From December, 2018

Featured

What Strange Times We Live In

  where “fuck you” is synonymous with “fuck me,”   when “you” is a reflection of the self and “me” is lost, rarely seen or mentioned – being too informal or perhaps not fashionable enough.   So “me” is used when necessary and never indulgently, (we do enough of that as it is) – indulgence, I mean – oh yes. Oh, yes…   yet “ego” fra(mes)(&)(its)elf, hiding between prefix and suffix, rooting a canopy of an idea in your mind.   It’s not really applicable, or compatible or even, odd, et al – and you realize that “me” is kind…

In this Vacant Room

The setting of the sun, The rising of the moon; How I want to hold you in my arms             And look upon you as you swoon.

Life as System: the Macro represented in the Micro

On the corner of Panola and Burdette there lies a quaint cafe by the name of Riccobono’s. Charging 8 bucks for a meager “two, two, three,” they run a steep risk and what’s more interesting, I’ve yet to ever see a black person working in the front of house. Upon entering I was met by the cold eyes of a murderous grip of elderly waitresses. As they peered into me over their wireframe spectacles, I greeted them with a hearty, somewhat biding “Hel-looo” and let it ring out across the dining hall. I strolled up to the register, proceeded to…

Names to Nicknames (Respectively Ordered)

First, I was Cole then I became Cher, Her little sack ‘a puhtaytuhs.   First I was Cole, then I became Cola, my Father’s Bubba.   First I was Cole then I became Coley Oley Oley, Mama’s infinitely expanding Roley Poley Oley.   First I was Cole, then I became Mole, Mecca’s best mate, (Halo at Brandon’s).   First I was Cole, then I became Chaos,  Darcie’s Umbral Knight; her tween scion… of her battle, for her husband, that Aidan be her memory. (I grieve)   First I was Cole, then I became Lil Moco,  (Bats in the Cave), blurred line between…

Reflections at Two

Reflections at 2 usually consist of reflections on “you” the subject of the self – the unlaced shoe –   I smack my little soldier of death hard on the rim-lip of the ash tray and lock it’s smoke into limerick   stealing the key away as if to say “Goodnight Gorilla” a subtle trick, child’s play   and I hope this dread ceases to curl up into my face, its wispy kisses stinking,   the cat whiskers fresh in my mind, the old memory uncorked to breathe   and though it was just this morning, I can’t shake this…