Asphodel [2.19.2015]

One of the reasons I love Greek mythology is it's specificity regarding the afterlife. The underworld is divided into three sections: Elysium, where all the pure people go, the ones who lead virtuous lives. Tartarus, reserved for the truly despicable. Christians call it "Hell".  And last, but not least, my personal favorite - Asphodel. Again, Christians call this place "Limbo".

 [On a side note, following a theme, the reason why there are so many correlations between Greek myth and, well, any other pre-history pagan mythology, and Christianity is that the Christians were notorious for swooping into a region and stealing the local religion in order to make it their own. The Holy "C" invented rebranding, folks. I am a high school drop-out with a GED & I know this shit. Catch up.]

As an easy reference, picture the candy-colored suburban landscape of "Edward Scissorhands", but, add to it the image of everyone doing the same inane tasks over & over & over & over ad nauseum. Saying, "Howdy neighbor!" at the same moment every morning without fail. No deviation. No shift in direction. Absolute static.

My point being, this is where we live now. In absolute static. In Asphodel, population: everyone.

succumb 2.19.2015

One day I will succumb. I don't know when or how. And you will read about me the next day. They will inevitably portray me as a loser who gave up. If I get portrayed at all. Most likely I will just be another statistic to be tallied upon the abacus of useless tragedy. Albeit, I desire no obituary, nor do I request any type of funerary ritual. Hopefully, the simple memory of my existence will suffice. As well as, if I'd adequately done my job as a father, the legacy that is my daughter. 

The Seemingly Undying Legend Of The Blo

This is our town. We know, because no other town in the known Universe would offer so little of its citizens, yet receive so much in return. Its valleys dip and swell, as if it deserved such topographical gifts of diversity. And, speaking of diversity, this town is also blessed with a certain magical version of such, betwixt the harsh reality. Yet, the spirit cries out constantly, like the sirens. The fucking spirit snarls like the dogs.  It's breaking apart, in secret, under our ever-gentrified feet. The levee sheds its skin, like some ancient Serpent God. And, the lanterns are lit in supplication, down the lane. In the south, the dragon blows through both nostrils, and the breath carries all the way to Albuquerque. 

braided hills [written 2/14/2015]

I cherish the intelligence of crows, therefore I remain a fool. Just not your fool. the highway is the same old trail to hell, depending on the condition of the boatman, it seems. biting my tongue, and quelling the urge to be forever fraught with malice inescapable. yet, the encroaching sunset throttles me with a strange truth: as dire as it seems, as desolate as it appears; at least we know that the rains are falling. this revelation came to me because, as the hills blurred past my passenger window (the same hills that blurred past the same window time & time again), I noticed that those very same hills appeared, suddenly to me, as if they had been braided together. like the hair of a slumbering beauty, awaiting the kiss of her savior, awakening her into a vitality laden with the promise that only a sunrise could fulfill.