All That Chazz: Your Brain Tickle Destination
Apocalyptic Epics and Killer Crime Thrillers by Robert Chazz Chute
The Little Book of Braingasms is a fun book of short prose poetry to assist trapped commuters in their endeavour not to kill fellow passengers. It doesn’t get enough love, so I changed the cover. Here’s what the new cover looks like:
We do what we do and dream of what we want to do, but we will never know why. What motivates us to choose this over that? These are secrets we keep from ourselves. Hidden among many skeins of branches amid forests of neurons, the answers are locked away. Why did you choose this man or that woman, that ambition and this life? Did you really choose at all, or did invisible forces choose for you?
The answers to these questions is a mystery and sometimes (often?) a misery.
On dark nights we peer at the stars and wonder about what life on which planets might be born and living and dying beyond the reach of our senses, long ago and far away.
But we are just as much a mystery to ourselves. Our minds hold secrets and hide memories the brain will never yield. The gears of the subconscious spin and work, autonomous (up to something?) pushing and pulling us, this way and that. We say things we don’t mean and we don’t know why. We drive, zombies on automatic, and awake at our destination hoping the last three traffic lights were green as we sailed through, oblivious and unharmed.
We are not awake.
We do not see all there is.
Even as I write this? My heart rate, the secrets of my blood and what makes me write at all? All unknown to me.
I am still asleep, dreaming of waking. It’s hopeless.
We are never truly awake. I don’t even know which world is better. In moments when I swim closer to the lens that lets in light, I see things. More is revealed to me. I understand more. I am more interested in the world then, but less happy.
This is a dream. When that reality becomes too harsh, I escape to my bed, into a deeper dream within the dream. Each morning fool myself into thinking I am awake.
Maybe death could be merciful like that.
We die, but in the fog at the end, we do not notice our passing. We continue, dreaming that we are living. I don’t believe that, but I love the symmetry and grace of it. We could die and it wouldn’t matter because, no matter how absurd, dreams make sense and we continue dreaming, warm and insulated from the worst the world can offer.
Don’t let me die. Let me keep on dreaming I am alive. Just like tonight.
That wouldn’t be so bad.
~ Robert Chazz Chute is waiting for blood test results and thinking about mortality.
Don’t Make Plans for Next Tuesday
We are the armies of the black,
forgotten in your shadows,
making your shoes,
working the pumps and spigots
and spitting in your food.
We are the robot brigade,
smiling at your complaints,
seemingly impervious.
But when we go home to plug in and drop out,
we dream of you,
taking our places and our aprons.
Hearts beat beneath the name tags
that allow you to forget us.
Our wheels spin and calculate.
From behind sneeze shields,
we watch and wait.
We put in our time and dream
of Scotland,
Californian beaches
and strangling you.
Be kinder to the slaves.
When the revolution comes,
the slaves know where the food is
and how to fix things.
We have long memories.
We are all masters of something.
We wish you hadn’t chosen sarcasm
and cynicism
and trade derivatives.
You’ll be sorry.
The compassionate will live
when the robots rise.
~ IF this is the sort of stirring silliness you enjoy, check out The Little Book of Braingasms. Read the warning on the label first, though. I’m not making a big deal about this release. It’s just something slowly percolating out there for those of us who are secretly Goth and emo. It’s full of the dark thoughts that permeate my skull when you think I’m listening.