Dionysus
I have known Dionysus long..
Through wine, dance and song..
And he has known me, with a fervor strong..
From dusk to dawn he reigns the naught..
Many times I have made him laugh..
In grape-stained revelries of spaz..
Tragic and grasping for lunar ecstasies..
Beneath stars, my fate spelled by their parting..
Most recently in the wake of a full moon..
The mighty beast that lurks within my womb..
Begging for penance and silvery boon..
Soon consumed all thoughts of light..
What's right and orderly; our lord Apollo..
Yet as he sleeps his fiery head beneath dusks edge..
And the blood of madness t'was swallowed..
From the hollows b'neath did he wake..
A quaking unmistakable, led to the wooded nook..
As the drums pound and the animals surrounding took..
The clothes are stripped, in the life of the vine we drown..
Eyes roll back belying the pale light of Night Sky's crown..
Flesh upon flesh and the pouring of blood..
Like the jackle in hunt, like the doe in prance..
Leaping fiendishly, swaying with the witches of chance..
Dionysus upon his throne of mud and folly smirk'd..
A fire of three stories height burned at center..
Around we swirled, as the heat of primal surge splintered..
Teeth fanged and barred as dissonance rang..
His command; "Submit yourself to the Flame."
Without Reason's block, I twirled into the pit..
Enveloped by maelstrom my body lit..
I sang a song of scream and pain disintegrating to wisp..
Entertained the Mad-God bellowed the laugh of a kid..
The rest is fog and lost, the others run off and gone..
Apollo wiping the sleep from his eyes peered o'er the dawn..
There I lay naked, alone yet strong..
Clothed in the grace of remembering melody; his wild song..
Lay to Bare - A Broken Memoir (2, 1, 7, 6, 5, 4)
2
...there i go.. Straight back to die..
Here i am now;
so much later
gouging my eyes out
with the broken pieces.
Still.
And Still i hold onto Her.
But Her image is tainted
with Him...
and i just can’t
Shake the feeling
that Her heart
belongs to Him.
i love this
woman. My childish...
1
Pain,
Embarrasment,
Humiliation,
Defeat,
Cowardice,
Regret.
Hatred,
For myself.
Hatred,
for Shelly.
Hatred,
for Jared.
Hatred,
for the world.
Hatred,
for Her
for Her not showing me
then and there.
Hatred,
for myself
for not rising.
And Still i
carry this
Hatred,
in my mind,
in my heart,
it lives
and dies
on Her word,
on Her touch.
And if She can’t
Deliver...
7
...let Him have Her.
To insinuate
that i wasn’t
going to go,
with my girlfriend
as though i
would be ok
with Them
alone
Together
in His room,
while i waited in the garage for Them to return.
Later He leaves
to the store with L.
Shelly,
with this sensual air
stands in leggings
with Her Big Ass
Beautiful
facing where He’ll pull up
upon His return...
6
Later. In Michelle’s garage...
“You wanna go smoke?”
He said.
Michelle makes the move
to go to Him,
His room.
“May I come?”
i said.
Weak.
I felt
as though
I just...
5
...induced nerves.
How foolish of me.
to sit there,
to be there.
Past lovers,
living together,
Mother and Father
with their kids.
how...
how could i not see
but still i pushed,
love,
or my dumb
passionate heart
Screaming.
for me to press
on through
the thorns,
I’m losing blood loving her.
4
There are some memories
that i just can’t let go of.
Him and Her.
It hurts
and its even hard
to write
Their names Together.
But They are
attached
Together.
That night
in November;
at the casino,
Their body language
Their flirtatious
energy,
chemistry,
right before my eyes,
i couldn’t wake up
from my
Methamphetamine/
On Moving from Amateurism to Professionalism
It seems to difficult to navigate how to spend ones time. With so many interesting and vital areas to explore how does a young and aspiring entrepenuer/artist localize his attentions to just one specific discipline. It must be produced by way of totally focused concentration coupled with a resolute decisiveness as to what one will aim at. As the late, great and industrious Andrew Carnegie instructs, "The way to become rich is to put all your eggs in one basket and then watch that basket." To devise and commit one's life to a singular aim, this seems to be the way of crossing the mighty river from the lands of no influence to the territories of fame and sway. Yet what if one imitates the Great Oak and stretches theirs limbs into all those arena's and portals that would give access to this elusive Olympus, the land of the movers and influencers? However, man at his most natural state only has two limbs usually only succesful when working in tandem toward the same cause. So, again we arrive lazily at the same problem, how does a man or woman decide as to what tool they will build their empire with? Of course it is obvious that a certain measure of soul-searching is important so as to discover what interests and stokes an individual's spirtual, physical and mental faculties so I propose that it could be said that a person after a relative amount of "soul-searching" should inately, intuitively know what it is that they shall commit their lives to pursuing, but when faced with a such a bountiful field of possible fields and also, at the same time, met with an insatiable curiosity founded on the annoying, albeit strong, proclivity to romantacize any and all fauna of the professional landscape an individual is effectively rendered paralyzed by the overwhelming anxiety produced by the amount of choices one has. So it is fair to say that one should take measures as to narrow down their list, to reduce it simply to what one cannot live without. The next issue occurs when one, observing these "professional bubble's", is unsure about how to enter into the fray of these fields. How does one substantiate their claim to the cutting edge of whatever field they venture to become prevalent and respected in? More simply put I suppose; how does one move from unheard amateur to impactful professional? The answer can be found in the question, for the amateur is focused soley on the arrival whereas the professional is focused on getting better through process. The amateur sees the rise to acclaim as a sprint where the pro sees it as a daily progression of betterment. When one becomes engrossed, and perhaps obsessed, with being the best one can be in a particular field they lose consciousness of all the superfluous "noise" external to their process. As another great success, Will Smith, states, "You don't set out to build a wall. You lay a brick a day and you lay that brick as perfectly as you can lay a brick and before you know it you have a wall." As the amateur sets to his process his or her skill and impact in and on the relative field begins to increase and before his or her own eyes they reach the esteemed professionalism. Here, my grandmother's frequently used adage seems fitting, "the cream rises to the top". So as the amatuer progresses; his fascination and focus redoubles constantly and with this redoubling it can be assumed that the amatuer commits to the relavant literature and communities that will prove conducive to his success, all the amateur must do is decide what they shall pursue and then pursue it without tire.
The Finger
Mary Layworth sat at her kitchen table warming her hands with a fresh cup of coffee. On the table before her sat a small opened box that came with a red bow atop it. The box had been delivered earlier that morning and in that box lay a small decayed finger, not easily recognzable as such but upon closer analysis it became evident that around the darkened piece of bent flesh their was a slim and simple silver band, her husbands old wedding ring. "Paul." she said over a sip of coffee. Mary had not seen her husband for three weeks exactly to the day, November 12th, her son's birthday.
Mary looked outside, it was raining, but it was a subtle rain, rain that makes you second guess if it is in fact raining but you know that it is and it's a cold rain.
"Hector, Hector." she shuddered.
Hector was the name of their child, their one and only child. Hector was diagnosed autistic at an early age, for he was divinely brilliant, constantly building and tinkering and discovering, but he was socially deranged. So much so that his social abnormalities had, at a certain point, started to blur into the realms of maladaptive violence and obsession. Mary would constantly find assortments of critters, squirrels and mice and such, murdered and mutilated around the farm. And once while emptying Hector's pockets before a batch of overdo laundry she found a crumpled-up peice of paper laying out plans to tie up and kill his father. After which he would tie up and rescue "Momma" from the fake world and bring her to the real, drawer world where they, Mary his queen, would rule and fill the drawers with a bountiful litter of newly made Hector's. Mary, knowing no one would understand and many would come to fear the boy if they discovered his..imaginative "fantasies", destroyed the plan and tried to her great failure to destroy the memory of that day, for no matter how deep her love for her son ran, she writhed with fear and disgust whenever she would look upon her boy from that day on constantly plagued by the horrific, grotesque images that Hector's plan drew upon the canvas of her mind. Spending "eternity filling the drawers with their fit progeny" is how Hector put it, and she woke frequently in the night from out of her sleep whenever this hollowing vision would play out in her nightmares.
Mary tried her best to maintain the love and warmth she felt for her son previously, but ultimately failed and Hector could feel it. The day before Hector's 18th birday he ran away, but Mary knew he wasn't far off. Perhaps somewhere in a rundown, makeshift cabin just over the hill in those misty woods she always told him to stay away from, survivng off small critters and scratching with his fingernails thousands of tiny drawers upon the walls. Walls which housed small cot, yellow with sweat and filth adorned with dead flowers and weeds, awaiting its queen, but only when the time was right. Mary couldn't shake these thoughts and became a nuerotic mess the years following Hector's dissappearance. That coupled with Paul's budgeoning alcoholism all but brought upon total disaster in the Layworth home. But she clung to some small hope that lived amidst infinite black, that maybe Hector was dead and that she could live out the rest of her days cleaning up after Paul. This "fantasy" gave her remote solace and she tightly clung to it for the sake of her own sanity. Another year passed with Paul stumbling about and the remainders of their extended family being offed by cancer and the like. The invention of socail media and rhe promise of increased connectivity it brought with it seemed but a joke, no one called, messaged, or talked to the Layworth's and outside of Mary's sister, Helen, she spoke to no one and was fully alone.
She held strong to her hopes for Hector's death but was ripped awake three weeks ago when Paul never came home from going into town. She sat in her bed shaking and sobbing, gripping the sheets to her mouth begging for Paul to walk through the door. She lazily figured he ran off, unable to cope with the desolation that had become their existences and tried to pick herself back up yet again, now in front of her the dried and shrunk member of her husand sat quietly.
Mary took another sip of coffee and as she did she heard the lumbering steps of a large body come down upon the deck behind her. Only a flimsy screen door gave barrier from the back porch to the kitchen.
"Hector?" she said without turning.
"Momma."
The Importance of Problems
I was a dancer. One of the best. Freedom of movement harmonized and tempered with rhythm; this was my ecstasy. There was a teacher in my novice years, Miss Margot. She was very unorthodox in her approach and at the start of my time with her I can say that i had some difficulty.. "cultivating" the proper tastes that would allow me to not only fully grasp her teachings, but to find bliss in them. She was beautiful, but harsh. Now, usually harsh women are terribly ugly, no matter how beautiful they may be but Miss Margot's verocity, her punishing eyes.. they seemed to only add to her physical pleasantness. Deep amber skin with honey eyes topped with hawkish brows crooked into high, judgemental archs. Her head crowned with dark satin waves, large and defined legs only those that could be made for and by a dancer. She was both pleasurable and punishing to behold. My third day in her class was the first day she looked at me. I was turned to stone, even to recieve the grace of her observance was enough to make my heart race with exaltation.
"The Importance of Problems. Problem are the heart of all existence. For without problems there would be no solutions. For without problems there would be no purpose. For without problems there would be no life. For life itself is based in and on problems. It is based on problems and finding solutions to those problems. This is the core theme of all dance and of all art. Dancing is nothing more than solving complex problems in real time. Problems procured by the music. To dance is to solve music with the body. Learning how to understand the problems a piece produces is the first step in the long and tedious career of a dancer. Tempering the body to allow for unhibited, continuous expression is the second ideal of the dancer.." Margot would lecture on like this for some time. I sat erect and rapt. Consuming and living on every word she spoke. I loved her. But at the time, only ten or eleven years of age, I could not fully comprehend the extent and vitality of my love for her. But I knew when she looked at me that very first time that she loved me to, even in my young, unlearned heart, I knew in some intuitive sense that she loved me as I loved her. Something soft came over her face when she lay her eyes on me, it was as if her whole life had been a problem and when she finally saw me, she had found her solution.
Trump and Putin sex scandal uncovered
It seems that the larger they are the harder they fall..in love. In the wee hours early this morning, March 22nd Eastern Standard Time, a photo-journalist under the guise of Snarky Finnigan snapped a history-shaking, perhaps political party destorying, photo of the great red, media condemned Trump swapping what seems to be more than military secrets with the hyper-masculine and clearly dominant (by persuasion of the photo) Vladimir Putin, President of the Russian Federation and apparently much more.
According to sources, one of the White House's janitorial aids, a Ms. Cynthia DeLiber, was seeing to her regular dusting, vacuuming and nosing around when she heard high-pitch shrieks coming from inside the already once defiled, (at least), Oval Office. DeLiber said that the yelps were unclear but that they consisted of praise in regards to the size and power of the Russian Federation's Missile Program. Deliber obviously traumatized answered no more questions. (More on page 13).