..never knew there were worse things than dying..

"A man stepped off from his stoop out onto the sidewalk. Free from the peripheral shelter of his entryway, a gust of high Pacific wind licked his naked cheeks. For a scant moment he closed his eyes and inhaled, paying careful attention to the irregular heartbeat that thumped helter skelter beneath his ribcage. His lungs filled with cypress scented breeze as he slowly turned right and headed down the hill. His footsteps echoed between the chipped pea green wall to his right and the faucet of running automobiles to his left. After a moment forever lost, he stood upright and erect before the crosswalk, lifting his chin to gaze forth, his eyes locked on the stars. Without taking counsel from the stoplight that his chin so dutifully ignored, his feet commanded him forth, dropping down from the curb into the pocmarked desolation of the road. His terrified fingers grasped with a stranglers passion the lower lip of his pea coat. Step by step, his feet moved one in front of the other, as if on a balance beam, toward the opposite curb. Were his eyes to have ears, perhaps they would have strayed from the soft urban glow that blunted the stars. Rather his ears faced the shrill symphony on their own. The howl of horns, the screech of tires, the many voices yelling insults, and the ever erratic thumping in the center of his chest bade his ears wish for respite. Soon, his feet lifted him over the opposite curb onto the peaceful sidewalk, but not after near revolt from the remainder of his being. Sharply, he pivoted on his forward foot, spinning a quarter turn to his right. In his mind, a Spanish polka inhibited communication between his many parts, so his knees felt a new freedom. With the abandon of a racing Australian, they alternated to and fro, pumping perpendicular to his waste, propelling him forth. His chin needed to spy once again on the familiar ground, so it drooped, lazylike, to its natural position. With blinding electricity, neon signs raced past him on all sides, storefronts rounding into his periphery with each new lift of his Cossack knees.
At last his destination was reached. At once, stillness overcame him. Next to him lie the entryway to a convenience store. Behind the counter, a sinewy Kenyan chuckled knowingly, spitting between the wide gap of his yellowed grin. He raised a piece of parchment, waving it slowly left to right, before setting on fire with a rusty zippo.
The Spanish Polka ceased. At once all this man's faculties found eachother, acting toward one common and irreversible ambition. His leap instantly breached the stores entryway, his hands fast finding the wide forhead of the jesting Kenyan. Seconds later, a mere half skull rested in a bed of gore upon the counter. Quickly, he dipped the fired portion of parchment into the ever widening pool of blood.
Satisfied that this precious scrap had been extinguished, he opened it to read...."

"Is It Not Strange That Sheep's Guts Should Hale Souls Out Of Men's Bodies?"

Artemis was overjoyed. She sat facing west, watching the remainder of Apollo’s sluts push his pretentious fiery chariot down over the horizon. She reared her steed somewhere above New York City, needling through mountains with her huntress’ gaze. In the space of a few hours, her hunt would pull her over San Francisco, where she could visit that mad fool she took an interest in some months ago. Her stare gave a sneak peak of what was to come, though in extremely soft focus. She saw the bald outline of her interest, plucking with steely seriousity at some peanut shaped wood item with a rod stretching cords over the hollow at its center. There was something to this activity that put Artemis to rest. It certainly wasn’t the melody created from this exhibition, as the sound crashed with disarrayed chaos against the Rockies rather than assailing the stars. The mirage presented the possibility that this child was simply doing what he was supposed to. How Artemis had yearned for at least a glint of that from this asshole. She slid a great white arrow into the notch on her silvery bow, and launched it westward and out of sight. For a moment, she saw the blurred figure halt his activity and smile. Far off, she heard Apollo labor with great frustration as he tended to one of those damned harpies. The urban glow of New York flared with the charge of Artemis' delight.

"From Whose Bourne No Traveler Returns"

I think you may have some serious misconceptions about me. Naturally, people think "angel of death" and their minds fill with a bountiful harvest of cold dry air, skulls, dreary black cloaks, and bullshit. Well, I am here to attest that the only time I wear a big black cloak is after I fucked your mom. Just kidding. What I'm really trying to say is that I don't wear dreary black cloaks or play chess with pretentious Scandinavians on some beach with a swirl of myst about me. I am your only garuntee. And guess what? I garuntee a really good fucking time. How good, you ask? Think about Poison videos from the 80's (provided you can look back that far without all that Nevermind shit clouding your real judgement), and multiply that by 75. Then imagine impervious flights between mountaintops, fired by several lines of really fucking good cocaine. While your are spiraling carefree through the air, attempt your favorite yo-yo tricks in weaponlike fashion much like the heroic character in the old Nintendo game, GOONIES II. If you like women or men or anything else, think that they'll be really impressed by your actions, and overwhelmingly excited to watch "Raiders of the Lost Ark" with you. You may dive drill-like through whatever groundcover that may exist, but when you come to below, you will notice yourself in a landscape of florescent green at the foot of high mountaintops, with many midgets doing continual backflips. Very close by said midgets will be a remarkably charming Black homosexual Irish cleric. An arrangement of tables and chairs will be meticulously laid out in a circular pattern, with large pewter Goblets full of Absynthe. Elvis Presley and Janice Joplin will be performing a soaringly energetic version of "Take Me Home Country Roads". Seated will be all the smiles you ever knew, from every time and every face, with every lie removed. Amidst the center of this circle, I will dwell. You will sit and watch me whittle with your grandfather's knife a perfectly majestic Canadian Goose, which will explode into life and shit comically on someone in the crowd (who happens alot like Warrick Davis) much to everyones explosive delight. At which time, we shall have a pushup contest. Don't really worry about this. It's only a formality. An oppurtunity for me to whisper to you at every "DOWN" count, that its all really ok. That you didn't live for nothing, that your every exhale is still spinning the earth, and that pancakes need not be the width of a mil-spec parachute in order to properly hold blueberries. My gift to you will be an inate ability to dance a perfect tango, which you will show to the gathering with a perfect partner.

And this is only the introduction, get my drift?

Meet Me All By Break Of Day..

Strange stars hang in the night.

"WHAT MEN DAILY DO, NOT KNOWING WHAT THEY DO!"

***DISCLAIMER..TASTELESS WRITING, THAT DOES NOT REFLECT ON ANYTHING RELEVANT TO ANYTHING AT ALL...DO NOT READ IF YOU ARE MY MOM, OR ANY OTHER AUTHORITIVE FIGURE IN MY YOUNG ADULT LIFE...I FUCKING MEAN IT***

I am a pile of shit...literally. This is no fuckin' metaphor, simile, or uppity cracker ass literary convention. I am a big pile of feces with a crusty dried outer skin and a pumpkin pie fillin'. I reside here on the corner of Geary and Larkin on a piss caked sewer of a mutherfuckin' sidewalk. I see alot. I mean a fuckin' lot. You seen "Stand By Me?" That part where fuckin' Cory Feldman says "a pile of shit has a thousand eyes?" That nigga was all real talk, see. A thousand eyes is a fuckin' understatement. I see in three hundid and sixty degrees all up in this bitch, and have ever since I blasted out the scabby ass' that crack ass ho last week. And I'm still here. Shit. I share this sidewalk with more bodily fluids than Jenna Jameson had on them titties. That mess o' orange vomit over there, why this noddin' ass bitch with a syringe hangin' out his throat left that there on Tuesday. Can see the food stamp cheese and all that cup a' noodle shit. Puke, spunk, blood, piss, asspiss, beer, malt liquer, opium resin, syringes, crackpipe glass, used prophalactics, crystal, crackdust and weed ash all share my fuckin' house. Anyways, I just wanted to introduce myself. I may be relaying a little parable to y'all asses time to time. Till we meet again.

...If We Do Meet Again, Why, We Shall Smile...

The evening wind rattled with blustery zest the Victorian multitude of San Franciscan Windows. Their rattle was heard high above, where Artemis sat in contemplation upon her gleaming steed. Every now and then she'd fire a white bolt across the moonscape, decorating the sky with pale streaks of meteoric joy. The world rested beneath her in a deep, thoughtful peace. So heavy were the thoughts of the hour that her mad, dashing custom halted in delay. Too many minds groaned to be heard.

Her child sat in solitude below her, masked beneath the turreted rooftop. Man made artifice of such fleeting nature could never keep her separate from his ponderings, so close in spirit were they. She felt his thoughts drift to a small, fertile plot short hours from the river they call Ohio, in a hilly tree covered upland. Here, in the shadow of bright limestone towers and far green lawns, he saw the faces of his friends. People he missed dearly, with whom he hadn't spoken a great time. Their inate understanding of his nature, their appreciation for his qualities, their acceptance of his flaws, and their genuine and mutual desire to see him again all lived hopefully in the memory of their smiles. He strongly desired the opportunity to work with them again, crafting spectacles of humanity unadorned with the cumbersome demands of commerce and profit. To create life as it should be. To bear the brunt of gales and snows in small cozy halls with warm attire and hearty laughter. To fall madly into the glorious summer tumults. To be with family again...

Artemis had no clear understanding of what kept this longing child from executing his will in the matter. Some object of weight and importance, some challenge or lesson tethered him to the west. She appreciated his ties to the lovely selfless beings he knew in his surrogate home, with whom he'd spent the previous forty eight hours in a delightful explosion of mirth and glee. Nonetheless, some clear test remained, some obligation of tremendous significance and principled relevance. Where the boundaries of this test lie, there was no clear answer. From her own confusion on the matter, she could tell her frustrated son couldn't figure it out either.

So she sat with him for a time, sharing with him what little wisdom he could decipher. She then galloped east, where a more mature night required the potency of her guidance.

...And There We Live As Merry As The Day Is Long...

Apollo was most pleased. All morning long, new fire sprites, freshly delivered from the Delphic Oracle (now hidden from the eyes of men) met their divine deflowering by he, lighting up the sky with fire normally reserved for revelation. Now he sat, wreathed in golden flame, peering down at an occasion most to his liking.

A great assembly of mortals milled and laughed outside a modest home within a great white city. Every face wore the deep wrinkles of wide grins, and every voice rang with melodic beauty. Coals were lit, delivering the savory scent of fire cooked delights up to the very feet of Apollo himself. It appeared that Dionysus levied a strong blessing on this gathering as well, as many cups found welcome homes in highly raised hands. Some minstrels struck up music, moving the great audience deeper into the throws of their merryment.

At the fires stood that particular man Apollo had punished only a week prior. He felt this man's behavior a might bit peculiar, joyously hoisting his fellow revelers skyward with alarming regularity. Clearly this man took pride in manning the fires, basking in the clouds of smoke that issued forth from the grills. His hands seem to move through the flames without injury, as if the blaze itself took ally with his effort. His dignity swelled each time he passed off a finished meal, eagerly awaiting the blissful expression that predictably followed every first bite. Apollo chuckled at the simplicity of this being, though he did notice some absence stayed the full bloom of his rapture. Nevertheless, Apollo marveled at the relentless energy of his mirth.

The afternoon wore on, though Apollo's interest did not stray. He decided he would light the occasion until he heard the wild hoof beats of Artemis' steed. Strange rituals took place, where participants pressed themselves (with the aid of others) over large metal cans fitted with pumps, while a great mass counted how long the said participant could hold a hose in their mouth. Apollo stood stunned with how many individuals, male and female, did this. The mob delighted at the juvenile fervor this created, while some seemed flat incapable of standing afterward. He wondered why.

The hoofbeats sounded in the distance...As the crowd cleared, Apollo noted the words "Cinco De Mayo" etched on the glorious ground.

"Artemis must put this occasion to rest," he thought. "Were I to command the night, I would see that it never end..."

He noticed his fire sprites getting restless...

...When I Waked, I Cried To Dream Again...

"A streetlamp buzzed, coating the sullied sidewalk in a flickering dew of sepia and shadow. Shattered glass and shards of stainless metal cradled the light, granting asylum against the vacuum of dark that swallowed the night. Shouting and mad laughter, car horns and engine groans, rap beats and sad soft trombones all took their turn waltzing with the chimes of midnight. Cold colorless walls lept feet from the concrete, sheltering the vagabond's parade from the hope of stars.

The gap between his shoulder blades rested nervously against the cold metal lamp post. He felt the fear of every passer by, drifting by some measure from the ebony silhouette that matched his skin. He hated them. The further they drifted the more he desired to realize their fear, burying them in the cuts with his gangsters scowl and felons menace, all the while drowning his heart in scalding baths of self loathing. He trembled, doubling over with hurt, searching with shaking desperation for the glass pipe in his pocket.

Resin, left over from this afternoons use, caked the pipe's hollow. As a heavy sob threatened to storm from his emptiness, he fired the black reminence, soft inhaling with the gentle tenderness of a summer boardwalk kiss. His lungs held in their swirling bounty like a woman in want of child clenching inside herself the wet treasure of sex.

Eyes closed, his exhale grew into a great cloud backlit by beams of neon in the twilight. All went numb. All went silent. All that remained was a chasm carved by despair, sharp and jagged in defiance of love. His eyes opened.

He felt nothing at all..."

How I have wept for you.

...Had I Power, I Should Pour the Sweet Milk of Concord Into Hell...

Off the coast of the lower Dneiper River, 1648...

The smoke swirled low, crushing ash into the narrow cavity of breathable air that clung to the riverbed. Headless corpses and blood muddied the water's shallow into a slush of carnage, luring a legion of carrion birds to dim the midday sun. Fire lept skyward from the smouldering ruin of blackened wagons to escape the horror of the earth, and a ring of pikes circled the surf capped with the gored ivory of skinless skulls...

The squat, rust skinned men moved from the crimson steppe, dragging a hooded, weathered captive. With a jesters glee, they pulled off the hood, revealing the nightmare landscape. As the captive gasped in horror, a long blade slid silently along the front of his neck. To stay his collapse, the men held his flaxen hair taught, stretching the fissure in his throat, widening the gout of scarlet that painted the virgin white of his tunic. From behind, he was lifted by the curvature of short blade sneaking between his lower ribs, halving his lungs before finding home in his swift beating heart. At long last, a hatchet fell between his neck and right collarbone, cleaving down toward his middle sternum. As he exploded upon the the frightened ground, his vision of hades faded into the snow white of passing...

From the crowd of Zaporozhians emerged a tall, sinewy wraith tatooed cap-a-pe with thorns and brambles. His pale blue eyes were as stars against the shadow he cast in every direction. From his sheath he pulled a cleavers blade and gently held it sideways in the blood that raged from the suspended corpse. Peacefully, he raised the crude instrument to his pursed lips and blew softly, caking coagulate in volcanic patterns up and down the cutting edge. Without changing the blade's proximity to his face, he wandered slowly forth with closed eyes into the draw of the river. In one crescent sweep, he swung his weapon through the sullied water, and up over his head, opening his eyes to the mirage created in the mix on his implement...

To his astonishment, he saw the face of the man his cohort had just butchered, along with a host of other mixed folk, staring intently at a woman with some kind of anglo-saxon accent in brown attire. Flat, white walls surrounded them, with one particular section covered in some form of script. Reading their lips, he noticed they insisted upon substituting the sound "and" for "but", and seemed encouraged to speak vaguely so as to avoid any proper conclusion from any exchange. This was leadership? Outside, the outline of buildings that existed nowhere currently lined the sky, and the windows vibrated with the pulsing noise of machines not powered by men. This man seemed happily amused with the whole scene, learning something of what powers drive the human mind!

With the frustration of a tantruming waif, he spun his gaze back toward the beautiful slaughter of the shore.

Zounds!! How could this be!! We have just spillt the blood of a village, and made such incision in this man that his soul watered the earth!! Yet he sits, alive in a time distant, mocking the terrible power of our uprising!!

He returned his glance upward to his blade. His quarry was now in a bizarre dark room, lined with iron bars fitted with circular discs, and filled with men that moved far to daintily for their bulk. Elevated on multicolored platforms, oddly clothed folk with multicolored hair did half committal dances. This Germanic bastard was clearly not pleased with his surroundings in this episode, which brought great delight to the gaunt Zaporozhian. For him to walk so happily, even in a mirage, moments after he had been so gloriously filleted? Not acceptable.

Once again, his glance returned. Only this time, it was met directly by the stare of his once vanquished foe. For the moment, they locked eyes, and knew each other's mind.

Until we meet again...

Stay Your Thanks Awhile, And Pay Them When You Part...

Artemis charged and reared intently in the reeling starscape. Her great white steed pounded out thunderous hoof beats in the far blue ether as she poured nightshine over Austin with the silver throb of her wild hunters gaze. Relentlessly she twirled and dashed, arms lifted above her ebony hair in savage homage to the sinful passing of another sacred night. Soon, she would pass governance over this half of the world to her brother and his garish blaze. How this passing ravaged her heart, and how her dance exploded with the madness of grief.

"Debouched fool!! Lounging lazily in his glorious throne with that pathetic harum of harpies paying lipservice to the notion of his greatness!! HA!! How I love to scatter them with the fury of my approach!!"

All at once, she stayed her frenzy, halting suddenly with the onset of heartwarmth and nurturing concern. Below her, one of her children raced in a steel carriage toward the uttermost west. At once she knew his mind, as it was close to hers, and subject to the same whims.

There was melancholy, distilled potently into the lining of his spine and tickling his nerves with numbing sorrow. There was reflection, confused and alive, massaging the workings of his mind and confounding him with a decided lack of answers. There was hope, spirited and free, tiptoeing and spinning lightly along his heartstrings. But most of all there was thanksgiving, welled in the depths of his stomach, nourishing every fiber of his being.

His time in Austin was well spent, she reflected, feeling somewhat guilty over the tortures she outsourced from Apollo, fully aware that she couldn't very well punish the presence of herself in others. He has learned much here, and inches all the while closer to full knowledge of his own small place in the tides of time...

"Apollo, may you light his way safely home," she whispered to the far golden glow gathering in the east.

With that, she spurred her steed forth in a great and terrible leap, moving from her stillness with suddenness of a lightning bolt. Artemis charged laughing into the eastern sunrise, elated at the prospect of terrifying those silly fire sprites..

"Sick Almost To Doomsday With Eclipse"

Apollo reclined peacefully into the soft inferno of his burning throne. His morning had been quite wonderful, as he was particularly vigorous in ravaging his fire sprites. Dangling from his golden hand sparkled a silvery scroll, sealed with the sign of Artemis. His lordship over the western half of earth had lasted a good seven hours already, so to receive notice from his sister at such an hour struck him as quite odd. Why would she interrupt her hunt? With a troubled brow, he gently broke the seal, and watched the luminous scroll unfurl before him.

"Brother, I interrupt my hunt to humbly beg your assistance in a matter of profound importance. One of my children has lost his way, and forgotten that he is of flesh composed. Under me, his discipline wavers, and the night has no means to stay his furies. You are strong over that part of the world, and as I know the mind of my son, he is not hiding from your eye. Please use your influence to subtly remind him that though he is one of my children, he is not of my matter. He is of the earth. I thank you, and offer you this bow as a sign of my gratitude."

At that moment, a great recurve bow materialized in his left palm, blue as midnight and strung with moonlight. The firey blaze about him retreated for a moment at the blinding white majesty of so kingly a gift.

Though his post romp state did not predispose him toward taking part in disciplinary action on behalf of his sister, he really liked the fucking bow. He continued reading.

"The arrogance of my son will manifest itself in the training he undertakes during your hours. His actions during mine do not prepare him for such ventures, but he has grown bold, and will act out of accordance with the natural state of man. In the course of his blasphemy, make him know your eye. I am eternally grateful."

Apollo smiled, and leaned over the left arm of his throne to gaze upon the doings of the world. He spied a young man, confidently charging up the stairs in front of what appeared to be a great tower. With his fingertip, he traced a path for the young man to follow, dividing the clouds and opening up the earth to the fires of his gaze. Along this path, the young man he watched with distinct intent, as he lumbered at a slackening pace, feeling the infernal glare of a well tended deity. "You will know your flesh," Apollo chuckled, as the young man clutched his sides with agony. Occasionally the young man steeled himself and plowed forth with renewed resolve, but these episodes became shorter and shorter, as Apollo quickly corrected them. After some time, the young man finally returned to his dwelling, limping, gasping, cramping, and coughing.

Upon observing the conclusion of this disciplinary action, Apollo leaned back into his throne satisfied with himself for so easily disrupting the hubris of this foolish boy. His fire sprites danced gingerly out in the distance, throwing their impassioned gaze towards his. He withdrew a sunbolt from the quiver resting on the left arm of his throne, and in summons, fired it skyward from the gleaming brilliance of his newly acquired gift. He, after all, required no such rest.

"There Was Some Old Song That Said..."

Often times, after a gathering, there will remain a table cluttered with glasses, bottles, bowls, cups, and cans. It is of the utmost importance that this table remains as such for a short time, so that the occasion may enjoy the same passing memorial that we will, lying with our memories six feet below our graves. It was...

This is the image that sits in front of me on an Austin morning, framed with the lush backdrop of a central Texas spring. Being a current San Franciscan, I cannot stress how much of an impression this makes on me, as our fair city has no room in its residential heart for such trivialities as trees, space, or laughing birds.

An empty charcoal bag sits on the upper patio, its mouth open to the sun. Only several hours prior, this vacant vessel fueled a proper infernal dance, which climbed the walls of our grill to leap at the smiling chins of those drawn to its warmth and majesty. In memory, the faces of all who met live in the glow of these flames, merry and diamond eyed, floating in the dark of the night.

Behind this gaping, empty bag, the windows of my dear friend's home reflect the morning back on itself, hiding its slumbering occupants from the sleepy eyes of the world. Not all the glass panes of this fair structure are intact, as I, with nimble arms and good intent, have broken one. The circumstances of said breaking are unimportant, but suffice to say that in the throws of my festivity, often times my coordination decides to take a shit. Whilst this said shit proceeds, no task I may undertake is spared the danger of destruction. These occasions oft transform me into an over affectionate bear, so present humankind is never properly spared from the slight agony of my ever present and honest love.

And a loving occasion it was...and there will be many more...as long as my fortune lasts...and hopefully beyond. The trail across the crick begs for running, and my pores beg for cleansing, so until we meet again...