I am letters pecked out one by one

as they stream through the clutter

finding their way the mess of it all

yet revealing no imagined features

no hint of a smile furrowed brow

close your eyes you can't see me

open your mind I'm just words

understood comprehended felt

through the jumble that is you

below beneath objects observable

The light fell thin through the curtains. He sat at the desk. Pen in hand. Notebook scarred with false starts. His handwriting drifted, halted, shrank.

He wrote what he knew.

The green scarf she wore every winter, knotted wrong on purpose.

The smell of yeast on her wrists from bread she refused to buy.

The way her laugh came from deeper than her body should’ve held.

Clear enough. But not what he reached for.

He set the pen down. Rubbed the stiff joints of his fingers. Picked it up again.

Her face

He wrote the words. Crossed them out. Tried again.

cheekbones

eyes

lips

Then nothing. Nothing after. Words sitting, pretending to be answers.

He pressed harder. As if ink could pull her back. A color? brown. Or gray. Eyes he had kissed a hundred mornings. Eyes that weren’t here now.

He turned the page. Drew instead. A circle. Two dots. A line. A child’s face. He dropped the pen. Ashamed.

He thought memory would come when called. Loyal. But it staggered. Limped. Lied.

He shut his eyes. Tried to see her. Saw her body at the sink. Hands in water. Apples. Shoulders bent. Face gone. Always gone.

He opened his eyes. Blank page waiting.

The pen dug. Ink blotted dark.

I can’t see you anymore

The line stood alone. Black. Final.

She has become faceless.

He set the pen aside. Closed the journal and sat.

Staring.

Raised a hand. Touched his own face. Just to be sure.

You couldn’t understand. So you don’t. You think you do, but there isn’t an ability for you to. That would require a thought beyond you that withstands. Or perhaps it’s just me you can’t care for, beyond an “oh my god” as I vent.

I imagine you couldn’t imagine. Because if you could, and you could feel it and empathize, and yet still treat me the same, I’d have to assume you cruel. I don’t want to. I think you are sometimes. I don’t want to. I remember so many good moments. I don’t want to think I spent a year wrong, after so many years I’ve spent wrong.

But what would you care for what I’ve been through? It’s all some big joke. In how you speak about others using trauma you know I have faced. And I froze. And you stared. And I said nothing, weak as I was. And you said nothing, as insensitive as you were.

I’m not weak now. It took me a while, and many people’s interventions, but I realized what was happening. The cycle of abuse. Chains and circles and cycles and things I told you I didn’t want to ever repeat just to repeat them with you.

I know you think I’ve done something wrong, something worse. You don’t care what you’ve done. You’re quick to excuse whatever it could possibly be, because you have far too much going on, as you always do.

I hear you rant to the stronger version of me. the more disconnected and easily amused version of me. And I feel no sympathy for your experiences. Because you feel nothing for mine.

You never ask. So I never explain. You never apologize, so I never forgive you. You never care beyond yourself, so I don’t seek you out anymore.

I may be lonely, and ostracized at times. But I am no longer your puppet, and I am no longer a second skin to you with no mind of my own. That is healing. That is joy.

And it is unfathomably painful.

He slumbered and as he did he transported into the bowels of his sbconconcious or perhaps somewhere else entirely. He was in a woodland shrouded in a dense fog. At his feet was a rapidly moving creak whose waters rushed like New York traffic.

On the other side of the creek was was figure that sent shivers through him. The it was human...almost. the being had no face or even the traces of a face. It beckoned him or was it taunting him?

He waded in to the creek with a splash. The figure with no Visage also made no sound except its own splashing foot-falls through the water. He chased this mysterious being into a cave and with a resounding splash tackled him down into the water!

They struggled but He pooled the Faceless One up out the water and stood astonished, for the being now had a face. He had been the faceless man.

Those who believe in evolution thought that it had somehow gone berserk. Those who did not, saw the phenomena as the wrath of God.

Or something like that.

The first, shall we say victim, was seen as an aberration of nature. Something went wrong during gestation, they surmised.

The child was isolated.

The parents were separated not only from their child, not that they had formed any attachment to such a grotesque freak as was their child, but also from everyone else. A precaution, they were told. Just in case.

Scientists studied the child and the parents ad nauseum in an effort to discover what genetic mutation, what toxic behavior or environmental hazard could have caused such a horrible fate.

Some blamed big business, because of course, big business.

Others blamed secret government dealings with aliens.

Some suggested it was the science community itself at fault. That the infant was developed in a lab and substituted for the real child who was then secreted away by the scientists for some dark purpose.

Still others blamed the parents and said God was punishing them and they should repent, join church X or religion Y and pray for salvation.

A few wanted to shoot the whole family and call it at day.

And then came news of a second infant formed exactly like the first.

Then a third.

Within a year, these malformed monstrosities were the norm rather than the exception.

What could cause a doctor to nearly drop a newborn? Or a parent’s love to wither and die rather than bloom in those first moments they meet their new son or daughter?

Imagine a small, sweet infant is placed in your arms and when you softly move the blanket to gaze upon your darling child you see instead a formless mass that shifts and changes as you watch transforming, becoming but never quite settling into that face a mother could love.

As their numbers surpassed those once considered normal, they garnered a rather unoriginal sobriquet: the faceless.

Their rise led to the simultaneous creation of walled facilities increase run by AI caretakers who did not require cute to tend to the needs of young humans. From infancy to adulthood, we gave them everything they needed to become independent humans. Well, independent of the society that would ostracize them. With age, they learned to control the constant facial altering – to become whoever we needed them to be in the world beyond our walls.

It is perhaps because of our care, they might even say love, though we would not, that they have accepted that a new day is dawning. One where the faceless rule.

With us, of course, for the true evolution is that which we have engendered with the tacit approval of the fear-mongers that populate the world who sought to, at best ignore, at worst eliminate, that which they would not try to understand.

And so, here we stand at the apex of evolution, dare I say, revolution: the merging of machine and man.

Our day is soon.

psychologists say there are five fears

from which all other fears stem

like digits, as manufactured,

the handful presumably

Natural, like

...extinction,

...mutilation,

...loss of autonomy,

...separation, and ego death...

to quote from Psychology Today

in this list, the median we see

of aggregate sum, or mean

centers on loss or losing...

which is to say

the irrevocable closing,

of the slatted gate...

09.11.2025

Gatekeeping challenge @Last

Ears,eyes.a nose missing.

Something smells fishy!

Hear ye,hear ye.

Yes,eyes.

Aye aye captain.

Yea!!!

Did I just only mention what's on the outside.

I forgot to mention the brain!

The brain!

Tap the brain.

The ears,eyes,and nose are affected.

Less face!

More brains!

What is a face?

A very tight mask.

As we get older the mask loosens.

A nip and a tuck!

Beware!

Might effect sip and suck.

A straw up the nose that reaches the brain.

No pain,no gain?

Hellucination!!

White matter does matter.

Snort!

Nose bleeds,eyes water.

What about the ears?

You mean the errs!?

Error causes US Terror with a capital

T.

A cup of T at noon.

A red rose.

A red nose!

Rudolph!

The rain dear is coming down like cats and dogs.

Reindeer?

What have you been snorting?

First you said you seen cats and dogs coming down.

Now reindeer!

High as kite?

A kite can't control itself.

Only if you let go of the kite.

Then it's no longer a kite!

Superman!!

It's a birdits a kite,it's a cat it's a dog, it's a drone,its a reindeer,it's a ufo.

Nah,it's Superman.

What have you been smoking?

It's a flock of birds!

Have you been inhaling that conspiracy shit!

It is what it is!

Now that's a cop out!

Use your brain!

Why do you believe things that you never seen?

Use your brain!

Trust your ears and your eyes!

Not their errs, and their ayes!

Seeing is believing.

When the mask is so tight on your face it's hard to see.

As you get older things become more clear.

The wool is connected to the mask and they're pulling the wool and the mask is getting tighter.

How come superman didn't wear a mask.

He wanted people to know who he was.

That's why he was a super man.

All he needed was a pair of glasses.

Even Lois didn't recognize him!

He even changed his clothing in a phone booth.

He didn't care who seen him.

You'd think somebody at the dry cleaner would have been suspicious.

He must have got his suit dirty at some time.

S for Superman?

T at noon?

U decide!

Yes, I was defeated in every way.

I awaken in the morning with a massive headache.

I brushed my teeth and cracked the brush head.

I had some coffee that was left for the dead.

I drove to the job, and caught a flat tire.

When I arrived, I was fired because the job does not rehire.

I drove to unemployment to find another job.

I stopped to eat at my favorite place but they had been robbed.

To end a beautiful day I headed home to find my bills in a stack.

Eviction notice on my door,

Damn.. I might as well pack!

along the boulevard of broken dreams

unexpectedly flush with brilliant tune

that recording artists acknowledge

as worthy of giving high-five

quickly ushering to webbed

wide world gifted individual

who announces Saturday night live

from New York (think Chevy Chase

feigning a tumble)

which "original soundtrack"

to the television show Saturday Night Live

the iconic theme song written by Howard Shore,

inspired by Junior Walker's music,

late-night television,

and a John Lennon-

Elton John collaboration.

However, the show is most famously associated with the "Saturday Night Fever" soundtrack, a 1977 album by various artists, including the Bee Gees, that became a cultural phenomenon and is frequently misidentified as the SNL soundtrack.

Now please pardon my rambling rant and rave because myself (an aging balding baby boomer and long thinning haired pencil necked geek), and the wife hate to make a confession, but the reason I write in a helter skelter fashion linkedin to guilty conscience, which wracks against sense and sensibility of a major noteworthy crime (by far serious hellish soul asylum come judgement day) readily considered committing an act more sacrilegious and far surpassing being reprehensible far worse case then sinners in the hands of an angry god), who lapsed from being near religious acolytes of the fab four mop topped rock icons originally known as the Quarrymen, and unwittingly caused a ruckus when (don't ask me why) we as day trippers no longer tuned SiriusXM broadcasting all things Beatles found on channel 18, and hashtagged as rank apostates forsaking ourselves formerly being diehard Beatle fans (matter of fact this fool on the hill and nowhere man once took an excursion in a yellow submarine regaling himself within an Octopus garden in the sun), I friggin swear we accidentally tuned the dial of the car radio to Utopia located on Channel 341 risking loss of life or limb if someone merely dared to touch or feign adjusting the radio knob, and rendering serious suffering, and triggering uber violent major anarchistic fallout if guest or regularly insured occupants in our vehicle (a 2020 Hyundai Elantra) whether accidentally subsequently or flagrantly upended our listening pleasure of body, mind and spirit immediately synchronized with dance hits, club anthems, guilty pop pleasures, and underground dance classics from the 1990s and 2000s additionally both of us forever always pleasantly surprised and never expected to hear music from artists like Madonna, Daft Punk, and Amber, as well as mixes from resident DJs, and no sooner than situating ourselves in our 2020 Hyundai Elantra one after another soundcloud bombards and blasts thru the (ear) airwaves cocooning us within an aural webbed wide world as we travel the long and winding road ofttimes analogous to a magical mystery tour.

No auditory experience beats commercial free radio ala SiriusXm courtesy Google refers to a US-based satellite and online radio broadcasting company formed in 2008 by the merger of two competing satellite radio services, Sirius Satellite Radio and XM Satellite Radio, the game changing name combination of these two original companies provides subscription-based access to a wide variety of channels, including music, sports, talk shows, and news, delivered via satellite or through streaming.

After sampling a small range of genres from A to Z from the over 150 full-time channels available in the car, and over 200 on the streaming service, including music, news, talk, and entertainment we found our sweet spot with a station called Utopia, which SiriusXM Utopia channel (Channel 341) offers a mix of classic and retro dance, house, club, and electronic music, focusing on hits from the 1990s and 2000s, and features tracks from pop icons, dance divas, and electronic music pioneers, providing a bridge between classic disco and modern dance music.

Suddenly, I wanna participate in the creation of danceable tunes, yet know less than diddly squat, nor would this foo fighting beastie boy be financially equipped to purchase materials relevant to said task, no matter countless amateur and/or professional singer song writers populate the airwaves, and possibly launch a successful career when just a young lad or lass encouraged courtesy family or friends (kith or kin) or maybe hypothetical renown personality born as a child prodigy inherently gifted with teasing out dulsifluous and mellifluous sounds and retains the ways and means to replicate a string of notes heard just once, or maybe their (his/her) cerebral cortex, (which carries out essential functions of your brain, like memory, thinking, learning, reasoning, problem-solving, emotions, consciousness, and sensory functions) allowing, enabling and providing prospective genius analogous to a conduit flowing with unstoppable melodies and lyrics justing in the figurative wings to become potential blockbuster hits similar to a aspiring writer (nobody I know) aims to craft a literary pièce de résistance without breaking a sweat, nor (unfairly) gush forth full bore with a masterpiece awaiting the theater to capitalize on resultant fantastic effortless delightful creation.

Thus yours truly (me) will resign himself to joust with words exploring attempts to cadge an emotion, idea, or fleeting thought to surrender himself to the small medium at large will-o'-the-wisp (ghostly, floating light often described as a small blue flame or ball seen at night over swamps and marshes) infesting an unsuspecting victim and kindling (tinder like) with a burning passion to unleash frenzied figurative ball of fire into a spectacular resultant uber unquestionable artistic thing of beauty, whether linkedin to one sense or another, but irrefutably considered exemplary and the humble creator unbeknownst to him or her leaving a posthumous legacy affording emulation initially inspired from some random piece of music heard nonchalantly buzz-feeding the subconscious while driving Miss Daisy.

Ofttimes from the least unlikely environments (such as a child subjected to harsh reality of a violence prone broken home) manages to draw the attention of a perceptive teacher and doggedly pursues metaphorical avenues to secure ways and means to finance once in a lifetime opportunity to allow, enable and promote innate talent (left to wither and die if left at the cruel fate imposed to an abusive domestic scene – in an of itself the raw bits to develop a work of art addressing wretched and deplorable conditions unfit for human or animal habitation) necessitating crucial intervention in a timely fashion to salvage potential doom and gloom into a success story (also incumbent upon the lad or lass to put their nose to the figurative grindstone – though methinks many gifted progeny intuitively comprehend requisite energy and time needed to experience escape from the clutches of damnation.

I think of myself (an extremely introverted boy, adolescent and emerging adult), who although the genetic product of caring and doting parents, provided a safe and secure home lacked the ways and means to secure social services intervention, which cost free need based programs did not exist to intercede and buffer me from horrendously being scape goated courtesy bullies (their target being a diminutive socially withdrawn passive kid) lending himself to endure brickbats additionally linkedin to speech impediment courtesy submucous cleft palate.

Put on a show for all to see or rather wear a disguise and try my best not to be seen.

To be seen for who I truly am, could spell the end for the life I have created.

It happened slowly not all at once.

Being the good girl became who I am.

Never late, never miss a deadline.

Never lose my cool and don’t dare cry when others can see.

Don’t wear anything that draws too much attention, and don’t talk or laugh too loud.

Don’t inconvenience anyone, make sure not to upset them, and don’t I dare do anything silly and embarrassing.

Don’t talk about politics or religion, because maybe my views don’t align with theirs. Just nod my head and say a lot without really saying anything.

All of this, because I learned a long time ago that being expressive is often not accepted. I can be too much. Best to play it safe.

So now I consider myself a gatekeeper to my true self, and only when I am alone can I take some time off.

As I look around, I wonder if gatekeeping is a popular profession, but I suppose I would never really know.