Author Information
Summer of Uncle Sam
I constrict like a boa around feelings of loneliness. Wrapped up in self-destructive emotions, I lay motionless, as ravens rap at my door. Eventually I'll stick my forked tongue out and get a feel for the vibe-rational thought plays circle jerks with my inner demons. Making them feel big, then they spit on me, the cracker. I'm sick of all the bullshit, so I slither across the wood floor, getting a sliver in this scaly skin, ever more. A pin prick makes my scales rip, which transmogrifies my shape to a dog in a cage. The ravens tap louder, with Lenore as their follower, telling me to get over myself, she says to get up and wash my mangy shell. Fuck that and fuck her, I've got this thorn in my side that grows when Pinocchio lies. He wants to be a real boy, while I want to be a man. Too bad you don't know what you've got till its gone. Am I wrong? Wanna hear my sad song? No? Well tough shit. The attention's on me, so listen to my heart bleed.
I'm a nerdy little dropout, I don't care about myself, except that I perpetuate the fret, until my mangy mane is unkempt from the bouts, that help me rest, to get some sleep at night, knowing to myself only where my inner beauty lies. I'm a prodigal mathematician whose story only glistens because I exploit myself, the shell of who I once was. The hollow cell mass that attracted so many laughs. Past the point of staying true to who I am, for my own satisfaction. The bastard son of uncle same, born in his summer, where parking tickets clustered. Rape and murder were mustered in his self-sanctifying releases from my canine speeches. But I was homeward bound and gagged. So I developed a defense mechanism to help me fight against the man, perturbed with hate. I decided to reinstate my once dismal fate, as the goat who's scape was for any mans whose slate was salted. Exalted, even by Aliester Crowley for my lowly place on the hierarchy of good and evil. believable, that i couldn't do anything to stop people, from walking over me to climb the rungs of the corporate ladder of latter day America. where you thank the "little people" for their help in getting that diamond studded belt to hold your status symbol up. except that i wont accept the way the truth table lies, on this crutch. because my sad song doesn't end the way it should. i don't continue to stay on the bottom, being the hidden stability for the top to reach out and touch the sun. no, i get to detach myself and for that i got props. i got shout outs as everyone fell on their face. i was the catalyst for the domino's, and they all got put into their place. i just wanted to by unknown, by myself, while being myself. but no, i was noticed for my purple heart of being wounded in a war. that silver sliver in my side touched my werewolf blood, where wolves come to back to bite me in the ass. all i asked, was for nothing. maybe a few friends, but never for the attention of this eternal damnation i call a cult following of trends. everyone works by themselves, emulating my soon shed shell. if i can be a cantankerous hermit crab on my paradise of Hilfankerous, i will truly be a happy clam. singing a sea song in the season of my fall. long after my book's been read, there will be a few others who will understand what I've said. my post-era disciples who decipher my parable kaleido scopes. Seeing how I painted the picture, and the writings that are linked together. Seeing hidden messages in songs unsung. Or the way letters in words make up numbers for some, irrational constant, whose constraints constrict around its circular divisions of bisected lengths, while the circumference is victimized by circumcision to get the recipe. Follow me? Its the hypocrisy that is evident in my calculated prison prism of multicolored criticisms.
