‘Tis Only Up From Here

I was recently on my way from Point A to Point J of the day and the most unremarkable thing happened.

A strong gust of wind knocked my flimsy umbrella skyward, it’s wiry insides on full display like the talons of a large airborne dinosaur long since thought extinct. The sudden force of nature jilted me off of what ever track my train of thought was on. The rain falling on my face, muted sounds of whizzing-by traffic, and the firm embrace of crackled concrete sidewalk hugged my spine.

A twelve legged insect with a smarmy disposition skittered up to me, dodging the raindrops with ease as if it were controlling the weather itself, and whispered in my ear:

“Lovely day for it, eh?  Take care, brethren! ‘Tis only up from here!”

Its breath was heavy with the musk of many nights of one-too-many a long island iced-tea that mixed with the pungent humidity in the air like a funky ass perfume.

Yes, Overly-Jolly Drunken Insect. It’s always a lovely day for It.

Especially at this current junction. Here in the Year of our Lord, TwoThousandNineteen. A Year like all others that will come later and Years that have been left behind.

Right now & right then. A lovely day for it.

I left the useless bundle of wires on the ground and wiped the mud off my behind and looked down. The insect had disappeared as quickly as it had appeared, indistinguishable from the hundreds of other indiscernible dots littered across the pavement.

How is it that a most innocuous creature could conjure words so seemingly insignificant yet words spoken to me nonetheless. Words that may very well plant seeds that’ll sprout out facetious vines of subterfuge but nonetheless.
Words spoken to me.

I eventually made it to Point J, then X, and other Points not yet discovered in the human alphabet. It was an odd, yet thoroughly unremarkable, moment of that day.

A Day like all others that will come later and Days that have been left behind.

A lovely day for it, indeed!

P.S. Who the hell still says brethren?

Letter from The Jadism Desk

As the 107th negative thought aimed inward suckerpunched my brain & pushed me down the waterslide of despair for possibly the 17th time in the past 24 hours, it dawned on me that if it were someone else’s words instead of my own, I didn’t know if I’d slap them in the face or sit at the side of the pool, drenched in despondency without even thinking of grabbing a towel.

It didn’t always used to be this way. The normalcy of self-degradation has become so common that I no longer pity myself. Gone are the days of whining and neurosis. “Woe is me” and all that jazz.

Let’s call this current phase “The Case of the PhuckIt”.

As in, This self-degradation will eventually & inevitably lead to my self-destruction and I’ll greet that moment with a toast and clap on the back, like it’s an old friend returning from war. So PhuckIt. Cheers, bitches!

To say that carrying that school of thought day in & day out, every damn day, is exhausting is about as obvious as saying that it’ll be a little windy outside when a F5 tornado touches the ground. But PhuckIt! Just board up the windows and stay out of sight, right?

Right…

Thing is, a tornado hasn’t touched down where I live in the entirety of my life. And I’m quite certain that a nest of insects have taken residence in the windowsills of my mind, hidden behind the wooden boards I’ve nailed up. Even now, I can hear their wings buzzing constantly and the thumping of their stupid heads bashing against the glass. It’s annoying.

I want do something about It but I didn’t have the common sense to get a crowbar beforehand.

Hmm…. what to do? I don’t really know yet.

In the meantime I do declare, in this Year of Our Lord 2018, that I’m so over being ailed with “The Case of the PhuckIt”.

Because fuck that.

Editor’s Note: “The Psycho’Desk” has been renamed as the “The Jadism Desk”

A Disturbance In The Force

The last drop of The Witch’s Brew passes between the lips

it takes control of the hips & makes the body dip on an unworthy stick

if only there was a way to forget

Wait a minute. Something’s wrong.

I’ve already taken the last sip.

The cauldron is empty.

now what?

I’ve got a bad, bad feeling…that this has happened before.

I put the key in the door but it was already unlocked from the disturbance from the time b4.

Therefore

I go to The Witch to get another batch.

She groans in a gravely hum

“Surely you haven’t finished the last order already? What could you possibly need it for? You’ve only just hatched.”

I walked away without a reply. No sense in applying a layer of logic on top of the illogical. It’s like spraying a bottle of pungent perfume over body odor.

It’d only highlight what was meant to be erased.

what now?

Posting a blog post, I suppose.

well. I may as well go back over yonder.

bc I know if the only thing The Witch will loan me right now is an itch

I know good & well

someone else (or something)

will give me what I need.

Ofcourse.

you are just as young & old as you have ever been

in spite of what you may have heard –
wicked words flowing from the mouths of lesser men
crackpot perspectives developed in the smog of opium dens

cobwebs left undusted.
specters roaming nearly-forgotten halls – unwanted.

if youth weren’t set upon a pedestal
the ramifications could be beyond incredible

instead

the future will continue to haunt the present
while the past downs another depressant

Fret

A Place For My Stuff

ralphsteadmanbookofdogs8

Artwork by the legendary Ralph Steadman



a dog that chases its tail will be dizzy
not accomplishing anything
though it feels busy
can’t find its bones buried beneath the backyard tree
next to its goals
wow. that’s shitty.
if Melvil Dewey saw this, he’d be in a tizzy

but he’s dead.

and my shovel has dulled away from overuse
there’s a copious amount of my possessions
strewn about like a poltergeist had gone mad with vigor
i feel like i do when someone calls me a nigger
my emotions as tangible as a phantasm
my thoughts as straight forward as broken sarcasm

my cognition & body are skinny
& i feel as superfolous as Our Lord’s daily bread

………

some actions are better left undone
words left unsaid
scabs left unscratched
crimson tears better left unbled

oh, if only i had somewhere to rest my head.

aliengum

I revel in myself
with the simple phrase “I am.”

in this technicolor climate with city lights that blind so massive
an insidious canopy, puppeteering the masses with translucent threads made of impassiveness

I’m just another unorthodox soul sending smokescreen signals throughout the land
telling whomever listens that I’m worth a good goddamn

to flaunt one’s irregular imperfections so boldly is considered by many to be the work of dark magic

huduvoodoo

isn’t it tragic? for oppression to be so prominent without any mention of pragmatics?

I’ll keep growing into a galactic primadonna
pirouetting through vibrant nebulae
psych’o’delic wisps of cosmic slop swirling around my ankles
constellations forming from the curls of my fro’
dark matter fluff creating intergalactic diamonds in the rough

Yes I’m made of all of this and more, interestingly enough.

The Banished Ones vs The Aristocratics. I wonder, I wonder, who’s actions are truly more dramatic..?




“I am.”

maybe you too but I’m sure you already knew




thank you.





Come Bathe With Me

on this day, the Year of our Lord 2017, the 8th day of a month with no meaning

even after all this time here on this planet, I can still feel the deepdark sticky-icky clinging to my skin and mucking up my soul

truths untold. pure lies unfold.

unfolding on a tapestry made of the hair follicles falling from my head from stresses that need not to exist
i guess you could say i’m pissed

Anger, an emotion so powerful, it’s hard to resist
but to admit that such an emotion is necessary goes against every lesson i’ve been taught since birth

on days like this, i wish The Sun would shine, so bright it’d make me color blind
but the grey overcast skies offers little more than the hope that Our Lord will cry and rain down upon us, upon me

i’d stand in the downpour, wearing whatever fragments of cloth i happen to be wearing at the time, face up
the Holy Liquid dripping and flowing over my face, blinding me in a way-
not color blind
but leaving me, us, caught in time
human eyes closed, 3rd eye open, seeing things beyond…

ah but alas. on this day, i see no calmness from The Sun nor The Water

only grey.

in times like this, it is unfair to expect Mother Nature to give us everything needed at any given moment. She is busy, extremely overworked; and if recent events plaguing the U.S. and the rest of the world is any indication, she’s fed up and tired.

can’t say i blame her.

its time that i, we, make our own Holy Liquid to purify that deepdark sticky-icky
that affects us all, whether or not you’re aware of it

like a stranger in moscow, i’m still trying. trying to figure out how to break this curse mankind has created for itself. Mother Nature may have the answers, but we, mortals, don’t stand a chance of what’s to come.

UNLESS

we find our own way of purification. somehow i, We, have to get Mother Nature to trust us again.
but how….?

if i could i would give you the answers
but all i can do
is just offer you
this chance

to come bathe with me

Daily prompt:     Crescendo

Climb Abored

an anchor, 7 stories high & twice the tons

passengers without tickets shuffle up the stairs uninvited

i’ve got many guns. time to play Russian Roulette

oh you think i don’t? then what’s this?

.       .       .

everyone’s quiet now.

BOOM BOOM BOOM BOOM BOOM

shooting blanks. everyone’s delighted.

most of them clapping their hands, enjoying the spectacle, gay as can be

it’s all a circus

& then a man as tall as a hundred year old tree

walks up to me

& says: “perhaps you should relax. you gave me and some others quite a fright”

poor fools. they don’t even know the caliber of plight afoot

i toss the the useless weapons overboard. they clang against a wooden platform down below & are picked up by a group of rowdy teenagers, whom hoot & holler and run off into an alley with their new toys

we’re still at shore.

i sigh a heavy sigh. i wasn’t looking for death, just something more

for i know…

i find my cabin lodgings easily, at the very top of the ship

leaving the other passengers to do as they please

folding my hoodie into the drawer, kicking my shoes off under the bed

accepting the via blasé of what’s to come

for i know…

an anchor, 7 stories high & twice the tons

we aren’t going anywhere
not anymore