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.

ENDING A THEFT WITH A PREPOSTION

I've grown used to having things of mine being taken away. accustomed to the absence, and the ashes can attest. seems I'm always taking stock on one hand, and losing sleep on the other. "Keep dreaming." you can fucking have them. gladly be the Insomniac if sleeping meant this. and everyone knows loss in one form or another. everyone is secretly being fermented by their own tiny burglaries. their own private bitterness. at some point in your life, someone cracked the safe, and made off with your loot.

Dylan Thomas Told Me Not To Make A New Year's Resolution

I could easily give it all amiss and flail off into the negative degrees, my fat & pocked ass jitterbugging in the winter night, like a load of buckshot seeking shelter in ballistics gel. I could wish a universe of unaware beings a decent night; a paradigm of perception having nearly zero to do with myself. I could hope that Carson Daly was more adept at being the harbinger of a further 365 days of hardship and toil and hoping that being a white person doesn't quite suck so bad, despite the current prevalent hip-hop culture saturation. I could continue to love my little girl the way I do; placing her needs before mine, but yet being a wretched father. But, who the fuck am I to ask for such things, when there still remains Third World Countries in the world? What right do we have to complain? Fucking First World Problems... 

And, by the way, what the fuck happened the The Second World?  

  

HIJACKED BY YOUR OWN GHOST

it was earlier than he thought, when he was hijacked from a truly surreal anthological collection of dreams, by a sudden frontdoor tattoo. guess the whole piss, purify then prim thyself procession must wait. the frontdoor would've creaked like a phantasm, save that it'd been oiled a few months prior. and, speaking of spectres, the face his eyes met once the holy threshold had been broken, giving way to the unholy light of day, could've only been described as such: gaunt around the jaws and eyes, like some sensual demon yet, with the cheeks of a cherub, innocence insurrected by hunger. now, it was the eyes which clued him in. those eyes were mine, he thought. not as in, he desired them, but that they were his own eyes. a lazy jade green, like a mid-spring day, cluttered with insects and spores and wispy grass nearly dessicated by the sun. frame not exactly slight, because the shoulders wouldn't allow such physical geometry, but more like the desciption of a traditional youth would represent. and finally, as the eastern eyebrow, and western smile both jutted up to the sky, respectively, he simply knew.

"I think about you often", I said. 
"I know you do," he said, "We hear it quite a bit."