Weather
I wear red
when it rains,
a coat with a sailboat
embroidered upon the breast
pocket to break
the monotony of gray
and black garb so prevalent
on such days.
This post has been featured on a 1000notes.com blog.
(Source: confusababel, via rapunzie)
Sex Microwave
Sex microwave,
two bodies intertwined,
confined to a narrow
space between six
glass panes, no hum
of radiation but double
the heat, lips and fingertips
never cease. For an abrupt
finish, the flash of a cruiser’s
headlights magnified by beads
of condensation, the knock
of an officer’s flashlight
serves as the chiming bell
to pardon a steamed
entree of flesh draped
in sweat-logged bits
of fabric with a warning
and a judgmental glare.
(Source: tyler-daily, via kingnibiru)
One Small Step
What was the single most significant evolutionary adaptation in humanity’s transmutation from a gelada-like grazer to the dominant form of life on Earth? Sweat glands. You see, before man became the most intelligent, neurotic species, he became the most resilient animal on the expanding African plains.
If we were to build upon our primitive brains over a relatively brief window of time, we first needed more calories than a diet of grass and roots and leaves could provide. We weren’t the fastest or the strongest or most ferocious and therefore could not compete directly with the carnivorous predators of the time. Our answer? A built-in cooling system.
While all other animals had to rest in the shade during the harsh midday heat, we evolved a means to broaden our cerebral frontiers by jogging after herbivores until they overheated and we beat them to death with sticks and stones and pieces of bone. Then we devoured their flesh, introducing a fuel supply for our growing mental faculties.
What is the moral of this anthropological tale? Resilience is the redeeming quality of humanity, more than strength and speed and smarts combined. When you next find yourself panting, drenched in evaporating saline coolant, stop to remember that we beat lions to get to where we are now. Humans are the pinnacle of natural selection not in perfection but in our ability to survive, to outlast. Do not allow yourself to be defeated when you have more than those beasts, our ancestors, could have ever comprehended. You have no excuse not to chase your ambitions, to beat the shit out of them until you become a far nobler being than your former self.
"I’ve loved the stars too fondly to be fearful of the night."
— Galileo Galilei
(Source: goabroadd, via paixetamourr)
Cyrus, the Wanderer
Rain batters worn asphalt. Lightning flashes and thunder booms through a canopy of swollen nimbus clouds. A man appears in the downpour, his mud-encrusted combat boots crunching pebbles upon the road. Tattered denim encases his muscular legs and transitions abruptly to the bare, tattooed flesh of his torso.
A blood-stained wolf pelt drapes about his sturdy shoulders, its fur flowing seamlessly into the raven black hair of his beard and mane. A patch of weathered leather covers his right eye, its twin fixed in a piercing blue stare.
The tempest flares with blinding light, carrying two faces in his mind: a crying woman with bright eyes framed by bruises and a man whose grin brims with malice. The storm roars, screams and cruel laughter echo just beneath the deafening rumble. The man stops and clenches his fists.
In the lingering illumination, two silhouettes appear some ten feet behind the wanderer, stalking towards him. He stops walking and they draw their guns.
“Turn ’round real slow,” says the first bandit.
There is the click of a pistol being cocked.
“He said to turn ’round,” says the second.
“I’d rather not,” the wanderer replies.
The two bandits chuckle and step closer.
“It ain’t up for discussion,” the first says.
The wanderer turns to face the two bandits, allowing the wolf pelt draped about his shoulders to fall to the ground.
“I have nothing of value,” Cyrus continues.
“He doesn’t even have a weapon!” the second remarks.
“Don’t matter. One less mouth competing for what’s left of the food,” the first snarls.
The wanderer sighs.
“I’d suggest you leave now,” he says.
The bandits burst into guffaws of mocking laughter and advance.
The wanderer cracks his knuckles and the rains cease. The air becomes magnetic, crackling. He waves his hand and a mighty gust of wind slams the second bandit into the asphalt, knocking him unconscious.
The first bandit fires a single bullet. Cyrus growls and deflects the bullet with a wave of his hand. The still-upright bandit panics and cocks his pistol once more.
The wanderer shoots a thin vein of blue-white light from the tip of his right index finger. Seized by electricity, the bandit drops to his knees. The wanderer stands before him, surrounded by dancing tendrils.
“Please…” the bandit whimpers.
“Learn from this,” the wanderer says.
The wanderer claps his hands and launches the bandit backwards with a concussive wave. Both bandits lying unconscious, the rains resume.
“You should have listened,” the wanderer whispers.
He confiscates the bandits’ weapons and ammunition, as well as a canteen filled with water, and picks up his wolf pelt. Then he looks to the horizon and spots a row of buildings half a mile off, revealed by the tempest’s temporary light. He strikes off toward the settlement with silent resolve.
When
When
you came to me
with a scraped knee
and asked for a hug,
I was pleased to be
of service, giving you
a kiss as well.
When
I came to you
with a broken leg
and begged
for a kind word,
you held me
at arm’s length,
dripped bleach
into my wounds
and then left me
to fend for myself
in the cold dark.
I tell you now, more
than my leg is broken.
The Stood-up Stand-up
With your eyes closed,
sobs sound an awful lot like laughter.
One, two, three Seroquel to set
the stage. Fuck it, a few dozen
more with a swig of fire
from his hip flask.
He sits outside, hopes
the rain will wash
away his tears and the stench
of failure so heavily embedded
in the fabric of his suit. He stands
up, this comedian, and walks
right into oncoming traffic,
plastering his brains on the asphalt
for the world to see one
last time. If he had left a note,
this would have been it:
God writes the best punchlines.
Automobile Hymn (A Poem to Which One May Drive)
I grasp
the curled plastic antlers
of a hulking behemoth
whose flesh and bone
are steel and carbon fiber,
whose heart beats
in unheard combustions,
whose lungs
are oiled pistons,
urging it to tread
upon black rubber
hooves, cold asphalt
illuminated by its steady gaze,
reflective squares glowing
under its scrutiny.
Its eardrums thrum
with deep vibrations
as I pass beneath globes
of bottled lightning, wind
carrying the scent of
orange blossoms into
my steed’s nostrils.
Together we put behind us
miles of road and the worries
of the day, abandoning
any thought of tomorrow.
We gallop along
the mountainside, across
the plains of my youth,
along the avenues of my origins.
This is my night –
mine and no one else’s –
a sentiment echoed
in the poetry of my traveling
companions, disembodied voices
who have long since run out
of fucks to give. Together
we dance, I in my seat,
my beast down streets,
weaving between punctuated
white stripes. Bid farewell
to everything unnecessary,
a man stricken with wanderlust,
I drive simply because I can, for
Suburbia slumbers and the hum
of my automobile is her lullaby.
Battle Hymn (A Poem to Which One May Fight)
I’ll be king one day –
Young Cassius Clay,
I sit on a stool
in my corner of this ring,
gloves bound tight
about my wrists,
old leather smells of sweat
and blood. Vaseline slicks
down the hairs of my brows.
Cut me. Cut me, god damn it.
Blood blurs my vision, I spit
a mouthful of scarlet
onto the canvas.
Water is squirted onto my face
through the muzzle of a green
plastic water bottle.
Through the rinse, I glare
at my opponent,
the part of me
that must die
so that I may take my throne,
nothing promised to me,
everything to be taken
by the tip of my pen, I shall ascend
when it lies face-down,
bulbs flashing, spectators
on their feet screaming at the top
of their lungs, fists raised.
For this will be
as much their victory
as it will be mine, those who follow
me on the road to watch
me fight, those who pick
me up when I am knocked down,
those who visit me
in the hospital, my bruised
being encased in teal scrubs,
those who bear
breakdowns and breakthroughs
with equal tenderness,
those who believe in
me when I cannot.
My crown will be theirs,
my gilded belt
and silver scepter,
those who show
me that I am
not broken,
but a sword
being reforged
in the fires of combat.
This is an ode
to my muse, for
understanding my insanity
and calling me on my shit,
for recharging my longing
to be the man I was born
to be, for showing me
that I can be loved
as I love. For this will be
as much her song
as it will be mine, for snapshots
of her beauty–mind, body, soul–
reinflate my lungs
when they are squeezed
flat by my enemy,
the part of me
that must be destroyed
so that I may call her
my queen. With her
love, I can
conquer any foe, slay
any beast. With her
by my side, I can
cross the burning desert
and climb
the snow-capped mountain.
This is an ode
to my sun and moon and stars,
who shines brighter
than all celestial bodies,
if only you could see yourself
as I see you.
This is a chant
to be echoed by the downtrodden,
the freaks, the introverted
quiet types who buried
their noses in books and got good grades
but caught hell in the locker room
for having hands stained
by lead dust and ink
rather than dirt or oil.
This is a chant
for the asthmatics,
the clinically depressed
young men and women
who don’t know when
their minds might turn on them,
neuroses ensnared by steel traps.
For this will be as much a testament
to their resilience as it will be
a testament to my own.
When the center divider
of the freeway seems
as welcoming as a Del Taco
drive-thru, when orange bottles
with white twist-off tops
call from the shelves
of the medicine cabinet,
when the pain becomes too much,
stop and think that this
anguish, sometimes inexplicable,
makes you a human being,
and an extraordinary one
at that. Do not mistake acuity
for weakness: nearly everyone
to have felt the warmth
of the sun has endured
the cold dark. You are
not alone, but one of a long line
to stand beneath the vast blue sky,
to breathe, to eat, to sleep,
to learn, to love, to lie,
to fuck, to smoke, to drink.
Do not fool yourself
into believing the night
will never end
when you must simply
open your eyes to see the rays
of a new day
spilling over the horizon.
