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It is so green, it is frightening. I keep returning to the images of my childhood, sometimes in pondering, sometimes in fast, fraught flashbacks. The sky is exploding with color, as the rain comes monsoon in a dark soot purple. Intentionally and immediately followed by a green of slime & verdance which flows over every inch puckered by a white and yellow which remains unfound in man's vast & mechanical incorporation.
Watching rivers consume bridges and buildings and fields, rocks reclaiming roadways in tumultuous torrents, brings a beautiful flurry of fear and momentum to the cozy reality of most. It makes me feel free, my lungs un-free without the humidity of the jungle and uncomfortable with the differece peace brings from cataclysmic, churning, calm.
I am an artist, a thief, a soldier and a thinker, a degenerate, a drunken addict, a fool and a murderer. When I wake up here and put the music on my ears I am a champion for at least this cause of mine. The green hands of the trees lay their wet fingers upon me, a single man parade in the weepings of the sky. I feel as if I am about to leave the city on horseback, for the bicycle is the makings of a man into a steed. Leaving for a conflict, for an environment from which he might not return. I am indeed, leaving for a domain I claim in part as mine. The illicit, that which is said to be wrong and despot, feared and demented, crushed up and unnatural.
If you make a journey there, into the unknown and frightful, into a place that is new because no one can prepare you for it, they don't even know how to find it. I do. You will find me there, in a military cap, on a bicycle of all black, holding a flag both beconing and foreboding.
I am only here to help, not to push people into anything or anything into people. We all must go this way, to explore something fresh, so I offer easy access and stern, clinical warning. I am better than your pharmacist.
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I am exhausted, like nothing before. There is no rolling out of bed, only crawling, dragging, pleading escape from the drug sleep has become. Sleep deprivation, and the endless circling, trolling miles bicycle backed... There is a misery to it, and a cold; but there is a schedule, a masochism, a suffurating pleasure to it.
Riding the bike to work, to the liquor store, there are helicopters in the sky. Giant, dragonflied, double rotor troop transports floating onward across the state. They are a firm reminder that when the states fall, Colorado will be the Afghanistan, it will be unbreakable. The people here know that the land and weather a fickle, and its inhabitants even more so. There are enough of us left who see those helicopters as big birds. Guessing if we could take one out with a 30-06.
I feel the instinct to run, to get up and give up on everything. I feel so alone, abandoned by even my memories. Those which remain are of lovers & friends departing, violent arguements, vivid & frightening hallucinations, and the anthropophagi of the world. It is a treatise of blood, and I see it now and wish it were different. And I am fucked because I am more comfortable and enjoying of violence than love.
I am smoking cigarettes constantly, until they turn my tongue black. Each time hoping the next one will stop my breathing. I can't remember the last time I felt happy. Part of me believes that I have simply forgotten, that it has all been wiped from my mind and memory, but the other part belies that it has never been and I have never felt joy.
That is the feeling, endless, hopeless exhaustion. You are the architect of your reality, and you cannot change it because you cannot get yourself up off the floor. Fear, fear is not in the heart, nor is there hope. They are both shit, predicting and exaserbating reality. There is only knowledge, that I have been hit once, and I will be hit again. There is knowledge that I am trapped until I find a way to either kill this feeling, or kill myself. So abandon, my friends, the lusting for something better, forget the idea of should... Thats what it is, that is the feeling. I don't care what is supposed to happen, just this, just fight. just:
Give me fire, give me wine, give me love & give me crime.
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