I don’t write stories; I live stories – fight stories and love stories, wake up in the morning goddamn I’ve had enough stories. I don’t write stories; I write nonsense, gibberish, speaking in tongues because the babble on the surface of this worthless planet earth is immense, and I can’t control it. Born/blessed/busted by a natural ability to attract the wacky, all too willing to talk at me. And I listen.
I go with the flow because it’s just gonna whisk and whip me whichever way it wants anyways, and the only thing I’ve ever been able to grab a handle on is these words, stacking them like creek rocks in neat piles but never building a foundation for nothing because I lack the concrete aggregate in my life to put it together, to hold it together.
I don’t write stories; I hide inside the words I graffiti scribble across the chaos swirling counter-intuitively wise along the edges of my day-to-day. I like ‘em wild and prefer them going feral, abandoning the strunky elements clunking around in the well-trained corners of my mind. I don’t write fiction; I envy those that have the time to escape, and try to remain friendly with those that try and find ways to relate, but I am full of hate. I have been drunk off the fermented piss and vinegar for nearly twenty adult years, though I’ve hardly carried myself upright enough to be considered grown folks for most of those rides around the sun.
But here I am, not only grown but growing my own who will one day wander their own way solo through this crooked ass world’s depressing gravity. Fire on the mountain, heat rising to fake heavens, and the ash will fill the hollows where I used to holler at full moonrises, blood red from behind the tree line, feeling the wildness adrenalize my arteries and veins, now clogged with sedentary ambitions. I might as well die, but I could never do it myself, which is the truest sign of domestication there could ever be. Caveman thoughts slaughtered, wishing for the most luscious and easy green pastures for my daughters – slow death rotting away the family tree, thick branches exclusively wardrobed by Wal-Mart Supercenters. And when I sit amongst them, I know I’ve been penned in just like them, but at least still feel the call of the wild. Except I don’t answer it.
I don’t write shit, and never will. I am just a man poking a keypad when I should be out carving up guardrails with cars. I should be outside feeling the wind soak my soul. It’s a December thunderstorm out there – precious once in a lifetime soul soaking energy blasts inside the wrong part of the calendar. “I sit under the stars and analyze the sky… ask myself was I meant to be here… and why?”
Finding purpose in the chaos is part of the domestication, but when you can get lost enough to forget your goddamned leash for five minutes, that’s the good shit.
STEAL “Fire on the Mountain”
NEXT UP: WiCCRan muzik!
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