Beat It Night Dog

mere shadows of men enslaved to her warm heliosphere.

But that cant be true Oh love, could I have become bird brained too?

mongrels of chemicals, something must be done with this mundane action of swallowing prescription pills. no distinction in the memory can be made among other things one may shove into their mouth daily. why for one, all mine are white and circular too, and they do not come in flavors or names I can pronounce. perhaps I would remember them if the capsule shell was so disgusting that the mind could not help but recall such trauma. but of course our patients already know how, even now, trauma has cheapened. what we need is an organic pill to appeal to the masses, something living but not endangered, and one that will go down easy. our scientists have suggested slugs, both self-lubricating, considerably populated, and naturally attracted to the moist. slugs could be trained to autonomously travel down the throat of a human while they slept, in order to deliver a pill to a patient upon forgetting. the pill would be placed just below the skin of the slug, which would both dissolve quickly and painlessly into the acid of the stomach. this new discovery could not only prevent millions of people from going without pills, but also countless lives being lost to forgetful overdosing. as for their advocates, we'll name those slugs american heroes, for sacrificing their lives willingly to do something we would otherwise forget.

the women in my family have a bite kinda like a drill driving the nail in, capricious as cats purring when they'd bat about the dead field mice. our reunions striked against the greek myths of the amazons with their javelins; women of the pantheon taking back the chthonian. on thanksgiving evening auntie had a seizure from all the alcohol leaving her system. I remember she looked gone from behind her eyes, as if her brain had crashed like a car with no gas. restraint couldn't keep herself composed anymore and all the shit went flooding to the floor. as for my grandma before she croaked, well she'd be drunk by noon, no doubt gone through her first pack of smokes. she lit her face on fire once from getting too close to the oxygen tubes they stuck up her nose. but it was clear she wanted nothing to do with living no more anyways, she finally died in her sleep. now my mother, though I love her, may be the most ruthless of them all, being the next of kin in this family carved with hearts of stone. she held up the tradition of having children to contain the anger they felt in general; hoping we could be the more seminal ones. my mother learned like her sisters never to trust no one. she chased my father out the door with a butcher's knife because she thought she was being wronged. her heart had already shriveled up by the time I was born, ten years ago, losing her best friend to od'ing on heroin. after her boyfriend got fed up and left, my aunt started living on the streets, going in and out of hospital suites for broken bones and bruises. she used to be a horror fan like me, but now she lives and looks like a zombie in her own apocalyptic reality. my family ignores her though, she stopped making sense a long time ago.   it's hard to see the women in my family so destructive, so misinstructed to the conditions of love. a pit of snakes rising from beneath the garden, overflowing eden without pardon. god forced ouroboros out because she stuffed her own tail inside her mouth. he knew he'd come falling out that tree of knowledge if women knew the truth; that we're the cause and solution to our own problems. we don't need a man to follow or religion to tell us our existence is a hollow womb to bottle. sell. the only thing we can do well. nature is a mother and she's tough as hell, she'll rip your head off with one sea swell. as you're swimming along, trying to catch you're own breathe, you'll end up praying to her and make god take a step back.

a single tree can grow for centuries without change, without death, and a lioness will watch her prey for hours if time is what it takes. but a man cannot be idle for too long, for laziness has become the mother of all evils. so what is to say of our mothers, who teach us as children all the codes of right and wrong, yet aquinas quotes evil only happens in the presence of the good. should we like nature turn apathetic; have time cultivate us instead of cultivating time, so that we may observe a flower for hours and not be filled with immoveable sin. for isn't time really the measurement of how evil we've become, of all the things we have and have not done. bless their hearts for trying to mend us. collecting all the chemicals to speed up the flower's growth, so that we may not spend so much time waiting for it. they made the green cocktail and sold it by the name of miracle, and any animal that tasted it fell dead, though in its highest potential to be dead; cradled in the arms of god. and that's really all a time traveler could ever ask for; the origin to the beginning of the end. 

As a kid, I would often pray to God for little things, like when he helped me find a pair of jeans in my size. or when I wanted a song to play on the radio and seconds later it would. our relationship had always been based on the simple acts of coincidence, for whenever I did turn to him for help in a serious way, his omnipresence seemed to have just gone out for lunch. Or maybe it was past 5pm, and all his calls were now being forwarded to an answering machine. surprisingly, I found the suicide prevention lifeline to be available 24 hours. and I have often heard the godhead described like water, how he is present in the holy spirit like the form of steam, or in his more corporeal form of ice like Jesus. I guess this makes sense to me, for God is like water in his nourishing properties, but unfortunately one cannot live on just water. and like Christianity, though most of the world is covered in it, polluting it, we have long ago since evolved to live on more substantial land. and then there is steam which is hardly visible and though the air slightly changes from it, it is soon dispersed throughout the rest of the room. though people claim to see the steam and be filled with the steam, the steam is really only a product of something purposely and translucently boiling. and as for ice, jesus the son of christ, well he was the most convincing form of himself. however, ice can take the form of any shape, and therefore jesus was only a placeholder in a tray of sorts, as were the twelve other slots that came to be filled and frozen, but in the end they all die just like regular beings. and seemingly by some miracle he was said to have rose again, but the boulder was still at the entrance, and dead bodies have a tendency to twitch like life. And even though ice that melts from the heat changes form, and then again as it dries up into steam, the properties of the element always remain the same, and so the dead will always remain dead. but what is important to take from this I think, is that water is a natural thing, one that we shouldn't rely on as a continuous and endless source of supply, but rather a pool to drink from, to bottle and take with you for times of thirst. because in the end religion is nature which we can never fully understand, whose wills inhabit the world and have always since the beginning of time. so if you want religion, salvation, forgiveness just turn on your facet and take a big swig of it, and remember that our bodies are more than half made of water, naturally.

at around six years old it must have been, when for months my hands were more chapped and red than lips during winter time. then by happenstance, one day the film of grime that once coated everything should disappear. that was the first time I noticed my mind playing tricks on me. I had to make countless trips to the bathroom to wash my hands till the water ran with blood, and then I’d put on my gloves because it was winter time, and I didn’t want anyone to see. they had to pile the dirt on to me until it finally stuck. then again when I was eight, I would sculpt my hair back in gel cement until it crusted with white flakes, my head only a stiff swiveling pedestal in which I would balance it. and those two draping strands like antennae I would hang down on both sides of my forehead, made me feel stable I suppose; symmetrical. for a while these obsessions did subdue me, but with age what was once just an infection matured and altered stronger like alcohol fermentation. I became insatiable at camp, when every night I would fall asleep crying because I thought the ground would split in two, and everyone I loved would fall through. ah yes I guess these were the thoughts that never left me, those that through pills and therapy have remained. it is what now inflicts us and what propels me to think that perhaps today is the day you’ll stop loving me, even though I know I have asked you repeatedly, and the answer is always the same. it is these irrational thoughts that I know to be so, that manifest themselves every night in my dreams, with which in the morning seem as real as a memory. and when I roll over to ask you if you still love me and if you think this relationship will last, I am once again calmed for another day with your response of yes. For once I just wish I could believe you, though you show it everyday, I can’t bring myself to say for sure that you love me. It’s been two years now and somehow you still feel it, the longest anyone has been able to hold such a position. but I have only seemed to become more frail, more definitive with the end of things, in my overwhelming guilt. so many things I could have done, where now I should be the one to feel everything all at once, all the time, and hate myself for never feeling loved.

you are a man who admires the complexities of nature, and therefore give your hands to her to be scarred. but it is a willing fondling, to stand among her beautiful silence. I think sometimes that if I were to fall with no one around, and not make a sound, by my own will or something else, that I would be as beautiful as she. but I could never fall so quietly, unknowingly. I'd get caught up in you and all the other trees and take them down with me. or maybe if I was as elusive as the big brown bat, you would love to understand me. if you tied that tauten net between two trees and caught me crossing through the wind shaft of the path. tagged me. looked at me. perhaps then you could know how to help me. but that's the thing about nature; sure she's a beautiful woman with breasts like powdered mountains and skin softer than a caterpillar, but nonetheless she   is a lover that no man can truly possess. so everyday when you come home, smelling like wet pine that kisses me, I think that maybe it is she that keeps you loving me. for if there is one undeniable thing we have in common, it is how we toil and have toiled many years over what it is to love and be loved, seemingly only to come to the conclusion of being scarred again. but like the rings of a tree, we have nothing more than to keep adding the marks on top of it. and after being cut into time after time by lover's insatiable carvings, it is hard not to revere the silent stoicism of older trees. for like Zeno of Citium on his painted porch professed, a true stoic like nature does not topple down so easily but rather she alters her will accordingly, remaining happy even though she is slowly dying. and like you and me I think we have come to understand such grim conclusions, and therefore can stand by such love that only offers more terminal results, with a permanence intending to be as strong as a tree. and that is why I guess you could love me, though I know my layers of beauty are slowly peeling off in front of you like bark, I love you like I have never loved before. I will never ask for more than just to be able to accompany you through the woods and hear you sing smokey robinson, whispering to me all the latin names of her aging plants.