Tread abide, heavily.
“Tread lightly.” Walter White
“Resist much, obey little.” Walt Whitman, Leaves of Grass
I had the pleasure of meeting many great people as of late, some of them just happened to fall into the shadow of the ash that fell from the mushroom cloud. It was a long time coming, I knew it was in there – it was just a matter of the fuse being lite, and time being syphoned into a counterclockwise whore dancing as the rye flowed through the funnel and caught fire.
Flames licked the soul, feet burned on the coals and the voices in the head fought for some kind of space to come spinning out of the turnstile of profanity that came forth. Flesh was pressed for the sake of feeling a pulse, hoping it matched the beat in the blue vein on my cock. Beacons in the lonely night hoping there would be a reason to reach out and look at Pat Bentsofar, her ass a lonely heart in the night Yes might seek out backstage for a tuning of the right fork or the long neck.
Resting in the place of this fire, fighting to keep the words from rushing to every porous oracle in my body, oozing out no regard for the perimeter or the environment. Want of nothing but the ability to occupy the seconds that search for another way in, or out. Meaning in the motion of having to occupy the fire, halved for a period of time to move forth to another dimension, dementia the flavor of the sherbet. Lemons.
No such word, looked it up.
Saw the picture of the black dude from Snatch.
I am in the thirteen year of Hell.
There will not be a fourteenth.
It shall end now.
I shall end now.
I surrender – nothing.
Keeping it all.
Showing, but not surrendering.
I swear by my very life, this will be the case and yet am still not assured of you being here to listen.
The reasons, they will all be told.
Have been, now I have to edit.
Must I have to keep buying time from some of the queries, another weak offer that included a bottomless supply of Tabasco. I told them any good writer has salt and red blood to use for his Caesar.
Boils, zits, self inflicted cuts – accidents.
There is always a bloody, fuck you Mary somewhere.
To doubt this is to not have soul, no passion. No life or love for the word.
The fight for it.
The feel of it as a sword, or a feather – but, in the arena possessed.
Measured by time, and then what?
Tired, and have been of so much – so wanting to just keep running and hiding in the busy days of repainting, or hoping there could be a call to vent about another fucking PTA event that would provide a fresh wheel for the cart. A way to keep the mask clean of the dust and the oblivion found on the road…so cold…so tired.
Those that wish, may.
Discretion is their own, like mine.
I will sleep when I am dead.
I will live, when I can.
I will abide, heavily.
Informed consent is not something that is agreed upon in a moment of allowing a faulty argument to be made about consequences of actions, and doing the same thing. The risk and reward of many things come from one kind of action, and not another. Find the truth in the darkest of the spaces, wonder not why they hid them there. Wonder why you had to seek something in the space, and how you had planned to benefit from it – other than to simply give it life. Give it purpose.
My time on will change, you have seen it do so in the last year.
I yours, if.
It will continue to do so over the coming months.
Fascination with meaningless numbers no longer binds the elements of sunshine and rain, joy and stain.
It is time for the beautiful grass.
So pretty, such a nice dream.
It must mean spring has sprung, and yes.
Yes, to your yes.
Such a very fine guess.
Wrong, but a fine guess.
Yes to your yes.
I just have to write alone for the days and nights, but we can sit and talk.
I will speak, you will listen and praise me.
Tell me there is good in all that is done.
Hand me a buttered scone and provide a tea to warm the throat, now parched from lack of spirits.
Drunk on life again.
Mad on the intoxication of the words.
Treating me like the whore I am.
I have become.
A slave to the need to see them appear, and then leave.
Never satisfied, never aware.
Fucked by Rye, and left as the doorstep of another frat house of eternal brothers and tales to tell of the vulture that circles overhead.
Eat the meat, it is safe.
We all turn to dust anyway.
Even pages, words – will now change.
Find misery in the dark cinema, touching itself in the right places as the screen plays another black and white epilogue of Laurel proving his partner and he are characters.
Silver screens no longer functioning for what we thought, and you ask my why I simply do and see as I do, unaware of the rage that is chased on the tales.
Fucking beast, chasing his rage on the tail of a typewriter.
One mode, and much of it.
“All beauty comes from beautiful blood and a beautiful brain. If the greatnesses are in conjunction in a man or woman it is enough…the fact will prevail through the universe…but the gaggery and gilt of a million years will not prevail. Who troubles himself about his ornaments or fluency is lost. This is what you shall so: Love the earth and sun and the animals, despise riches, give alms to every one that asks, stand up for the stupid and crazy, devote your income and labor to others, hate tyrants, argue not concerning God, have patience and indulgence toward the people, take off your hat to nothing known or unknown or to any man or number of men, go freely with powerful uneducated persons and with the young and with the mothers of families, read these leaves in the open air every season of every year of your life, re-examine all you have been told at school or church or in any book, dismiss whatever insults your own soul, and your very flesh shall be a great poem and have the richest fluency not only in its words but in the silent lines of its lips and face and between the lashes of your eyes and in every motion and joint of your body…” Leaves of Grass