Splintered rhythms schism and prism into a million little missions, tiny little rhymes glisten in crimson from edits at the lines, like a flint catching fire from the split of my mind, one half is vision the other quite blind, the editor and writer in me are forever in fight, but the conflict is right, I might comply to signs that I should resign but the fracture in my brain will keep me in line, so they’re assigned, each part take claim but my heart remains in reign.
On a new rotation at the Crusade and this was yesterday’s piece.
Midnight in the projects. She’s scurrying along the stucco walls of apartment buildings nestling a guitar case like it’s cocaine. Maybe it’s got cocaine in it, I don’t know. I’m probably the only guy in this place who doesn’t care. I feel like I ought to tell her that as she’s shooting sideways glances at me but I’ll let a girl live in fear. She’s always walking home with a guitar case, this girl. Always passing by and always scared I might chase her down the street with my erection. I wish she’d stop and ask if I would but she’s probably smart not to. It’s better this way – if she stopped being scared of guys like me one day she’ll get caught by guys unlike me. Don’t feed the wildlife, they say. Dependence. Trust. Those things don’t belong in the wild, and out on these streets, the city…
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Here it is boys and gals, I’m Bruce Wayne before he staggered onto Rhaz Al-Guhl’s front doorstep. I’m Tony Stark before stereotypical terrorists kidnapped him and he got a bomb tucked into his chest. I’m Oliver Queen before he fucked his girflriend’s sister and his boat got blown up and he ended up on an island and spent 5 years trying to keep his organs under his ribs.
I don’t know if any of these origin stories are accurate, and I don’t care – because I’m about to embark on my own origin story. My deadline is March 19th and my nemesis is the Spartan Super – a 10 mile run into the Nevada desert with obstacles like swingy ropes and slippy high walls and spikey low wires and sticky deep mud. I’m intimidated as hell.
I’ve never had to train for anything before. I was born with a four leaved clover shoved up my ass: everything in life has always come easy, so looking at this obstacle course and making the decision to work for it is a ruthless attack on my personality. I’m shitting on all the horseshoes and wishbones and 777s in my life. I’m foregoing luck and evolving into work and the more I talk about it the more I wonder why.
But then I remember. It’s time to 1UP. It’s time to evolve. It’s time to super.
I’ve got about 2 months to get my body prepped. To grind up my level before facing my first boss battle. Workout every day and sometimes twice a day. Running and calisthenics and weight lifting and so god help me I need to start fucking stretching.
Follow me on this journey because if I’m gonna work this hard I better get some damn recognition for it.
A post over on the Crusade about Mexico, drinking, and parents being more adventurous than you.
Tepoztlan, Mexico. Pomegranate hunting grounds.
Last night my belly was the lining of a wineskin. My world was a mandala of colors bleeding over each other, and my language proficiency was equivalent to that of a tree. Adult Jenga has adult perks (3x’s the adult perks) but also adult consequences and this morning my alarm assaulted my R.E.M. hard like the siege of Minas Tirith. With a hangover every whisper sounds like the screech of a nazgûl.
I had an appointment with my mother so I give her a call. Mexico is treating her well. My stepfather is in Tepoztlán walking the cobblestone street markets in search for perfect pomegranates so she’s using the time to reconnect with herself and advance her business. These clowns are living life.
Time to clean because you never clean up after yourself when you’re drunk. Wiping down dried beer stains and vacuuming up condom…
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I’ll never be the best there is
if I’m the one who’s reading.
It’s midnight and I need to find a place to write. A little coffee shop called Madhouse Coffee is still open. Outside youths sit on chairs like their spines have been kicked in by their overzealous Christian parents. Vape smoke lingers and the smell of vanilla and licorice is strong enough to lure the most strong willed unicorn down from its rainbow. Off my bike and I collect looks – you know the kind. The only clean shaven man with a ring on his finger to be found within a five-mile radius. They can smell the monogamy on me. I enter the establishment and the place is crowded – I forgot people my age like to stay up late. Why aren’t they burned out yet like the rest of humanity? Why aren’t they tucked into the creases of a couch somewhere with their brains smashed against the screen of a TV watching the 18th season of a Netflix original? The walls are plastered with abstract graffiti art and cult film references. They have two tables, a bar (with outlets, I notice immediately) and these weird stairs that are supposed to double as a seating area. I claim my outlet and set my laptop down. Nobody here will steal it. The only risk I run here is getting bombarded with a conversation about neorealism in a governmentally sabotaged reality. This generation is well trained in the art of hypocrisy and so am I. I walk up to the counter and every male barista has their hair grown out and tied into a bun. Rebels who have breached the macho-male stereotype only to fall deep within their own. Every trend starts out like this. He greets me with a nod because he probably thinks I don’t speak his hipster language. I don’t. I ask him if he sells iced coffee because when it snows outside my blood still boils too hot. Yes, he says, obviously. I’m too scared for further judgment so I just take it black and I know he judges me for that too. I sit down and notice I forgot my headphones again. I fucking forgot my fucking headphones fucking again, fuck. I need a moment to prepare myself for my fate. Dance music wasn’t made to write to, I get too caught up with the recycled lyrics. But after some coffee my hyperfocus kicks in and it doesn’t matter. Time to write.
I’m surprised their napkins aren’t made from recycled hemp compost.
- We came home last night to find that our cats had completed their training as Sith Lords by pissing all over our bed, blankets and pillows. Equal parts sympathy and frustration for their fear of fireworks until you realize just how cold it is trying to sleep without blankets and then you just think back to all the times you almost had a good enough reason not to adopt cats or to murder them.
- Woke up four hours later for work and didn’t pack for the gym. But I remembered it’s January 1st and there’s way too much content for my blog awkwardly waiting at the bench rack right now so I stuffed my sneakers and joggers into a backpack.
- Warmed up leftover jambalaya for breakfast and regretted that instantly.
- Stepped outside and the wind Darth Maul’d me like I was Qui-Gon Jinn. Riding in winter kills you a little. The wind clings to your bones like gum to a sidewalk. Harry Potter always got a chill when walking through a ghost. Going 60mph in January makes you feel like you’re just nailing through crowds of ghosts and you just have them clinging to your knees and nose for dear life.
- At work. I never realized home many Americans make a New Year’s Resolution to go to their local retailer and bitch about the price of toilet paper.
- The gym didn’t disappoint. Fresh faced millennials decked out in the ventilated neon jackets they got for Christmas, scrolling through Instagram photos to keep themselves pumped between sets. All these noodley teenagers who learned how to work out from the Special Features of a 300 movie. They figure as long as they go to the gym and text by the squat rack it’s good enough because in five years they’ll just get it all implanted anyway.
- Home and I want to write so I write down the notes from today. I’m nodding off so I’m gonna post this and then find some coffee to baptize myself in.