Overfill, Overfire

How is the view... down here, at the bottom of my hole? The cat never lies, and he's content in knowing there's many more doors to be opened... our fingers live in the earth, as tills we turn like worms, earth to earth. Sacrifice. Diana has suggested taking all of the pieces out of the box, spreading them across the the floor for inspection and dissection... while Richard laughs at the destined frustration. Come down and lay next to me while we ogle at pieces in sight... the fondling hasn't begun, so there's no need for lubrication. The choir demands we make clear the context of Lubrication... there are three types herein, your efforts will still be needed. Social Lubricant, is any substance that releases your natural inhibitions: drugs, alcohol, or ritual. Sexual Lubricant, is the fluid used to decrease the irritating effects of too much friction: tears, bile, or money. Finally, Life Lubricant, is the substance acquired from years of anguish and suffering: blood, feces, or vomit. Let not your glasses become clouded... return your view to the pieces, as they wiggle and scamper in delight.

The ones with the most vigor would be the choir, several pieces uneven in agreement . Then there are Diana and Richard, two entirely different people that live on the outside, looking in. There are memories and deeds, scattered with care... feeding each other with doubt and flesh. Maria has a corner of her own, built out of the compounding interest of my soul. Stuffed animals running with scissors and Jesus bowing his head in shame. A chair named virginity, cold with sweat and vinyl... they won't come out until we stop crying. Must. Stop. Matted hair and knotted bed sheets... they belong together in a sense, but separated in time. Broken fingernails stuck in the concrete and razor blades gone on holiday in the Swiss Alps. Layers of lies and masks piled on trash bags of sun rotted flesh.... the pupils dilate and saliva thickens in anticipation. Blood. So much blood. There's mine, yours, hers, his, and theirs... I know the scent and taste of each, and the color of which it flowed. There's my screams and the one's that silence them... with a hidden jar used in secret for lubrication. Teeth. The teeth that bite, the ones that gnash, and the broken ones... a mixture of mouths, some more even then the others. Broken fingers and guitar strings that suspend the life once known. The snake, the desert, and the scampering of shadows and dirt, not from earth, as a pillow. And then there's Serah Weaver, dancing in the darkness by herself.

30 Pieces of Silver

Last night was an emotional disaster... another person in my life needed to be emotionally killed and removed from existence. Over the years, I have been trying to support and guide a friend of the family, whom was in dire need of help. For years, I have feed him, clothed him, given him a place to live and even monetary support when I was able to do such. I had shared my life experiences and wisdom in hopes I could make a difference... I suppose because me reminded me a lot of myself in some ways. He is always in trouble with the law, addicted to some substance and even been completely abandoned by his real family. When I was out for the evening, he entered my home and stole my most valuable earthly possession... it wasn't the theft that lead to his demise, it was what he stole. To the average person, it was a just a 5th of Jim Beam whiskey... to me, it was a treasure, trophy and memorial. About 8 years ago, I was an extreme alcoholic and had to quit because I was literally drinking myself to death. I woke up that morning, ready to crack open a bottle for breakfast and stopped myself and never looked back. For the past 8 years, I had this bottle on my living room bookcase as a reminder of where I came from and used it as a source of inspiration and strength to press on through the hard times. Everyone that ever visited my home, knew the story of how I quit drinking and the importance of this sealed bottle... especially this young man. He knew how special it was to me and we had talked of it's importance on several occasions... it was my pride and joy... it was priceless. His addiction proved to be too strong for him and in a moment of weakness, he betrayed me and stole my victory and memories. He could have come into my bedroom and stole some of my chronic pain narcotics or various other medications, money, television, DVD collection, SLR camera or computer... but for some reason, above anything else, he chose my 5th. I viewed this as an act of complete violation... after everything I had helped him through over the years, the continual support and acceptance, guidance and father figure he claimed I was to him. All of my time and efforts over the years had been worth throwing away over a $15 bottle of booze... was our relationship and trust worth so little to him? This act of theft completely befuddles me... he had to know I would notice. He knew I looked at it everyday... it was my strength, my one remaining hope I was worth something and capable of change. Was it the power of his addiction, self-hatred driving him to burn his last bridge or a reflection of how little I meant to him? I guess I will never know, because now he is dead to me... now he has no where left to turn... he is all alone. Some people say family is priceless... but I guess to some, it's value is $15. Perhaps I am just as guilty for turning my back to him now...but I can no longer offer him comfort and strength, because I no longer know where I will find mine.