10 & 2

knuckles on my left hand are cracked & bloody, like a tainted alien shore. a jagged map that I'm finding has less to do with the season, and more to do with lack of cohesion. a concept not so much foreign, but mainly abandoned. eloquence is a bitch-goddess, to say the very least. relegate such trappings of specificity to the fucking hounds. 

albuquerque

I am the living personification of poor planning. or little to none, as my slippers would attest as they entered the liquor store to attain cigarettes. 
tears were shed, as per the notes below.

So, 

I was sitting in the canvas swivel throne in the yard of Lord Shiny Top, staring upwards into a nighttime firmament just this side of visible breath. and an interloping realization manifested like some specter of fucking superfluous revelation: this moment is the most peace that I've felt since I could remember. 

tragic peace....

it's not simply a question of what happened, but also when. as in, the chronology of tribulations is solid, yet the details are opaque. they fucking flange and ricochet back and forth inside my skull like a weeping child in the center of an empty gymnasium. the most rudimentary definition of lost. flailing, in point of fact.a tiny maroon wisp of cloud dissipating before your eyes. adding gravity to the term 'eventuality'.

 

our consensual firmament

my hands always feel the softest when I'm holding my little girl. not like the parched, coarse, reptilian things they are the rest of the week. when I'm wringing them bloody in frustration. it all goes away when they are brushing her cheek.

we can see the stars now, if you happen to be looking. the singular, undeniable fact that we all share; looming luminously above every human variable. our consensual firmament.

the steam from the factory southwest of where I stand, billowing up from the horizon, illuminated by city lights and made somewhat arcane through silhouette of dead winter trees. "it's like watching a god being born", I say to myself, as if to assuage the guilt. my hands, cold and brittle like frozen parchment, lighting an unnecessary cigarette. it must be Monday.

oubliette blues [1.13.2013]

like burying my face in a bear-rug soaked with a luxurious combination of tallow & alcohol, breathing in the ruin. the ghastliness & the weariness. the jagged fumes of it all, brutalizing me from the sinuses down. the brazen uselessness of it all, suffocating all things like a whiteout of acid-snow.

one day, when the sun is reaching the end of its tyrannical sovereignty, blinding all in its death-throes, we'll know the fucking name of our insignificance. 

by the way, Apophis, fuck you & your lack of commitment.   

 

oubliette blues [12.18.2012]

"this is winter for sure", Ol' Man Gutter says, squinting from the juxtaposition of hazy sunlight through leaveless and fir, kicking dust into my downcast visage.

there seems to always be something advancing from the darkness. something that cannot be stopped. and like ants scurrying futility from an enormous god-shaped shoe, we engage in our jittery primal dance of avoidance.

that shoe has a name, and that name is NATURE.

 

oubliette blues [12.7.2012]

….hell is this if this is hell if hell is hell….

even discerned by the ghosts in my cheap headphones. screeching, howling through the corners of my salt-encrusted mouth when the fucking sun tells my enflamed gut that it’s eggs&bacon fuck-you time. after sleeping in a frigid field littered with the desiccated remains of mustard beetles and out-dated porn. nostalgia, which is Greek for “you just don’t fucking get it, do ya?”

I once lived in a fear-cage. it was called exuent, which is Latin for “asshole that lives in a fear-cage.” I would take long walks along the college hipster sluiceway and peer existentially over Cache le fucking Poudre.

once, I heard an owl from across the street. a fucking owl, hooting like something out of a Hammer Film. I didn’t sleep for weeks.

…like a ripe fruit exploding in slow motion. like a Viking funeral on a lavish yaught. like a crime scene captured in brilliant pastels. like 7 jokers in a deck of 35. like a random function on a coffin. like an ellipsis in Braille. like a sunset viewed through night-vision goggles. like an all-expense paid vacation to Chernobel. like I give a sequential number of fucks where this is all going…

I feel it right in my fucking glands. the ones that tend to get cancerized. the ones that the predators enjoy the most. the softest ones.

September Reign [written 9.17.2012 & 9.18.2012]

we could make it quiet now, but for the simple act of wanting. face the bracing breath of this still mid-September night. its calmness is a mercy. a gift we lack the intellect to receive. the humility. the very basic gesture of simple grace. to open one’s hands in the shape of a cup, a rudimentary vessel of flesh and bone. we are but supplicants, all, to the dispassionate whims of an ambivalent universe. yet, its vast ambiguity is its benevolence. its promise of a gentle reign.

this is raw living. this terrifying act of existing. being awake is an ultimatum most harsh, and we offer it to ourselves at the breaking of every single dawn. yet, isn’t every threat a prospect in disguise?

September is not a threat. it’s a leaf-littered stroll down musky sidewalks, just after the rain has stopped, and a tiny hand squeezes yours more tightly when a distant thunder reaches your ears. (fighting back tears, because you don’t want them to confuse your smile.) September is a desert, and we are thirsty pilgrims. we ourselves are the vessels which we hold out in front of us in supplication, hoping to be slaked. let not a drop be wasted. regardless if it’s a tear, because even tears have their value.

seasons shift and shadows gain length. just remember that black is the presence of all colors, and the increasing cold is just an excuse hold someone closer to yourself. September is a cultivator of shadows. a reminder that the alchemist of winter is busy with a mortar and pestle, grinding the death of the year into a spice of renewal. a spice more precious than saffron. shadows are the rare root of such ingredients. but our eyes are meant for more than just the monochromatic melodrama of sight. the averting and the squinting. our eyes are the tongues of our comprehension. savoring the tea brewed by the ephemeral firmament, as the cloy of it all renames us as unwitting residents. living is a heady broth indeed.

the time comes when the tiny hand clutching your own will lead you down a nebulous path, dimmed by fear. but, fear is just another choice. another fork in the road that September has paved. and if you happen to pay close attention, as the path you are so fortunate to share blurs on by beneath your feet, that tiny hand just might be offering you a small piece of the sky.