Questions on Concept Bricks / Critical Thought Bed Bugs – a poem by John Ian Bush

Part One



Question: is freedom free?

Answer: Hell, no.

The bricks we use to build concepts cost five dollars each. That’s not even counting the cost of labor.

No, no, freedom costs.


Question: what all do these bricks make?

Answer: What don’t they?


The Berlin wall was made of these bricks.

Ronald Reagan’s presidency was made of these bricks.

And President Bush was of these bricks.

And his son was of these bricks.

And Bill Clinton was of these bricks.

And Barrack Obama is of these bricks.

In fact all presidents, all politician’s, all campaigns were and are of these bricks.

Nazi Germany was built from these bricks.

And the Nazis  built their death camps from them.

And  their ovens.

And their ghettoes.

People have died and suffered, imprisoned in structures made of these bricks.

Children have marched in sand and jungles, carrying guns, fighting wars against and for the concepts man has built from these bricks. They have bled and they have seen the bleeding of others, they have made others bleed, and they have then came home to their family, watched television and cried.

The governments of all the nations were made of these bricks.

Churches are made of these bricks.

The most powerful armies are of these bricks.

All the most wondrous art are from these bricks.

All things subjective are made from these bricks.

All thing of beauty are of these bricks.


Question: Where do these bricks come from?

Answer: these bricks are cooked in factories of the mind.

You are a factory.

The children are all factories.

Even I am a factory.


Question: What is freedom?

Answer: it’s critical thought!



Part Two



There is a problem, my dearest factories.


It has infested our homes like bed bugs.

And like the bed bugs, it is sucking us dry.

Not of our blood. No. No. Our blood is safe.

These bed bugs are draining us, the factories, of critical thought.


Question: Why?

Answer: they do this so we’ll make the bricks the way they like them to be made.

I write this morally anxious,

Spiritually empty,

Intellectually anemic,

mentally disturbed

and physically sound.

This is my attempt at picking the bed bugs from my flesh.




They’re All Ants – a short story by John Ian Bush

Part One


I’m watching them all from my parents’ bed room window, I think they’re all so sad. They’re all ants. They’re all ants besides Patches and me.

Patches is my dog. She about eighteen years old, her tits hang and drag on the ground, her face is eaten up by flees, but she’s still got enough in her to bark and chase every car that drives by our house. She’s a survivor, that’s why she isn’t an ant like everyone else.

I love Patches above everybody else because she’s the only one that recognizes my greatness.

I have a secret, I wish I was God.

I wish I could cast judgment over all the ants from a throne of sovereignty and holiness.

I wish all the people at school, all the sluts and big jockey pricks would have to look up at me on Judgment Day, after I lit the whole world ablaze, and beg me not to throw them into the pit. I’d throw them in anyways, though.

The only people who’d be safe is Patches and me, maybe my friends too, but they’d be my court jesters at best.

It’s no secret I have trouble in school, but that’s because the teachers are all fools and don’t understand me, and the ants they have me peered with are beneath me; I know they are, and one day they’ll all know it too, and when they do, Patches and I will laugh.



Part Two


It’s after school now, I’m standing in the crowd in front of the school waiting for my mom to pick me up. My jesters are standing around me with their foolish, unintelligent-looking faces, they’re blowing unintelligent words from their drool covered mouths. I don’t know why humans think they’re any less primitive than other animals. These people are nothing but knuckle dragging, dull-eyed, brain dead apes to me. Patches is much smarter than any of these idiots.

They don’t see my greatness. Fools.

I’m surrounded by foolish apes and filthy sluts. Every girl my age is either horribly unattractive or whores. Even the good looking girls that don’t seem like whores are whores secretly. Underneath their modest clothes and the shy bull shit masks they wear, they’re all whores, and they won’t even fuck me because they know I’m on to them.

Those sluts aren’t real women, they’re meat bags shaped like women.

I wish I didn’t have a sex drive, sex is ugly and beneath me.



Part Three


I’m walking Patches now on top of the levee. The sun’s going down and I’m happy watching her run.

I’m looking now over the river, and I’m facing it, I’m spreading my arms out as if I’m presenting the sunlight that’s reflecting off the water to the world: my gift to the ants.

Again, I wish I was God.

I wish I was God, and I wish an Atom bomb would drop over all of the world and leave only Patches and I to roam the leftover wasteland without the whores and big jockey pricks, and even without my jester friends.

I wish I was God and I wish it was only Patches and me.

Weed Man – a short story by John Ian Bush

My meeting with my shrink yesterday went bad. To start with, my mother called her before and told her that she thinks I’m bipolar, but really, she’s just a bitch. Plus my shrink is always trying to get me to talk to her about everything and she acts like she gives a shit about me, but she’s just some pretty lady that went and got a degree so she could get paid to sit behind a desk and talk to people and listen to them bitch about everything. I don’t hate her or anything, I like her, actually, but what I said is true. Besides that, I don’t think she’s the right person for me to talk to about my problems; she’s pretty, like I told you, and I lust after her a lot, if I’m being honest. Of course, I’m fifteen and I lust after every pair of tits I come across. But she’s different to me, she’s part of my collection. I collect people I like in my mind, and when I do that and someone else starts to take my place in the person I’ve collected’s life, I go mad with jealousy. I hate to think that my shrink has any other patients.

I did talk to her yesterday, though, and a lot of the time I don’t. I told her about Big and about how I spend most of my nights high and that I’ve been watching a lot of porn lately, like a lot more than what I use to or should. She told me Big wasn’t a good influence and I should stay away from him. I called her a bitch and that pretty much ended the session.

Big’s a weed dealer that I know from my neighborhood, he lives in a small house on the corner of my block. He’s twenty-three, he has a baby, he’s almost four hundred pounds and he spends most of his time in his living room. There’s usually porn playing on his TV, which is probably part of my porn problem. He always keeps the volume up and the sounds of the moans and groans get caught in my ears and I can’t help but get hot and bothered. I spend a lot of time over at Big’s, sometimes for business and sometimes because he’s fun to talk to and he’ll usually smoke with me for free, and he’s one of the people I’ve collected and I don’t want anyone else to take my place.

Anyways, I don’t mind watching porn with him, except when his baby’s in the living room with us. I told him he ought to turn it off when she’s in the room, but he says it won’t hurt her any, but I’m worried about her. She’s two now and I’m afraid she’s starting to catch on. I’ve never met the mother and he never said anything about her to me, so I don’t ask.

Anyways, I do deliveries for Big. What I do is I get money from kids at school, usually the church kids or the ones that live out in the sticks and can’t get to a dealer, then I go and get the weed from Big, then I bring it to the buyers the next morning. Big doesn’t pay me, but he smokes with me a lot, like I said, and I really just do it to spend time with him. Also I

like doing deliveries because I like how people come to me wanting something they can’t get unless I do it for them. I’ve been thinking about dealing myself. I’ve been selling my ADHD meds to Big for a few weeks now, it’s quick money.

If I become a dealer someday, I hope they give me a name too. Big’s real name is Earl, they call him Big because he’s so damn fat. My name’s Daniel, I’m not really fat or anything, but I’m wide. Besides that, I’m pretty normal looking, other than the fucked up teeth I got from my mom and the fact that I’m a fucking giant compared to everyone else my age. I’m fifteen and I’m over six feet tall. What I’d like to be called is Weed Man. I like that.

Anyways, yesterday, before my appointment that ended bad, I woke up about twenty minutes later than I usually do because I spent the whole night texting my ex girlfriend. I only slept for about two hours. She kept telling me about how she missed me and all that and about how she wanted to hang out with me again like we use to. She was just being a prick tease, in all honesty. I know that she was because when she took longer than five minutes to text me back, when finally did, she told me she was sorry it took her so long and that she was texting her boyfriend, or some other son of a bitch who I’d punch in the face if I had the chance. I hate any guy that she texts. My ex is in my collection.

I was supposed to deliver weed to a guy named Kevin Hurt yesterday. Kevin’s a giant pain in the ass. He’s always beating up on small guys in the locker room during gym, and he’s a real big guy so no one does anything about it. I wish I wasn’t such a coward. If I wasn’t, I’d beat him to the ground, I think. I can’t stand big sons of bitches who pick on small weak guys. Guys like that make me want to slit their throats and through their bodies in the river. If I did that, I don’t think I’d regret it. Anyways, Kevin never messed with me. Probably because I’m so damn tall. He’s actually never said a word to me until the day before when he asked me to get him twenty bucks worth from Big. I got it for him, but I smoked at least five dollars worth because he’s a such a fuck. People like him don’t pay for twenty without me taking five. That’s another thing I like about doing deliverers, I get to be a judge. If people are fucks, I smoke off them, if they’re alright, I’ll do them right. I’m like God or something, in my small sad way. I did something like that

to an old girlfriend. She asked me to get her some weed, but she was a bitch about it and she hadn’t talk to me for two months

before she asked me to hook her up, so I took her money and smoked all of her weed and texted her and told her that I was robbed. That bitch never even acted like she cared that I might have been beaten up or anything. All she did was texted  me back telling me that I owed her. I’m telling you now she won’t see a dime from me.

Anyways, I skipped my shower and skipped brushing my teeth, I got down stairs and grabbed a handful of chocolate candy from a bowl sitting on a table in the living room and called it breakfast. It’s getting close to Christmas, my mom uses the holidays as an excuse to have bowls of sugary shit in every damn room of our house.

It was cold and I didn’t have a jacket because I left it at Big’s the week before and someone stole it. There was still ice on the streets and sidewalks from a snow storm from a few days before. I ended up missing my bus, and I wasn’t about to walk all the way to school in the cold that early. To start with, I hate my school, especially my first class because the teacher doesn’t teach us anything and I’m failing anyways. I’m just counting down the days until I can go to vocational school, so I figured to Hell with it. I could miss a day.

I went to Big’s first, but he didn’t answer the door, so I walked to my cousin’s house. She lived in this little ran down duplex a few streets away from me. Her name is Angie. She was hardly ever up before noon. I woke her up by banging on her door and yelling up at her bed room window. She got up and let me in, she was red eyed and she was mad, I could tell. She didn’t  asked me any questions, she just told me to keep quiet if I was going to hang around. As soon as I stepped into her living room, she went back to bed. I set an alarm on my phone because my appointment with my shrink was at four and my mom was picking me up right from school. I was going to have to walk down there before school let out, wait until the last bell rang and act like I went. I ended up going to sleep there on Angie’s couch. The whole house was rotten with bed bugs, the damn things nearly ate me alive. The alarm woke me up. I went to Angie’s fridge to see if there was anything I could get my hands on. I was nearly starving. I normally eat like a pig. She had nothing in there but a little Jim Bean, which I took a quick drink from, and a twenty-four pack of beer. I took eight beers out and piled them in my backpack, then left. I thought maybe Big and me would share them later.

The city library is right across the street from the school, so I waited in the alley behind it for class to let out. I thought I’d give Kevin his weed if I could spot him quick enough, but I couldn’t find him.

My appointment went like I told you and my mom and me got into a fight about something stupid in the car, and it kept on the whole way home. She started cry and she ran to her room as soon as we got home and I didn’t see her for the rest of the night.

The first thing I did when I got home was I went upstairs to my room — I live in the attic. I smoked a bowl from Kevin’s weed. I decided he was a big enough prick for me to rip him off for ten dollars worth. After the bowl, I went down to Big’s again. He still wasn’t there, or he was asleep, or he just didn’t answer the door, so I cussed at his window. I called him a lazy fat fuck and I went home lonely. I ended up smoking the rest of Kevin’s weed because fuck him, I could. I stared up at my ceiling high for hours thinking about all the time I spend alone, and by the time I was done thinking about that, my high was dead and I was sad, so I started to drink the beers I got off Angie. I began thinking maybe I ought to become a drunk or a bum or something. If I were a drunk or a bum, I could hang out with the other drunks and the other bums, and nobody would ever replace me or leave me or say I was bipolar or not answer when I come knocking on their door with beer or try to tell me about bad influences.

Anyways, I had no one to talk to, so I just sat back and drank and thought about how much I wanted to have sex with my ex, the one I spent the night before texting. I pulled out my phone, the battery was just about dead. I sent her a message asking her if she ever gave a damn about me, she sent one back saying of course she did. I told her that if she did, she’d send me nudes. She didn’t text me back. I kept on, though. I told her how lonely I was, how much I wanted her, that I missed her, that I was in love with her and all that. I texted her until my phone died, then I cried.

I started to think, though, if she had sent me the pictures, I’d have just thought she was a whore, then I’d make myself crazy thinking about how many other guys she may have sent them too. I was going to be disappointed either way.