🤑The heat of darkness precedes the swell of expectation, like a fat, heavy dominating blade, that validates innocence, and smothers the beholder, with inconceivable presence- empowering fear and unironically, trust- much like the way arousal succeeds the sweet smell of death beneath a high noon sun- for a mammoth black rat, high full of maggots locomoting beneath his supple hair-thinning flesh, ripping through it, imitating at the surface his visage of life breathing in. A blinding hot summer day. A tremendous white flaming sun exhumed the entire atmosphere leaving in its searching wake a vacuum reduction of agitated photons illuminating electric radiance. The power of the electric sun was there and real and indisputable. To my derivative senses, I should have been ushered indoors by discomfort, but at this moment I do not recall the need to surrender the moment to anything bigger than myself. Invisible strings glided down to nowhere in front of my eyes, looking to me like a seamless presentation of an omnipresent 2-dimensional digital film sheet of tiny clear cascading parasites, or kid poop worms as it nearly were. A mirage was meanwhile mocking water at the far end of the road. I was still looking for a first ever encounter with a visible oasis hallucination type mirage- something other than mandatory water; never happened. But living in the south was when I had the only place I’d ever come to find it. Something literally erased from my common experience: the heat mirage. Big Girls Don’t Cry was blasting out of foam speakered headphones connected to a red toy portable cassette player that was strapped over my shoulder, and swinging in front of me- held over the top of my shoulder by a ripping red nylon strap. I was certain that the singers of this music on my parents’ tapes were “Chinese.” And I knew exactly why I believed this. It was found to me in the very thick of their voices. I was standing leg crouched over the balls of my feet. I was probably wearing full cage sandals of some type. I was wearing a lego pirate ship t-shirt. And I certainly didn’t know better of what I was doing. To me it was literal science. Busily contaminating the rigid slants of a long plastic red pair of tweezers on the mucky fumes and moistness that was escaping from the un-evincing rat corpse. Squeezing it. Poking it with the opposite end of the tweezers. Lifting its lips like I’d seen on TV. I had spent the full morning catching bees off of wild lawn flowers with a dedicated device that was designed for doing so- a favored recent toy- a long plastic stick with a handle-type trigger and a corresponding retractable closing-opening clear plastic globe at the other end of it- something that my parents had bought for me only with the intentions that I would use the trapping device to capture more harmless creatures than bees that could, and did, sting me and, repeatedly but, thankfully less times than what could suffice for being fatal. I was unafraid of bees because I was rational. Kind of more ignorant about total risk, but about pain itself at least I was in-touch and rational. And full of zeal. It was as if I believed catching bees were my only needed ticket in this world. And man was I bringing home the bacon. And plus I was even married to the girl up the street. A week earlier, a neighborhood boy had lost his life in the nearby creek after a heavy storm. Torrents overtook him in the water and pinned him behind the boil weight of a keeper hole. Three days ago my best friend utterly shocked me. I was appalled. He blew a paper straw wrapper, off of his straw, into my face. 20 or so years later I realized he was probably being just playful. But I could have realized this decades before then. I just never thought about it. But I do remember him letting me down that day, because I thought we had been getting along, and the grade up was still a transition for me; he was no longer in my class. He always got nicer toys on Christmas. 3 weeks later we fought in his room and he ended it by biting me on my arm. I howled. He looked at me blood thirsty and pleased with himself. He never said sorry. I’m still friends with him on facebook. 

Artwork by Luke Meyer

🌕My toy plastic red tweezers. My cautious encroaching hand. This para-erotic event of young and green wisdom measuring temptation and doubt- this, with me, surviving through time and lasting with me in my rooted memories now decades after myself passing this moment. Underweighted by asinine logic only a god could comprehend, braided in the air amidst my petite unlettered nostrils, with the asphyxiation of the partnered element, that defining concept even darkness cannot match- what is descriptively black, complexfully untoned, simplistically undesired by all outsiders, and untranslatable. Something whose truth is known in the secret that belongs to every soul whose life it, presumably keeps. One wonders which participant in the band owns the largest share of the beauty of the song. But only a novice will know the answer. The calamity of untrained percussion. The awful repeating bang of untrained hands harshly pounding unlettered sticks on synthetic skin, designed in emulation, surpassing nothing important however, for the material itself was neither then, nor as one sees it now, sacred. Never the base option- never the rudiment- never the vital source of life as we know it. Only the invention, meaning only the achievement of a new way, one, that as always, has improved again the feeling of just doing the same thing we long ago had opened ourselves up to doing. We were only meant for understanding the higher animal power of music- itself- a method of information’s derivable path to beauty, mathematics, logic; and in the drums- humanistically something is equated to sacred technology. It is still equivalent in its power to anything held by any vacuum contained master of the art. To orchestrate a legible dance, to authorize and empower a coherent melody, the creative layman is not at any loss, because he knows the cost of pleasure endues him to step down. To surrender his now much heavier sticks of lame death. Sometimes peace spells out of incompetence. Sometimes a stage, and sometimes one’s eyes, and ears, and sounds, are all that’s needed. Decomposition does not allure us; yet still the hue of sugar, and the tender sour of the bone fall, assures us decades after its discovery, we hadn’t learned yet even enough.

Artwork by Luke Meyer

🛸King of The Lizards

Signature look of the epoch:

A thick, manicured, resonant beard.

Tissues on the bedside floor.

Dried up 

.

.

.

They know where he is going with this one.

King of the lizards.

King of the lizards.

King of the lizards.

Artwork by Luke Meyer