrow the whole deal was differremt.  

Mech against mech.  Dust to dust.
Die another day.
Why can you not understand I do
feel the same?

This is myself, dropped onto this planet trying to stop you and yrtying to fighht you hardcore because what I would like to do is save everyone but I cannot.  What I would also like to do is kill everyone but I can also cannot.  I'm good with figthing you though.  I am good with where you RE COMING FROM.

Fire the shell in my mechanized palm
to fire it just that strong
and knock it four miles out
to change the time of day from moonlit to
high noon in a fire ball that could eat city blocks,
but she's in the air.  Fair.  But "what the f@#$?"

Apologies, but I turned the palm and the gun built in to accelerate  it against the what?  The elbow cannon that went off and blew the palm muzzle off to an odd degree shot it off toward the dark horrizon and it lit up like noon day.

Overkill.........  underneath your left foot,
underneath your left pedal inside your cockpit and
underneath you left foot outside your cockpit
you are grinding human flesh into a paste.  And now is
the fucking time.
Do you remember being small?  I do.
You don't get conscripted by chance.

Hearing him over the comm, realizing that the action he just did with the arm of his mech just required him to smush some people with the foot of his mech....

You find detonators.  You stumble upon detonators.
Land mines   Mines.  I've never met a land mine like you.

Me on the ground amongst the  flattened human beings trying to offer encouragement to my friend (the other pilot) while shaking my head at the damage he did without thinking about the power at his fingertips.

I will know how to move forward
regardless ,after you.
Everyone talks big.  Yack, yack, yak yak yak, waaaan.

Him trying to make another move and myself watching, back in my own mech while our communicators crackle and guns go boom.

Cruiser.  Angry.  There was someone else here.  I will find them, sonavubitch.  Fail.  My fault.    Reset.

Reset.

Reset.

Reset.

Me trying to wipe my memory and undo the entire operation in my head.  Each reset a muzzle flash.

Clutch in.  Match revs. Time to the light.  Gas pedal.  Clutch out.
Release brake.
Gas pedal down.

Slowly.

Burnout.

Me, over the comm link trying to coach him and failing, instead focusing on what I can do.  The work.