Category Archives: Kenneth Averiett

Works written by Kenneth Averiett

Crimes//The 3rd Wheel// by Kenneth Lee Averiett

We felt unstoppable. We were human caffeine pills sporting black sweats bearing tiny cuts, dried blood, and bits of shattered glass. My friend Hermes and I, we were wielding serotonin levels like flamethrowers. And this is the third time this week we’ve gone on a night raid.

What’s a night raid? I’m honestly quite flattered that you asked.

A night raid is an evening trip out somewhere, usually abandoned & unexplored. Fueled by a bottle of Jameson, & the need to sidestep practical ethics, we would tell you to your face its just urban spelunking. Between us though, it usually involves gross levels of civil misconduct. Defacing public property, private property, theft. Grand gestures of vandalism.

And then we hunt down news articles of our work to hold as souvenirs.

A night raid is what happens when you want to rescue yourself from the fatigued day in, day out tradition of maturity, when nothing else does it anymore. Falling in love doesn’t do it anymore. Roller coasters, drugs, all that stuff just gets exhausting after awhile.

When you’re committing highly illegal shit, you can’t help but catch a natural high. It’s escapism in it’s purist form. A desperate swig from the fountain of youth that gets you so jazzed, you’ve been instantly relieved from the tired routine of adulthood, back peddling into the perpetual hair-brained episode of adolescence, multiplied by 10.

We feed off of this. It breaks the monotony of pretending to care about our jobs, our acquaintances, our social media profiles, the law…I could go on forever. Most of all though, pretending to care about not caring.

It’s a chilly 3am, and we’re free in ways you’re too scared to be, sneaking through a broken factory window with a bottle of liquor in tow. We’re acting out our own half-assed, half thought out version of a heist, giggling like 12 year old’s.

One of these days, you might catch us at Aphrodite’s, a local bar everyone hates, but goes to anyway, over zealously recalling our high jinks in a fit of drunken bravado, exaggerating a few details, like how I used poor Jameson to shatter the left most bottom window, destroying the bottle, wasting its contents everywhere, and bloodying my hand in the process, or the part where I dove head first through the window, and slurped the whiskey off of the factory floor, covering my face in dust, and cutting my lips.

Hell, I might tell you anyway, with flailing arms and expressive gestures, I’ll blame that fountain of youth-whiskey cocktail. You’ll get an earful of “You should try it sometime, dude.”

And you, you’ll sit and judge us, all high and mighty, like you’re too good to be this dumb/reckless/brave. You get to count yourself fortunate that you only experience this misguided display of rebellion vicariously.

Or you might feel left out, the kind of envy you get when you realize you’re too old/fat/responsible to feel alive the way we do. Anything short of falling in love won’t cut it anymore for most people. I’ve already told you this. There’s a threshold you have to meet before you get to chug from the fountain of youth nowadays, and this is the easiest one to cross.

In all honesty, you would only catch me exposing my crimes. I’m a social butterfly. I don’t mean to brag, but I get a kick out of peoples reactions, the faces they make, the judgement’s they draw. Me, I talk too much. But my friend Hermes here, hes my social opposite.

Hermes, you could call him the unlikely male equivalent to the infamous “cat lady”, with all the alarming mannerisms of a middle aged recluse trapped in the body of a 20 something year old man.

By day, you can catch him working at The Artemis Spa. It’s sort of a pet vacation center where rich people take their toy poodles for pampering. He’ll be grooming an actual cat lady’s prized trophy, snapping selfies in his apron with the caption “pussy game strong.”

You could try and tell him how funny you think he is on the internet, but face to face, he’ll fall to pieces. He avoids real human interaction like your both SARS infected amputees. You’d assume he’s just a snob, but he’s just a dude who’s not good at people. It’s not like he’s alone, or doesn’t have any friends though. Hardly. There’s almost two entire generations of boys who were raised on Playstations and free porn. Xbox live accounts, “friends lists” and followers will give you all the social validation you need. His social life is literally a click away.

By night, he’s a domestic crime lord. A human molotov of urban terrorism, and modern genius, with just the right amount of chemical imbalance. He’s got his own section in the paper, and you have no fucking clue. He’s just living his own real life video game.

Whereas I’m socially equipped to engage in an ill conceived conversation about what it’s like to operate a forklift and go on a “factory cruise”, he wont feel inclined to share with you that on this particular night raid, we uncovered a vast amount of useless junk, or urban treasure in our dilated eyes; magazines and comic books that date back to the 50’s, blow up dolls, something that resembles a hydroponic grow kit, wooden swords, a real battleaxe, a movie projector, etc etc.

Me, with all the conviction of a man-boy who’s always wanted a battleaxe, will let you know how powerful you would feel holding onto one. I’ll place my hands on your shoulder’s, look you square in the eyes and say “You have no idea how much I wanted that fucking battleaxe.”

And you, if you’re sincere enough, you’ll remind me that I was drunk, and I don’t need one. Hermes, he tells me the same thing. A battleaxe he says, is impractical, but this movie projector is something we could really use, never mind the hydro grow kit.

So it’s decided that this movie projector is one of our prized hauls for the night, and my delusions of toting a battleaxe victoriously are shattered and replaced with semi-industrious blue prints of a movie night in the alley behind Aphrodite’s with a gang of 40OZ bottles clanking merrily.

I’m worked up at this point in the story, because despite Hermes and I swearing not to tell anyone about our night raids, I can’t help it. So I might let slip how curiosity got the best of us, and we decided to scale one more floor up because rumor has it this place is an under cover drug operation, and after weeks of scouting it out, we knew that no one is in the place after 3am.

We didn’t make it past the second flight of stairs before we tripped an alarm that filled the entire building with a shrill, piercing wave of fear. Fear so sudden and acute you could have heard it from the streets. The kind of fear that caused us to drop our flashlights, plunging us into darkness as they shattered.

We just ran.

“Shit Shit Shit…”

I remember sobering up almost instantly. That’s what happens when your adrenaline mixes with terror. It suppresses any alcohol in your system. Your arteries start working overtime, pumping so much blood, it pretty much drowns it all out.

It was so dark in there, but we ran anyway. This wasn’t our first rodeo, so we knew to keep one hand on the wall to lead us out the whole time. Hopefully back the way we came. But this place was a fucking maze and I won’t lie, I thought we were fucked right then and there.

Luckily, we had red and blue flashing lights illuminating our means of entry and escape, because I guess the cops had this place on watch every night for the past few weeks too.

And that’s it. That’s all I would tell you. You, in your self-righteous, law abiding pretension would be stuck with a cliff-hanger. Because if I kept going, if I kept exposing the truth, you would know that it wasn’t just Hermes, myself, and the cops there. Someone broke into that factory with us that night. A third wheel.

Me, I’ve got a big mouth. But even I’m smart enough to omit the cold hard facts.

I’d verbally pencil out how we summoned the third wheel when I foolishly smashed open the window with the bottle of Jameson in an outburst of stupidity and self realized invincibility. And it wasn’t really me that dove through the opening and drank the alcohol off of the factory floor like some possessed alcoholic.

We ventured that this guy was already lit because when he ran up on us, he was already gone off of something. He spoke too loudly, stood to close to you, always touched you when he was talking, kept asking for more liquor.

To be completely honest, when he ran past us, and dove through that window, we should have booked it right then and there. But he came right back out with uncommon dexterity.

I don’t know why we let him tag along. Maybe we were scared he would expose us. Or maybe we just wanted to keep an eye on him, because something was just off about his…vibe.

Either way, it didn’t matter.

Hermes and I, we hid out behind the row of forklifts and machinery, but this guy, he didn’t run or anything. He didn’t budge, he was just so damn casual about the whole thing, whistling and exclaiming “Oh I guess we’re havin’ bacon for dinner tonight!” He was clearly toasted on God knows what because he was making so much noise, & I was sweating bullets at this point scared sober and shaking with fear. For sure Hermes was too but I couldn’t tell because it was pitch black, or maybe I was closing my eyes.

I was holding my breath.

The cops, they were so fast. They dashed into the basement in no time. I don’t know how many there were. What seemed like 50 beams of light coming from 50 flashlights being held by 50 cops descended into the basement, and for sure I might have prayed for the first time ever.

Walky talky noise and handcuffs jangling and the thunderous “clop clop clop” of police feet composing the chorus of our freedom as we know it being taken away.

But you’ll never hear this part of the story from our mouths.

You might have read in the The Maia Tribune, that on this night, two people died in that factory. One police officer, and one methed out junky wielding a battleaxe.

I’m reluctant to recall this part of the story, lest my hair starts turning gray and falling out.

The sharp, sliding sound of metal scraping against concrete, followed by a loud wet meaty thud, a half grunt/half scream, and the inevitable storm of gunshots and shouting.

When I opened my eyes I counted 13 bullet holes staring back at me.

I swear I was in that forklift compartment for about 60+ straight hours, starving, but too panicked to notice, daring not to fall asleep while the cops figured out what the hell to do with this massive meth lab they just found. Biggest meth operation they’ve busted in the history of meth busts, they kept saying. And it’s all our doing.

We never got our thank you letter from the police department, but I’m sure it would’ve come with a hefty criminal trespassing charge. The framed article hanging neatly on my wall is enough.

Hermes never told me how he escaped. I waited for what was maybe the third night cycle by my count to slip out of the window and into the darkness. I ran, tears streaming down my face, like someone was chasing me, like if I stopped, I would drop dead right there. I ran for miles. I ran until I couldn’t run anymore, because after 3 days of not eating, or pissing, it’s really fucking hard. But I kept running anyways. And then I sobbed like a baby. Openly, without care.

We are unstoppable. We’re human caffeine pills wielding serotonin levels like flamethrowers with reckless abandon, and this was the most successful night raid we have ever been on. We didn’t accrue anything. We didn’t get the projector. We sure as hell didn’t get the battleaxe. No material possessions, but the mental, physical, and emotional resolve we discovered in ourselves trumps all of that. The bond we formed, iron-clad.

I don’t mean to brag, but I get a kick out of peoples reactions, the faces they make, the judgement’s they draw. I get to relive the rush of lawlessness over and over again, and maybe inspire your own brand of rebellion.

Live a little.

 

 

NIGHT RAIDS

The Commute//Disjointed by Kenneth Lee Averiett

I imagine, this is what I’ll trademark
The impossibly early morning commute
I’m still drunk
It’s 6AM
And I’m still wearing my shoes

My phone sings with an urgency
It ferries the exhausting burden of responsibility

It’s 6AM
I’ll keep reminding you
Or myself
Because I have to

*sigh*

FUCK

I have to make The Commute

6am

My body hangs from my brain
In a disjointed way
A detached manner
Like a consciousness manifesting through a coma

If I could forge the willpower
Gather some strength in my arm
To push my phone off of the desk
And silence the alarm

I’ll regret it in some way
Not even a second thought considered
It wasn’t even a hard decision

7:20am

As I inhale, and sigh
For maybe the seventh time
I’m suddenly aware
That in this very moment, I’m being held prisoner
I’m being forced to make a choice
I’m being forced to consider

My mind is awash in the buzz of last night
And the fade of this morning

Austere
Varying shades of whites & greys
Ohio in December
Ohio, the way I’ll remember

This is bleak
Wearing all of my previous evening
Inside and out
I feel like sandpaper
I smell like 3am
Friday night
Saturday morning
It’s Monday morning
And its a dreary 7:30

7:32am

I’m wearing this to work
This is how well I wear exhaustion
I’ll flaunt it in a professional setting
In a professional manner
A white collar show & tell

I’ll groom the bare minimum
But I MUST shave my face
Just to save face
So it doesn’t look like I have a drinking problem
Because I don’t
I just like to party

I treat my body like a machine
It’s regarded like a car I can’t afford to keep gas in
But I can afford to drive to New York at night and explore

A special kind of neglect

7:35 am

A single apple
A bowl of cereal
A bag of chips
Some energy to pursue The Commute

Literally, running on fumes
Literally, every morning
Between 6am to 1pm
Literally, running late
Everyday

Responsible living escapes me

7:41am

GO! GO! GO!
I hit the basement
I braced my knees
I covered my hands
Adjusted to bike the streets

Covered in gear
Drunk and exhausted
The idea of just staying here
Is so attractive and real

I can taste my doggedness
I can still taste the air in my bedroom
While I’m in the basement
I can also taste….unemployment
So, I go.

7:45am

Bleak
Varying shades of whites & greys
Ohio in January
Ohio, all the time really
Atleast it has the feeling
Biking in the elements

The air I breath stings something awful
In my chest
Ice cubes
In my breath
Snowflakes

The blue collar effort
Two feet of snow
And its still coming
This workout//THE COMMUTE
For a white collar job
Dealing with billing disputes
The upkeep of my finacial cause

I’m a pest
The snow is deep
Almost up to my knees
I’m a menace
I’m an obstacle among perpetual obstacles
And we’re all just trying to avoid each other

MARKET//MAIN ST.

As I start to pick up speed
My body begins to adjust
My senses waken up
And narrowly avoid
This, assaulting Mack truck
Speeding on a 10speed
Down the wrong side of the street

Whoops.

I’ve got no choice really
I can’t see or hear what’s behind me
Behind my own panting
And Kendrick Lamar’s ranting
So down the opposite side of the road I go
Around Mack truck smoke & mounds of snow

I reach the edge of the street
And depending on the day of the week
And how generous those patrons are, of St V
I could exercise the sidewalk

No such luck,
So, fuck it
I’ll fight traffic
I’ll keep to the streets
And dogde the fleets

This is the real challenge
This is the adventure…
Side to side with traffic
Hand in hand with danger

Car horns & headlights
This lifestyle might really kill me

7:42am
Oh, hey look
Another middle finger
Middle aged driver
Righteous anger
Righteous motorist

STOP!
It was on Old Main St.
At 7:47am
I was almost on the news
This is a stanza of dediction to the man in the grey Toyota
I’ve developed wonderful instincts
I almost died
This man sped through the incorrect traffic light

So I stopped!
Or else I would’ve been on the news
At roughly 8:38am
Vehicular manslaughter would probably be the charge
Probably a hit and run
I would not have stopped either
I’m this asshole in the middle of the street
On a bike
I’m an early morning, urban menace

I hit the pavement

Desolate
Varying shades of whites & greys
Ohio in February
Ohio all the time really
Atleast it has the feeling
Sprawled, laying in the elements

My mind is awash in the buzz of the night
Before
And the fade of this morning

GODDAMMIT!
I’m shouting now
On the ground, at the sky
In the snow, to the ice
At these fucking motorists, at my goddamn bike
A special kind of entitlement

I was born in the wrong state, in the wrong place

I hit the pavement
I skinned my knees
And scraped my hands
Numb & exhausted
The idea of just laying here & giving up is so attractive and real
But I can’t…because bill$

I treat my body like a machine
I regard it like a toy I can’t put down
Even if I choose
If afforded the chance, I wouldn’t know what to do

Dreary
Varying shades of whites and greys
Ohio in March
I won’t even fucking start

8:01am

I show up to work
Half drunk and overworked
Sleet and snowy down my side
And rehearse this white collar ritual
After my blue collar effort
I’m so goddamn tired

Living on the edge has this embrace
Like something most people couldn’t stomach
Most people aren’t built for it
Most people aren’t meant to

Don’t take this as a challenge, gentle tweeter
Or take it as one
I’m not saying it can’t be done
I accomplish this, twice a day, four in a row, and roughly an odd fifth one.

NAKED//BARE// By Kenneth Lee Averiett

When I said I wasn’t with another girl the January after we fell in love for the 3rd time,

It’s because it wasn’t actual sex.

In the February that began our Radio Silence, it was actual sex.

I hate this cantankerous nature you wear so well,

I screamed at myself on the way home,

For poems I write about you still.

I made a scene.

I think about you each morning,

And roughly every 5 days.

I still believe you’re there.

I still masturbate to you.

When it got really bad,

I would put another coat of mop water on the floor of the bar,

To make sure you were asleep when I got to my side of the bed.

You are the only person to whom I’ve lied,

KNOWING…

I was telling the truth…

I miss the way your body wraps around my face like a cave we are both lost in.

I remember when you said being with me is like being alone with company.

My friend Sarah wrote a poem about pink ponies.

I’m scared you’re my pink pony.

Her’s is dead. It’s really sad. You’re not dead.

You live in Akron, or Cleveland, in a neighborhood, or wherever.

You are a shadow my body leaves on other girls.

I have a growing queue of things I know will make you laugh & I don’t know where to put them.

I pretend that you are dead.

If you had asked me to stay,

I would not have said no.

It would never mean yes.

IMAGINE – By Kenneth Lee Averiett

I have a weird tradition every year where I pretty much get hammered & leave some unsuspecting girl a half cooked Valentines Day poem on her Facebook wall. This year, of course, was no different. Can’t satiate the hopeless romantic in me…

*IMAGINE*

Two young people
Across computer screens
Toting glamour & intrigue
On a discordant holiday.

More or less a genuine deed
To feed our spontaneous needs

An incidental gesture
To fill our screens with life
An aimless measure

We’re internet Valentines
On a day that doesn’t matter.

Like most others, any other way
Let’s just kiss our mother’s

& wish them a happy holiday.

We’re fond of each other
Let’s hang out someday?

Let’s switch bodies for a second… By Kenneth Lee Averiett

Hi.

Can I hijack your body? It’ll only take a sec…

Alright, picture this.

You’re me, & I’m you. I’m reading, & you’re writing. You’re on the bus. The #1. You’re typing an email on your new cell phone that you’re not entirely keen on using, writing in a green notebook, & I’m…well…wherever you are.

Cool.

So you’re chillin’ next to a portly old woman as streams of color & motion that is downtown Akron’s lunch hour whoosh by the window. You gaze out onto the street: cars, dots of people walking by, the faint, dreary vibe of February, & piles of snow. You muse over your green notebook when a noise with the accompanying scent of something sweet calls you out of your daze.

A voice. Then a laugh. A bright, pleasant laugh. Sexy. Female. And that sexy female voice is speaking Spanish.

You glance over your notebook & your eyes meet a dark haired, Latin beauty with bronze skin chatting amiably on her cell phone. Your eyes lock. You smile. She smiles.

You take note of this.

“She’s on her cell phone dude.” You remind yourself. “No need to say hi or anything yet. Just chill.”

Your cool with that.

You go back to staring out the window, watching. But now, you can’t muse. You can’t concentrate. You look up again, & meet eyes once more…

“Smile with your eyes.” Your dumb, awkward, male brain tells your face. She smiles back, & accompanies that smile with a subtle blink of the eyes & a paced, alluring wave. You wave back..

Now you know what you must do, as a man. As a man with genuine integrity. You have to approach this girl. The outcome is irrelevant, the chance your taking is necessary. You know this. You understand this. You will live by this.

Okay, now you can relax. You start reading again…

& typing…

& reading…

& writing…

& typing…

You’re in the zone. You temporarily forget about this impossibly exquisite human being that’s seated right in front of you, & her mellifluous Spanish just becomes white noise.

Eventually, you take in your surroundings again. You went from being in the zone, to zoning out. But something’s changed. Somethings missing. Before you realize what it is, you notice this lovely person causally walk by the window.

“No, she’s leaving!”

You’re body jerks upright, but that voice conditioned by social standards, & tempered by shame, rings through your senses…”No dude, if you try now, it’ll just be creepy.”

You sit back & try to relax in the tensest manner. You try to get lost in your work, but now your focus is shot.

You know why. You understand why, but will you act on it?

You are literally on the edge of your seat. Go or not go? Go, or stay…& sit…& wonder…& sulk.

A thought blossoms, & the awareness that it uncovers put’s a wide, burning sensation in your chest…

“This isn’t about her. This is about you. This isn’t about her. This is about you…”

You know when you step to that girl, whether it goes well or completely backfires has everything to do with you, & nothing to do with her. What you are expressing is what you know is right. What you feel is honest & genuine. Just the fact that this act exists in the world is enough.

You’re up & out of your seat before the meaning of any of those words even register. This is your call to action. The mantra of your integrity. You start pushing through the throngs of the disenfranchised patrons of public transport. They all seem to know what’s going on, & they all decide to let you know about it with one biting, cynical remark after another…

“THIS ISN’T ABOUT THEM! THIS ISN’T ABOUT HER! THIS IS ABOUT YOU.”

These words move you forward. You have ten seconds before your legs will carry you to put yourself on the line. This is enough time to grasp the full meaning of that sentence.

“THIS ISN’T ABOUT HER! THIS IS ABOUT YOU!”

…is enough for you to never sit back, to try & relax. This alleviates you of all shame, guilt, or self hate of being a man. Being you.

This is you shining.

This is you inspired.

This is you dictating the terms of your own fate.

As you jog up to her, you feel lighter & lighter. The strict, heavy chains of social anxiety are falling off of your body. By the time you reach her, by the time you’ve grasped the full meaning of…

“This isn’t about her! This is about you!”

…winning isn’t even a question now. The moment you catch her attention, she’ll know exactly who you are. She can peer into your soul, & see your inner strength. She can see that you are a man that isn’t afraid to express himself, to go after what he want’s, to put himself on the line.

When she see’s that, you win every time.

This is a true story, except it happened to me.

Stop reading your story, & go write it.

Take a moment to realize your potential.

“I Forgive You” (A short story) By Kenneth Lee Averiett

“Forgiveness is not an occasional act, it is a constant attitude.”

“Hey, can we talk?”

I wish I had the courage. Not just the courage, but the mere ability to confront discomfort in any capacity. That deep, touching,and  emotional moment where eye contact is required, expected, and the concluding heart to heart discussion that follows about a totally preventable event, makes my insides feel like the equivalent of jello. All sticky & heavy.

I say preventable; As if that one simple word can encapsulate a possibility that this event could have been prevented (which is a falsehood). Nothing can prevent this measure of the heart’s yearning.

But I digress. This could have been prevented if I were a robot.

Yes, a robot. An impassive, unreadable, and apathetic bloke with absolutely zero chance of getting hurt.

But now, I have to dig deep & forgive someone. And that makes me uncomfortable, because I happen to be a pretty big pansy.

The idea of opening myself up emotionally even for the full five minutes required by some unwritten logic repulses me & quite honestly, scares the shit out of me. I mean, this is why I’m here in the first place.

I am not like this normally, mind you. I used to be exquisite. Innocent by every stretch. Unspoiled. I was ignorant, & untouched before the perversions of love tainted me. It showed me the harsh reality of loving & giving until I could not love or give anymore. Getting dog shit handed back to me. Dog shit smeared all over more dog shit, smeared over some marshmallows & a cheap Walgreens gift card, because hey, at least they tried right?

“Hey, can we talk?”

Those dreaded words that turn your insides sour. You know the feeling. The unexpected potential of heartbreak or bad news.

This kind of shit doesn’t happen to robots.

But alas, it is I that has to do this to someone else. But it isn’t heartbreak or bad news that I’m going to inflict on this person. Hopefully, rather a new found freedom. A weight lifted off of their shoulders, so when they finally upend the courage to stand (or sit), & look me in the eyes, shame & discomfort will cease (I hope) & we can start anew (again, more hoping.)

“Hey, can we talk?”

*gulp*

I have to forgive you. As much as I would love to sit & stew in my feelings, & let them compost into hatred & apathy, I cant. It’s apart of this “Hey look at the new & improved me with my capacity for straightforward honesty & shiny new forgiving nature!” The former would be so much easier. SO. MUCH. EASIER.

As I sit here, wading through my thoughts, cataloging what I should say or do, over & over again, I hear the familiar jangle of keys unlock the brown, wooden front door. The door slides open, barely because the beige carpet underneath the door is no longer beige carpet, but black electrical tape haphazardly repairing the damage done by one “Buddy The Dog” in a fit of separation anxiety. Poor guy.

As you open the door, I feel my heart leap into my throat. You know the feeling. My muscles relax, & tense up at the same time. My breathing sort of stops, sort of doesn’t. My mouth is open, but my jaw still clenches. I’m not sure how any of that is possible, or if I’m recounting my bodily responses accurately.

“Hi.”

“Hey.”

At this moment I can feel the muscles around my face weaken, especially around my eyes, that exact split second before the tears start. Oh, the tears…

I fight them. I fight, & struggle, & strangle them with every ounce of my character.

Oh, sweet fucking lord I wish I was a goddamn robot!

*Breathes deeply*

“Can we talk?”

I slide my left hand off of my left thigh, & pat the bright red couch cushion to my left side. A clear invitation to sit. To join me. To get…close.

Someone in the room clears their throat.

“Sure…?”

“That sounded more like a question than anything,” I think to myself. The uncertainty that filled the word “sure” makes me wholly regret my attempt to be the bigger person. But its too late now.

It is too late because I’m in love, & love makes you do all sorts of out of character things. Love is why I’m here, & love is why I’m doing this. Love is why I’m eschewing heartbreak, & looking discomfort in the eyes.

Love is why I need to… no, want to be the bigger person. So I will.

This is the first step to truly loving myself.

I hear bags full of random clothes, possessions, objects that were familiar things here at one time- drop to the floor. The couch sinks in to my left a bit, & I turn to look discomfort & shame right in the eyes…

“I forgive you.”

Vacant possibilities. By Kenny Averiett

Someday, we might make sense. We might have a life.

It will be complicated, hilarious, awkward, fulfilling, tiring, & real. & Fun.

There would be work, & alchohol, & sex, & live music, & way more coffee than is necessary. There will be different parties within the month, & different cities within the year, & the same friends we have now.  There will be responsibility & sleep, & this crush I have right now wont matter @ all.

But today, we are young, & unusually lonely for this holiday, & this matters much more than it should.

images

ONWARD! By Kenneth Lee Averiett

ONWARD!

 There is a difference between life & survival.

How many hours do you spend watching tv? In front of a computer screen? IS SPECTATING AS EXCITING AS DOING THINGS? How much living do you do in your life? How many mornings do you wake up, feeling alive, thrilled & anticipating the new days experiences? How many nights do you rest, feeling content, & fulfilled?

Most of us feel as though our lives are decided for us, without us. As if living is just this thing that happens to us instead of a celebrated, creative enterprise. That’s not living. That’s just surviving. We spend most of our time in front of tv sets, computer screens, inside shopping malls, clocking away our lives in office cubicles. Of course narrow-minded executives, petty politicians, & suburban housewives are terrified of change. They can’t harbor the thought that anything is more precious than physical safety. Their hearts may be beating, but they no longer believe in their dreams.

THIS IS HOW REVOLUTION BEGINS: A few of us start chasing our dreams, shucking our old patterns, embracing what we love, (while bringing to light what we hate) daydreaming, questioning, acting outside the confines of routine & regularity. Daring to be more creative, more adventurous, more generous, more ambitious, influencing those who are held paralyzed by the social confines of the status quo, & fall in love with life. 

Falling in love is the ultimate transformation, upheaval, & revolution needed to combat todays overly repetitive, socially restrictive, culturally constrictive, humanly meaningless world.

Love alters the world, transforms it. Where boredom was felt, there is now passion. Where she was once complacent, the lover is now compelled to defining, self-asserting action. The world becomes filled with meaning, risks & rewards, intrigue & danger. Life for the lover is a gift, every moment is memorable. Suddenly, her existence has been given substance, her substance adds weight to her reality, which becomes valuable, glorious, even noble. Burning desire will cure the worst cases of despair & resigned obedience.

Love allows us to connect to each other in meaningful ways. It compels us to leave our skin, & be more spontaneous & honest, & discover each other in more profound ways. It pulls the lover out of the monotonous routines of life &  her from other people.

Love is subversive in this way because it poses a threat to the traditional structure of our modern lives. The overrated rituals of the workday tedium & socialized etiquette no longer have any meaning to a man who has fallen in love, for there are more important motivations driving him than deference to some doctrine or tradition. When man & woman are given wisdom & valor by true passion, they no longer will be held back by customs or established order.

The lover speaks a different moral & emotional language than the typical bourgeois man, for the bourgeois have no overwhelming desires. All he knows is the familiar despair that comes with chasing the goals that are set for him by his family, his educators, his employers, his nation, & his culture, without ever being able to develop a passion that guides him to choose what is right & wrong for himself.  Thereupon he is forced to adopt some dogma or doctrine to direct him through life. One who follows her passions will find beauty & love in the world because her passions paint the world in these colors. No instructions will guide her through this world.

This will absolutely pose a threat to society. What if everyone feared loveless, lifeless monotony more than they feared hunger, cold, or danger? What if everyone craved the pursuit of their wildest goal, & dreams more than safety? Think of how different the world would be then! It is quite the truism that the rapidly splintering “mainstream”, the keepers & victims of the status quo, FEAR CHANGE.

So, despite the media synchronized images that sell us on the idea of romance, genuine, passionate love is discouraged. Getting “carried away with your emotions ” is frowned upon. Instead we are taught to always be on guard, lest our hearts lead us astray. Rather than being encouraged to have the tenacity to face the consequences of the risks taken in pursuit of our hearts desires, we are chastised. We are counseled not to take risks at all. To be “responsible”, thus love itself is regulated. Men must not fall in love with other men, nor women with other women, nor individuals from separate ethnic backgrounds, or else the bigots who form the frontline offensive in assault of our modern lives will step in.

Love, as most of us know it today, is a carefully prescribed, pre-ordained ritual, something carried out on Friday nights in expensive movie theaters & restauraunts, & lines the pockets of shareholders in the entertainment business without preventing workers from showing up to the office on time ready to re route phone calls all day. This regulated, “commercial” love is nothing like the passionate, burning love that consumes the genuine. Restrictions, regulations, & expectations smother true love, for true passion can never grow when confined.

We must fight against these cultural restrictions that smother our desires. Love gives meaning to life, it make it possible for us to make sense of our lives, to derive meaning from our existence, & find purpose. Without this, we fall subject to some authority, to some god or doctrine to guide us without ever giving us the self-satisfaction that determination does.

I want to encourage you all to love recklessly, fearlessly, & most of all, passionately, & you will be surprised how much you will learn about yourself, & move onward.

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Number One

Hi there!  Welcome to our website: a place for you to read [or write] truly progressive works of word.  Though this entire project is still learning to walk, here are a few things you can expect:

Local commentary– Work pertaining to the North-Eastern Ohio area.  This includes: politics, community organization, and festivities in the area.

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