Slow Movements, Methodical Manifestations

The rain drips down the windows; the clouds above his head glow the most riveting gray. He looks upon the city, to his right, as it passes slowly. The train drives forward like a quiet torrent, rumbling underneath his feet, taking him to a physical destination while his mind wanders, as a flaneur would. There are so many faces in the car with him, with various illnesses, delusions and disappointments. Their collective vision spans the entirety of the train car, each square inch covered by someone’s perspective. He looks past all of their flapping mouths and colored bodies and dreams with his eyes open.


He sees her; he can nearly feel her actually. Her tiny microscopic hairs on her skin brush up against his, gently, as she rests next to him. She is turned, still sleeping, with her naked back towards him; he gazes upon the delicacy of her body. She is fragile like a fine Christmas ornament, incandescent. He thinks to himself; she, lying curled up next to him, safe and warm within the confines of his body is truly lovelier than the loveliest. He admires her hair as it glistens on her shoulders with the light shining playfully on her head. He examines her back, in its utter perfection, like a map which details immortality.

Taking his hand, he grazes his finger gently along her neck, running them down the center of her spine and to the small of her back, stopping and resting his full hand on her hip. He struggles to believe her tangibility or this moment. The girl cannot be real, she must be an illusion, maybe a premonition but certainly not real. He nears his face towards hers, and places his lips on the top of her head. He kisses her soft hair kindly, with the utmost appreciation for her presence.

The sound of the early morning rain outside is staccato and calming. It reminds him of when he was young and she of being content, settled. Her company is cocaine. However, he feels wonderfully sedated at present. The wind hums amongst them as it makes its entrance through the window besides the bed. She shivers a little and he can see goose bumps surface on her shoulders. As he lifts the sheet to cover the girl, her scent, her lovely scent, bursts through the room like a flood. He breathes it in deeply, it is truly intoxicating.

He stands and walks to the near corner of the room next to the window. In that corner is an old, bedraggled chair. He uses it for contemplative purposes when in such moods. So he seats himself and flips open his pack of Parliament cigarettes. Only one remains. He smiles at his good fortune. As he lights his cigarette, outside, the sound of flowers growing onto tree branches can be heard and the flapping of butterfly wings also.

He glances briefly through the window and acknowledges the brilliance of the humble morning. However, he returns his attention quickly to the wonder in his bed. He is unable to focus on anything but her splendor, she is magnetic. He sits, watching her rest, peaceful in her lucid dreams. She has the most moving eyes which are hidden beneath her sleep and he yearns to see them in her wake. Yet he is silent like a church mouse, unwilling to rouse her.

He had truly begun to lose hope. There was not supposed to be someone with the ability to inject this level of electricity in his life. Life is supposed to be despondent and women fundamentally superfluous. People are supposed to be inherently backwards and terribly expendable. Foremost, love is a brutal cockfight, impulsive and carnal.

There is no place for this morning in his paradigm. She is a fatal fracture, an emphatic rebuttal to his personal dogmas. He sees her in his own eyes as his train winds through the city like a serpent. The sky pours rain on our heads.

Written Oct 30th

We Will Freeze In Your Solitude


Frost spreads up the outer rim of the wooden cracked window sill
As the Gregale wind howls past, carrying with it, the weight of the world.
Dried bodies stand in paralysis, frozen on the pavement outside.
Twelve fisherman hunt on a one fish pond
frantically casting their lure, desperation evident in their eyes.


His body heats like a furnace 
Ravaged by the flame of his impotence.
The hour hand revolves tortuously, intolerably slow
around the face of the ancient clock.
Each second passes at the turn of a century.
His body deteriorates, shedding skin like a serpent.
The dust particles float above his chair and around his chair,
eluminated by a single concentrated sun beam.


His emaciated body devours itself, self imposed cannibalism.
Below his hopeless eyes, his bedraggled chin, protruding clavicle, and cratered chest,
his stomach churns and screams, insatiably hungry.
With each tick, the cravings are worsened


Tick...tick...tick...tick


Excruciating hunger mutes his ears, blinds his eyes
And in the chaos, the singular image of olive skin devours his mind.


Tick...tick...tick...tick

We Are The King

Serpents grip the tree
Vultures feast
Everyday is the festival
The night is the beast

Rotting carcass
Rotten earth
Maggots strip the flesh
Lice make a home

Worms shout in feverish glee
We are the king
Our dynasty is born
Undeserved, the throne for those unable to rule themselves

A distant astronaut looks on in acute distaste

Scaly Fish Bodies

I was going to attempt to hold off and not embark on another blog until the close of my work week, assuming that I would be too weary to create anything.  Much to my pleasant surprise though, tonight, I was able to come home at a reasonable time, 930 pm to be exact. This provided me with the needed inspiration to attack my computer with some mediations. I have my comrade, Cristi, to thank for the extra personal time tonight.  Thank you my friend, for rescuing me from a night spent on the CTA.  

So I arrived home at a decent time, walking into my empty, dark condo, moving straight into the kitchen to grab a butcher knife and conduct a thorough inspection of the premises before settling in for the night.  After the inspection was concluded and my murderous suspicions quelled, I promptly undressed myself, removing my battle garments: hat, scarf, jacket, gloves, shoes.  Thereafter, I strip myself of my interior attire: slacks, button down shirt, tie and socks, leaving them on the floor, like bread crumbs, as I move slowly towards the dining room.  I lift my pack of cigarettes, as I’m seating myself, snatching one from the pack and simultaneously lipping and lighting the square.  I put it down delicately, to rest, on the pseudo ashtray, a small dish for soy sauce that I borrowed from a fine Sushi joint.  Quickly, I grip the opened bottle of merlot sitting in front of me, pouring the blood red liquid into a new glass, while relocating the cigarette back into my mouth.  It tastes good.  I toast myself on a day completed; silence validates my triumph.

I am tired, undoubtably.  Life is monotonous during the work week, for the most part, but I can not complain.  I am physically and mentally well and have the means to support myself comfortably.  Presently, there is little more I can ask for; I have been given all that one could ask for.  However, I do want and expect more of myself, but I know I have to earn it.  

I want to be a writer.  In the past year and a half I have explored my wish to determine whether or not my fascination with this art was a passing fancy or a predisposition.  I have concluded that my desires are true and have decided that I will stop at no lengths to satisfy my ambitions.  I have, for some time, struggled with the idea  that my university education has done little to nurture my disposition. Ultimately, I have come to terms with the fact that BA in International Business means almost nothing to me and will serve no purpose, in the future, but to act as a mutual friend between Wells Fargo and I.  It is of no matter though.  The experience was necessary in order to achieve my epiphany.  Therefore, I owe my time spent learning about inconsequential business practices to my realization of their impertinence in my future life.  Thank you Loyola for your service, but do not expect flattering endowment contributions from one Filip Kojic.

Anyways, I firmly do believe that every moment in our life, every decision we make, acts as a catalyst, for better or for worse, in the determination of the moment that follows.  Moments are not mutually exclusive and are all equally indispensable.  It is the responsibility of each individual to take ownership of their present reality and make decisions that are consistent with their desires, not falling victim to momentary illusions.  It would be egregious to say that human beings come into this world as finished products, capable of accurately deciphering situations and recognizing them as advantageous or disadvantageous.  It is through trial that we discover what it is we want and who it is we are.  It has taken me roughly twenty two years to recognize who I am and equip myself with the courage and audacity necessary to perceiver in a world disinterested in individual hopes and desires.  I have great faith that every person we have met, every place we have seen, everything we have done, has led us to the most important moment of our lives; that is the present moment.  Every second of our lives is an opportunity, a mysterious gift that grants us the liberty to choose.  Every passing moment is an opportunity to choose one’s state of mind, whether we are optimistic, cynical, empowered, discouraged, sedated or acute.  Our mind is the only thing that belongs to us as human beings, all else is or can be occupied by another.  We must be responsible for our only belonging and reign over it like kings.  Otherwise, we have nothing and are nothing.

The way I see it, we are all born into a river that spans our lifetime.  It is a strong direct current, a quick current leading you from your birth to your death.  Some float, some backstroke, some drown in this water.  It inevitably leads all of our scaly fish bodies to our demise at the end, a long waterfall into obscurity.  There is no exit from this fate.

I do believe that there exist smaller streams, much more placid, that flow near the river. They move through the surrounding terrain, through the forrest, amidst the flowers and the prairies. They all ultimately lead to the waterfall, but do not approach it with such great speed. They run lazily through the canyons and plains, teasing the earth below them with their languid current.

We have the choice to determine our route.

That is why I sit on my computer in these late hours, reading, learning, writing, yearning to find myself in this stream that I know I belong in.  It is not an easy decision, it takes great strength to find a branch, focus on it, reach out and pull yourself from the mighty current, placing yourself where it is you think you belong.  I choose to not float in this torrent and so I write.

In Large Part An Infection

Presently I sit in the Borders cafe, Michigan & Pearson, perched on the second floor, my  left shoulder touching the transparent balcony that surounds the quadratic opening looking down upon the entrance.  It is just past noon and the city is starting to bustle with activity.  A few hours prior this morning, I walked down Dearborn St, the single loveliest, most charming street in the city, surrounded by decadent town homes and immersed in rare Chicago tranquility.  The empty streets echoed with silence and all that could be heard was the occasional snow dripping from the naked tree limbs and my washed leather boots crunching the sidewalk, seasoned with salt.  A quiet smile expanded on my face as I smoked my first cigarette of the day, always the most succulent.

An older man, with slicked back white hair and a double breasted gray trench coat walked past me with his dog, a giant dark Mastiff, panting in excitement from his morning walk.  We nodded and exchanged morning pleasantries.  Shortly thereafter a woman, in her late 20’s, after rounding the corner from Goethe Ave onto Dearborn, comes jogging slowly towards me.  She is wearing black tights and a black North Face jacket, her sleek jet black hair is pulled back into a small bun; it bobs back and forth with her stride, like a wagging tail.  She nears and I can see her brown eyes, resolute but graceful as she moves towards me.  I’m wearing dark blue Levi Jeans and my black peacoat, buttoned tight against my body, the hood from my light colored Levi, striped button down shirt, hangs over my head like a head scarf.  She nears and we both watch each other.  Her gaze is powerful, laden with facile sensuality and delicacy; she keeps her eyes locked to mine.  I watch her, my eyes unwilling to abandon hers, as she approaches, mere feet away.  Momentarily, my heart slows and skips, then stops.  I feel death, birth and all of time in one moment as our shoulders graze, eyes locked, both smiling meekly.  I now see her closely as she is frozen in time next to me, mid stride.  She is lovely, her skin fair, her lips a lovely shade of scarlet.  I think of waking next to her tomorrow morning and eating breakfast together, no words being exchanged, only sharing each other’s company.  I reminisce upon our past, perhaps in another lifetime when we were lovers, intoxicated, obsessed with each other, living in our private nirvana.  She passes and acknowledges my supposition with a invisible confirmation deep inside her eye, down in her breast; from the place that gives her life.  We pass and my heart races, as I remove the remains of my shrunken cigarette from my mouth with my leather gloved hand, trembling slightly in shock, excitement, horror, sudden exhilaration.  I continue my walk south towards Division St., uninterested in turning around to see if she is looking.  The moment is entirely enough, and I smile in full force this time, flicking my cigarette butt into the surrounding snow; it extinguishes immediately.

Presently, I am enveloped in caffeinated adults that read and chat. I watch them, sipping on my own drink, a black coffee with soy milk, no sugar. The snow falls from the clouds outside, ever so lightly.  I stare at their faces, mouths opening and closing, almost in slow motion.  Eyebrows unfurl and curl; eyelids open and close, hands trace the air in exuberant illustration while the thumbs of others twiddle.  I don’t hear any external sounds as I listen to a song called “infiniti” by a band called The XX through noise reducing headphones probed deep in my ears.  Earlier as I was snooping around in Urban Outfitters, I heard the melody ringing through the store and was compelled to inquire about its identity.  Since then I have been looping the title on my Metallic Aluminum Unibody Mac, on which I currently write these words.  It has been played approximately 14 times in succession now.  The music, coupled with the orchestra of movement before me create a strange yet appealing arpeggio charm.  I am unusually happy, overflowing with love and exuberance.  Time passes quickly as human beings are spun in and out of my story through the revolving doors below me.  I feel terribly comfortable and content with the day, my life and the world at the current moment.  I am, otherwise, somewhat cynical and rather critical of this lifestyle and the people that occupy its confines.  But currently it is of no matter, in my universe, matters are in order.

There are no thoughts of murder, war, social inequality, health care, economy, obesity, consumer capitalism, moral degradation, greed, gluttony, loneliness, alienation, hate, envy, money...the future.  At this moment in time, I am happy and content with the room that I occupy and the people that sit around me.  There is a degree of normalcy that I am experiencing in this company of seemingly sane people all taking a break from an otherwise bizarre life.  Inevitably complicity awaits outside, manure.  I can already see the homeless littered on the streets like sandwich wrappers, lower middle income people lugging around colonies of bags, “Sale” it says.  They drag their sons and daughters, everyone seemingly carrying American Girl dolls, their eyes hollow and cold; taxi’s scream their horns as they lay unmoving in midday traffic...its so loud.  Somewhere a child sits alone, in a dark corner, its body slowly devouring itself, dying of dysentery; a former factory worker kisses his last drink, a banker arranges a multimillion dollar birthday party, held for his hopelessly jaded daughter, no humans will be in attendance.  

I nod to myself, look up at the ceiling, take a deep breath and recall the woman I saw this morning, the few friends I trust, my family and being a kid.  Air fills my lungs, I close my eyes and exhale, releasing my negativity.  The room seems brighter than a moment ago when my lights began to dim.  I am once again happy as I see a small child sleeping in his father’s arms on one of the lounge chairs adjacent to me.  I feel pretty good.  I hope to take that out through the revolving doors and carry it out into the world in the hopes that I will come across another person and infect them with my joy.