Contorting in bed, I could feel the meat grinder accomplish it's singular task with indiscriminate efficiency.
Only, the meat grinder was the chemotherapy, and the meat, was Mine.
Morose Cement
Depleted and morose, My body emitted a relentless, pulsating pain.
As the decrepitude reverberated throughout the bone marrow, it cemented itself at the joints, leaving Me incapacitated and without the strength to stand.
I was a tree stump of a man, chopped down to pieces.
Algo Que Pica
I petitioned her for a depraved taste of El Salvador, and my supplications were heeded on a Rabbit Rabbit August afternoon.
A little package arrived in the mail, and I opened it.
There were two, tiny, carefully-crafted tropical fruit sculptures (double entendres that piqued one's lechery). And when you lifted the lids there were sweaty little people fornicating with insatiable thirst and hunger for eachothers' juices and flesh, respectively.
When asked for something a bit more risqué, the wrinkly little Salvadoran shopkeeper replied, "¿Algo que pica?" She reached for the shelf behind the counter, set them down, and pointed with her mouth.
My accomplice bought them at once, wrapped them up in brown paper, and shipped them 3,000 miles away to their new Dragon Master.
I showed my Salvadoran abuela, and she approved.
Now, when I sit down at my desk to write or edit photographs, I like to lift the sexy fruit lids and admire my sweaty little fornicating people before summoning The Muse.
Elixir Vitae
When you exit through the back door of My medulla oblongata, please inform Cervisiarius Amicus that My new scent will be worn on weekdays–the weekends belong to Jimmy Choo. Essential oils of which permeate the pores and solicit the hairless corridors of the nostril.
Frankincense, lavender, cedarwood, cocoa butter, coconut and almond oil, and vitamin E will conjoin during the auspices of the cool-as-cucumber cocktail hour.
There is no need for simple syrup, for I possess a portable urinal that allows Me the simple convenience of relieving Myself in bed. There is no shame in pissing in a plastic bottle when your IV fetters restrain your mobility in Filipino-nursed cancer wards.
Admonitions for The Undomesticated of Spirit
Baby azalea pink hues
Carry the river to the mystical muse
Be like the eternal child, and drink from the wellspring
Will as aromatic as an aged bottle of chartreuse
Refuse
Refuse, the noxious fumes
From the zephyr causticity of society
Preserve your spirit, and you will circumnavigate your anxieties
Dissipated souls fill the catacombs of our existence
Foraging for a pulse, vitality, anything is better than that comatose subsistence
So refuse
Refuse to lose
Yourself
So that you may lose
Yourself
Pantomimes of Ebon
End of week, Sunday, sun aglow.
Lying in cancer ward bed, awaiting discharge. Second chemo cycle done, four more to go.
I revisit the stretch of wall where My flickering shadow companion entertained Me on night one. She's absent now, but I smile regardless.
Behold! Your DragnMastr is returning home, and I will find you in the penumbras of My hermitage later tonight. So rest your witching hour pantomimes and cryptic elucidations, and conceal yourself in the interlude of daybreak.
For your timeless beauty is invisible to most, but I see it.
The Symbiosis of String Cheese and Malignant Malady
A delving diasporic day, where your emotional equilibrium scatters into little multi-colored boxes arranged by spectral hues, on dusty wooden shelves in your unconscious mind.
It's that kind of day.
A string cheese kind of day that peels away at your inner disquiet, one malignant malady at a time–leaving you with easy thoughts and temporary serenity.
A Polychromatic Epiphany
And when asked about the notion of duality, The Dragon Master spoke thus:
It may appear so, for the human animal seeks reprieve from the labyrinth and fog of life. But verily, I say unto you, duality is but a mere mirage.
The world is not comprised of a black or white binary, but of a spectrum of greyness. And what makes life worth living is the manifestation of vivid colors that saturate the white light.
It is so.
Vestiges of Dew
And outside of the city's gates, as its populace clamors, The Impeccable One waits, obscured in shadow under the vagueness of night, He observes.
Behold! For His presence is nebulous like an early morning mist–everything He lays hands on becomes wet with His will.
Soon they will come to know His greatness.
Sentimentalities of a Dragon Master's Ascension
An orphan child learns to numb His dependency, and disassociates from the bosom of His fallen mother.
Do not be fooled, this is not a tragedy, for it is the impregnable armor He will later adorn as He ascends to His rightful throne.
Although His campaign is wrought with casualties of immense proportions, He marches on–grittier, stronger, hungrier. He will not be denied the spoils of war.
One woman cheers Him on.
One woman emboldens His spirit.
One woman matters.
Let it be known, The Dragon Master loves His Abuela.
Errantia Scortatio
Fluxus Ignis
Salt
As the impudence sweats away the sentimentality from my nostalgia, I roll my neck around its base and stretch.
The muscles, memory, and mood loosen.
The beads fall to the ground and the salt lingers, but there are worse tasting things than salt.