Wednesday, May 23, 2007

"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?

Wednesday, May 16, 2007

Tuesday, May 15, 2007

"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.

Monday, May 14, 2007

...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.

Sunday, May 6, 2007

...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...

Friday, May 4, 2007

...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.