So cold I the hollow

So cold I the hollow that is your lover, moving in the grays and the ash-filled trees. I don’t know if you will comprehend the void that is my action or if my words breathe on anyone’s chest.

I wither like my surrounding climate withers. Skulls behold me from the grave and I frighten them. Still I am a man.

The sky king

It’s only I walking the greatness of heights who understands being the glory that is the sky king. I stand, feet planted, hand outstretched beholding tomorrow with force and vigor, striking fear into opposing energies through the strength of my convictions.

It’s only I the sky king who moves as the prime mover moves, also bearing the character of the prime mover. And also I know the clever darkness of the adversary, inhabiting both manners simultaneously. It’s I the sky king. In me dwells the thunder. My aura rumbles, blowing the leaves, blowing the dirt, repelling weaker spirits. I am taller than the clouds in my mind whirling.

Make me (Creation)

I only drink of the fruit of the equator. Majestic you grab the fan and I follow. You dash away, beckoning me with hands and smile. I chase you throughout the gardens and orchards innumerable, around a tree, perhaps on top of one another. We swirl forth like purple magic dust, radiating, becoming individual pulsating lights like fireflies. Then we take the form of people who disappear when humans approach.

Listen to me play the flute, curl in the corner with whiskey. Purr.

Swooping bird

I’m not of the gentle, good kind who matter to you. I come down into the pups who don’t look. Mourning be to the doves, to the rabbits, to the hopping robin. They are all marked to be my evening meal. Beak be not of the gentle, good kind. Rip into what you can to win. Bring winter into the lush warm forests. Build factories for the tired workers. Make them march repetitive marches. Make them hammer to tasks, being hammered. Be not of the gentle, good kind. Master the weaker till weaker you become. I am here to fix my will upon you, terrible evil. I will end you.

The ugly palace

Somewhere in the desert are ugly people having a party. They wears khakis and tilt their heads while holding drinks, fancying themselves adults. The experience of being around them is like eating dry chicken. I’m among them, the people in the ugly palace, wearing a sweater on my shoulders. I look at you, assess your importance and decide there’s no benefit in our association. The look takes just a second. I don’t look at you again.

Quarter water

Racing from block to block, I stop into the store to buy me chips and a quarter water, purple or blue or red or, if there’re none left, orange. I run out the store, sitting outside church, across the street. Finishing my meal, I get up to play suicide. You throw a ball against the wall and everyone will try to catch it, and if you don’t catch it, the ball gets thrown at your ass. If you get caught, it’s booties up and we all take a turn throwing the ball at your ass.

Some weekends, taller, cooler, older kids dribble a basketball back and forth throughout the street. We try to take the ball from them and they get to show their skill with handles. My dribble isn’t all that, but my defense isn’t bad.

I’m tired. My parents drive me home, playing church music. Most of the time the music is corny barbershop music, stuff like The Heritage Singers. We stop for McDonald’s and pick up happy meals. I get a toy, something plastic with screws and maybe wheels. We get in the car and ride, ride, ride, stop, and a bunch of squeegee men descend upon the car with squeegees and dirty water. They gets the car dirty with their squeegees and they thrust their hands out for money so they can go buy drugs. We finish our food on the ride home. We walk past the people sitting outside and go in.

Custom suits

It’s not fulfilling enough to look good; you must be who you truly are while appearing your best.

Surely you’ve seen a herd of people, dressed the same, going to the same places at the same time and have asked yourself to which extent they’re actually living, knowing they are engaging in customary movements, thereby merely surviving. Ants and bees have mastered the lifestyle well. They move about orderly with movements so unremarkable that, though they color the environment around them, individually they are of no consequence.

I move about disorderly that, in so doing, a cow will remark about the pest I am. A group of people are likely to agree but it’s hard to tell them apart. I just hear them mooing. Moo.

After a few decades on earth, you’ve no choice but to learn to live without your looks. You won’t be able to make robotic movements as efficiently. You’ll just be tired and wonder when the world will grow collectively tired and shake off the ants and bees.

Are they cows or are they bees, you ask, bristling at my metaphysical nature.

To clarify, they are all manifestations of sameness. Eat them all or steal their honey. I don’t care.

The specific actions taken by a jungle cat

I kick back with tigers in my living room, drinking hard cider, watching heady crime shows. We snarl and adjust adjust ourselves, smoking cigars. You’re not about this life, the living with stripes inflicted. My friends, the tigers, are born with theirs. As smoke whirls toward the ceiling lamp, we munch on cheese snacks, asking ourselves the purpose of our health. My lady brings our lunch in by the neck and we dig in. Blood drips, wetting my beard. I signal for the remote which a paw passes. I switch the TV over to my favorite music performance and we chair dance. One of the tigers lights a blunt and we laugh.

For people who see the colors

The impressions pressed into our minds via targeted ad onslaught will find no place in the greater landscape we’ll cultivate by overturning the counting machines that count every word and action for the sake of optimization. We have inherent value and need no numerals to justify ourselves. We have the bearing of royalty, ruling no one else but finally autonomous so that we claim our personhood and, with it, our pride.

We need no numbers to justify ourselves. We need simply to breathe and to fully bloom into our full selves, bearing the colors of people devoid of conditioning by profiteers. We carry this flag within us and all about us. The moon and the sun and the seas, plants and flowers, all of them bow in respect to their comrades.

The kiss of a fist on a face and I slither

This is the dance I dance with you, good people. With fists and kicks I strike your faces till the blood sprays me with glory. I, a humble man with with crazy eyes, carry upon you the vengeance of the lord. My left hook is Satan. My right cross is Moses. My head butts are Jesus riding through the streets of Jerusalem. My knees will crash across your body, one bearing the name of Isaac, the other of Ishmael.

I am the carrier of blades that will disfigure you. I am the one who stares at you in the metro. I am the blatant unprovoked advance. I scrape the depths of the lower impulses. I follow you in the alleys. I eat fast food and chew loudly. I drag nails on the chalk board. I put my tongue in ears.

This is the dance I dance with you, good people, the people who crawl, cower and grovel before the shitfaced matadors who circle us daily. I, the carrier of divine vengeance care not the consequence, launching upon the future like a well-aimed jet plane. I hurl onto you bricks.

After my death, I will haunt your houses. I will slam doors. I will make scratching noises. I will emit foul odors. I will call up all the demons that they visit you and stand over you by the bed side.

It is with these nails I scratch you in the eyes! Begone!