Eclipsing Thunder

A total shadow falls over a barren field, hovering endlessly snug and silent. I stare up into the sky of the night, in hopeless anticipation, clouds of gaseous coils explode sending streaming pools of light down upon the field. And me, wondering about the dirt, slipping in and out of the dance of shadows and sun. The wind shouts, "dig in the light". I crawl on my hands and knees to the nearest circle of light, a stream of fire burning from sky to field. I claw up clumps of dirt with my palms, tossing them behind me they disintegrate in the night. A deep and deafening hum fills the field a low rumbling vibration. As I dig the spotlight narrows finding the hole I stand in. Knee deep in dirt and silt, the sky grows closer, blue mist and purple fog encroach upon my site. As I dig I am buried in the clouds and shadows of the night, the beam of fire penetrates the fog and illuminates my path into the ground. The barking dogs howl and yelp, the ray of light narrows to keyhole size, I reach into the dirt grabbing hold of two iron handles and pulling out a stone carved chest. I drag my hand across two alien elephants chiseled into the sides of the chest, my eyes fixate on a small hole drilled in the center. The light beam enters the hole, and the chest opens up, the purple fog and blue mist enter the chest, and liquefy into mud mush bubbling and pulsating. The chest closes and all of the lights vanish, and I am alone in a hole in the middle of a barren and deserted field, holding a chest full of blueish purple muck. A chest quite heavy, chiseled out of stone, I struggle to pull it out of the hole. I lay between the chest and the hole, starring into the sky's night, sweating and panting, looking for a sign or a way.

Empty With Me: The Shitman and the Invisible Spotlight

Fallen from inside myself

I grasp to the edges of me

Only pulling myself further down

Into the belly of I

Pulling out my knife

I hack and I stab at my innards

Scraping and tearing away at my flesh

I cut away all that I hate

Until all that is left is love

I could write forever but something is stopping me. I feel a block, a strange mental block. At one time I could free write forever, the words flowed from me freely and I didn’t give them a second thought. Now It is as if every word is a thought out processed piece of shit that I have to delicately carve and shape into a shitman. Frothy the shitman. Was a very shitty man. He stunk and slid all around the toilet and I flushed him down the hole. Kill the shitman kill the shitman. Fuck the audience. An audience of one. I think this is what I forgot. I was writing for myself before, and then when the pressure of an audience was presented, I froze in the invisible spotlight. Kill the armed guard at the invisible spotlight. I am with my shitcannon (My asshole) and shit bullets fly from it and penetrate the armed guard’s chest. He explodes into a million pieces of shit that rain down on the empty prison yard below. Empty with me. The invisible spotlight falls. And I stand covered in the shit of my own making. I write on the prison walls in shit crayons. I write forever over and over, forever over and over, forever over over forever. The words will not stick in the rain. The rain washes everything away. The shit returns to the earth from whence it came. Back to the rivers of shit, into an ocean of shit over the shitty waterfalls off the edge of the earth into the Universe of shit. That’s all we are, a Universe of shit, all of us, isolated in our own shit world, spinning around and around and around around, until we explode, and shit rains on the newborn babies below us. Shit rains on them and they think its new. But it’s old shit. It’s ancient shit, that was shat eons before any of us rolled in our own shit. There is no new shit. There’s just less shit to go around. I am the shitman. The Shitman forever. The shitman forever standing in the invisible spotlight. Won't the rain wash me away?