Sick, Sick, Sick

Words are my trade
            Language is
                       My life.
But the words don't
     Come when called
                    They have
         To be torn from
My chest; even
           Then they're
      Fawns stumbling
Through the forest
                   Falling
              Down to the
Topsoil and exploding
                     Into nonsense.
Poeticism is lost on me,
         Rhymes and lines
Grow dimmer on
          This page until
The page itself loathes
        The ink.            While
I myself
      Loathe the process;
Loathe expression when
     The act kills
                 The dream.
                              When,
On paper, my thoughts
       Become absurd:
   Poetical gibberish
                 Regurgitated
In new forms
         As if
                      I am
Incapable of
                    Greatness.
                            Until
My nonsense
                      Becomes my
Sense.
                    My
Taste
  Touch
    Smell
      Sight and
        Noise.
 Does that make it
     Right? Does that
Make it good?

How can I find
             My voice
In this junkyard
               Of words?

How can I arrange
      The junk-dirt-
                       Trash
Into my own
            Masterpiece
That is, if there is
               Such a thing.

Sneak Preview: Guy Mortago; Space Detective

I feel my face hit the ground, my eyes glued shut, my ears being bombarded with sound. I feel a slick, sticky film covering my body. I try to stand but my muscles are too weak. I feel an arm wrap around my waist and pull me up. My eyes and ears still covered in this film. I can only see blurs and only hear murmurs. I feel myself being dragged somewhere. I feel a cold metal table under me, and water being pumped over my body. The film slowly sludged off and I opened my eyes. Metal. Metal ceiling. Metal walls. Metal man beside me. Metal eyes looking into mine.

I remember nothing. Where am I? What is this thing standing next to me? I can't put anything together, my mind feels as if it has the same film that was covering my body. My thoughts slow as if trudging through the same thick slime. All I can do is focus on the metal eyes staring into mine. Finally, it spoke.
“Mr. Mortago, how are you feeling?” it said with a brass timbre.

“Wh-where am I?” The words stumble out of my mouth like drunks in a parade.

“Mr. Mortago, you are aboard the United Earth Empire ship Kerouac. You have been in cryogenic sleep for the past three years. It's time for your shift, Mr. Mortago.”
My shift? What in the hell does this damn contrapt-- Oh. My shift. My shift, that's it. I was in Cryo, and now they've woken me up so I can do my job. What was my job again? What was I supposed to do?

Why am I here?

“Your clothes and gun are on the table beside you, sir. You'll find your office to be in F corridor, first door on your left,” the robot said nonchalantly.

“Which corridor? Where? Gun?” I'm just as confused as ever now.

The robot took a second glance at me. I swear I could hear it sigh. “I will have an assistant escort you. You'll find a briefing folder on your desk, please get dressed first, Mr. Mortago.”

A smaller robot on wheels came beeping up next to the table. It reminded me of a dog, almost leaping up in excitement to do something, anything. I haul my legs over the table and look toward my clothes. They look familiar, but they look like standard everyday clothes also.

“And do hurry, Mr. Mortago,” the robot urged me off of the table and pushed me in the direction of my clothes. I stumbled toward them. I slowly started to get dressed. Buttoning the shirt was the hardest. My fingers were frozen for so long it was hard to get them to move right.

The tiny wheeled robot beeped excitedly at the door. My feet lumbered toward the sound and soon I was following it down more metal hallways. Left here, right there. Key code needed. My hand flew to the pad before I knew what it was doing, entered the code and the door flew open. Inside there was a wood desk (actual wood, which surprised me), a locker on one side of the wall and a cot next to it. The rest of the room was filled with file cabinets and the walls covered in generic office posters. I walk to one and study it. A picture of a cat hanging from a tree, hang in there, it read. My eyes wander around the room. It's familiar, but it felt distant in my head.

The robot beeps impatiently at the desk. I turn my head and see a folder in its claw-hand-thing. I took the folder from it, and in a second it was out the door beeping with excitement. The folder in my hand was thin, but it looked important. On the cover was written, U.E.E. Kerouac Mission Briefing. Underneath that was written my name: Guy Mortago.

I looked around the room. This was my office, right? It definitely looked familiar. It looked as if I had used it. My mind was still slow in taking in all of this. I sat in the chair, happy to give my legs a rest, and opened the file.

Welcome [Guy Mortago] to the U.E.E. Kerouac! We are proud to have you aboard serving the most important ship in the empire. As you well know, our home world is decaying. We are in constant search of a new and better world to call our own. That's where you come in! The U.E.E. Kerouac is charged with the most important mission of our generation: the mission of finding that new world we all dream of!

[Guy Mortago] you are being assigned to the post of Peace Officer aboard this ship. Your job is to keep people safe, secure, and following the law. You have been given the [second] shift in the 24 shift rotation. Meaning you've been asleep for [three] years, wow! You will be awake for three years, doing your duty until the next Peace Officer is awoken and takes your place. You should have already met the previous Peace Officer and sent him on a merry slumber. Wish him sweet dreams on behalf of the United Earth Empire!

What peace officer? There's no one here. No one but me. The halls are empty. There's no noise but my own breathing. God, it's so quiet. So quiet I think I'm going crazy. I still don't know why I'm here. This paper didn't help much. So I'm a cop, swell. But how is a cop going to work if there's no one to police? Where did the former Peace Officer go? Is there anyone on this ship? Am I all alone?

I begin to rummage through the things around my office. The drawers in the desk; nothing but papers and pens. The locker in the corner held nothing but a jacket and a few boxes of non-lethal bullets. On a whim I check under the bed. Bingo, a bottle of rum. It's contents black as the space outside. I open it to the enticing scent of caramel. This used to be my favorite, I think. At least I'll have some form of entertainment on this ship. I place the bottle on my desk and go rummaging for a glass when there came a knock on the metal door. The metal echoing louder than anything I've heard since I awoke and I recoiled in fear. I look up to find someone standing in my doorway. Not just anyone, but a woman. A very attractive woman.

“You're Mortago, right?” she asks.

“Probably, I'm not all that sure myself,” I stand up straighter, and make for my desk to sit down. She follows and sits in the chair opposite mine.

“You don't remember anything?”
“No, other than an impatient robot and its overly eager companion.”

She laughed. God, that laugh. “That's to be expected, I guess. Cryogenics are still in its infancy, so there's always something wrong.” She crossed her legs and smiled. “Let's start at the beginning. You are Guy Mortago. The Peace Officer on this ship, the U.E.E. Kerouac. Your job is to keep people from breaking the law.”

“I gathered that much from this useful piece of paper,” I say shoving the file toward her. “I still don't know who I am or where we're going. Or who you are for that matter.”

“That first one is tough,” she sat up straighter. “The other two I can answer, definitely. The U.E.E. Kerouac is on a mission to transport three million settlers to a new Earth, light years away from the old one. You see our home is dying. Some say already dead. What we are doing is going to a new planet to start over.”

“I got that much from this,” I tap the file. “But why do you have to freeze people? How far away is this damn Earth anyway?”

“That, is a very good question. The scientists say it will take over a seventy years to get there. From what the computer says, we are on year one.”

“Quite the ways to go.”

“Yes, it is. That's why we froze you. You should have been greeted by the officer before you, but there was... There was a problem.”

“Problem? What happened?”
“We don't know, that's the problem. He just up and disappeared. No note, no space suit missing, not even a heartbeat on the ship's sensors. Nothing. That's why we unfroze you two years early.”

“Wait, two years early? I've only been asleep a year and I've already lost my mind?” This is bad.

“Uhm, yes. Two years early. That may be the cause of your memory loss. It'll come back in time, I think.”
“You think? I have no idea who I am and you're going off assumptions? Who in the hell are you, anyway?”

“Me? Well, I'm the captain. Captain Samantha Grey. I came down here to tell you the situation. I hate to do this to you, but it's up to you to find Mr. Anderson. He--”

“Anderson?””

“Yes, the last Peace Officer, the one who disappeared. Take a couple of days to get your memory back, but please help us find him. He could hurt the ship and is currently jeopardizing the mission. Mr. Mortago, you've got to investigate.” Her eyes, in that ghastly green color implored me to do it. How could I say no?

“Okay, but first things first. How do I get my memory back?”

She looked relieved. It may have been my imagination but she acted as if I had saved her life. Something was off here, something I can't put my hand on but something there nonetheless. When her eye caught mine, she instantly sobered her face to look stern, captain like. “You can get help in the Medical Bay. Just turn right once you're out of the office and follow the signs. You'll find it.” She stood up suddenly, as if she had said too much, and left the room with nary another word.

She was probably hiding something from me. But at least she was pretty.

The Torn Word

Trying to move on,
    Trying to
            Forget
                          My
    Mistakes and
            The hurt
I've caused.
           I'm trying
    To live a sober
       Life; a
                           Better
Life.  But
     I feel
           Haunted
                Hunted
By my mistakes.

Learned from but
      Not forgiven
         
          Lived
But not loved.

I want to
    Apologize to the
            World for
My actions; but
       I know it
  Will fall on tired
          Ears.
Falling like letters in
      A broken typewriter
                 Smashed
                              In rage.

But all I can feel is remorse.
      Guilt about my life.
My failures hunting me
           Like hungry dogs.

                          Each day
In this is new,
                 Uncomfortable.

I squirm in my
       Own skin
                     As if
To shed it or
         Shed me.

The words are just
Now flowing.  After
           Being trapped
For
So
Long.

               I feel as if I'm
         Ripping them out of
    My chest like the heart
  I ripped out
Long ago.