Like breaking in a new baseball glove as a kid, it’s a little stiff, huh? Put it under your mattress and sleep on it, it’ll give.
Medusa is here?? Slang-sliggy . . . stoned and statued (god bless you/gazoontight). Is there a point to this opening line? Gnarly. Before, I was time’s prince, a sentimental youth pillaging the clock for sodas and cookies. Now, I am time’s buffoon, the drawl kicks out thoughts irregular and cock-eyed. No, wait, before . . . I was time’s prince, heir to the future and lord of yesterday. A simeon creature led to believe he knew …///… sppt … what?? There is a whisper in the gallows of my mind, where all thoughts are tortured and exterminated. I can hear them sweat. I can hear them shake. The silence is contagious at center stage, but the taunts and jibes are held back in the sling ready to slay the remedy. Remember when? What ho? What is the final verdict?
The day was like any other, the cycle between night, day, and consciousness. What is time? Time is the passing thoughts, time is the images and sounds echoing in the background of the otherwise soulful enterprise of art. As the senses relay information to my nervous system I often stop to glance and appreciate their meaning, but in the end the dark confusion settles in over landscapes of imagination. Tucked away here in my room on August 22, 2017, I am reaching to observe the essense of my reality, and it all seems to be caving in. The brilliant light at the exit of the tunnel is a locomotive headed my way. I never travel far. I never spoke many words. I have no great stories left to tell, and worse, none on the horizon. To each their own, as they say. I’m getting farther from the truth as I lie back in quiet contemplation. Leave me alone, so I can wallow in sadness at the day’s and reverie’s passing. Wallow sounds similar to swallow. Swallowing emptiness and filling up with realization of naseau. My stomach is ripe, but my mind is deteriorating at a pace sixteen degrees south of fair. My friends have turned on me and I still don’t know anyone else. What is creeping in this darkness? The highs and the lows, the arrows and the bows, the punches and the blows, and ■■■■■■■ with hoes … the nice creatures full of extravagant shoe-shine and makeup pouches. Their gaze is uplifted while mine is cast down. What are we observing? Perversion of the writing has settled in. They’ll tell me what to write. Who? Who it is. Whittling away at the doomsday roast. I’ll show you mine if you show me . . . wait, whut? You see mine, but I am blind. Cast away the offering, and ridicule the shrine. Yours or mine?
I read some, wrote some, and was …. Cheetah.