what do you want to be when you grow up?

Blood stains and glitter crust in your sea salty hair, gelled up with your farm sweat, scoffed knees with oil paint in your scabs, goat cheese and ash in your uneven stubble, grit on your dirty damp clothes, charcoal on your dry crackled fingers, lips like a cheap cabernet, breath of a dog mop, but a smile that kills and a spirit that never dies. I'd like to think I met him once trudging down the Costa Rican rainforest at night in a downpour that epitomized the phrase that God is in the rain, or panting up a mountain in Vermont, fatigue by a smoking rate of too many tobacco products and to many troubles being left behind all at once as I climbed higher and higher. Actually maybe I met him skinny dipping in a blizzard, or maybe even numerous times we may have met amidst driveway dance jigs or betwixt stackings of wood cord after cords of your guitar sounded so relishing I relished them to the point of spilt booze and heart pumps, throbs, bumps, beats, beat, skipped a beat here or there replaced with a deadly absence gasping for air glaring at the glare of the mirror distorted; tears dropping like hydrogen bombs on tiny patches of snow melting them away even more so with futile vomit just like how the earth pukes all over itself between winter and spring, summersaulting down the concrete stairs at the beach to a fall. Maybe I met him when I fell, maybe I'll met him again in Hell, or up that golden ladder in the clouds like once thought to be seen at some Catholic Bible camp in Michigan? Or not at all, could possibly be just a spectrum that combusts like invisible energy in the wind when I'm alone, a bold fixture composed by rotten ideas of what I'm not, yielding what I appear to be, lusts that transgress practicalities in a tightly sewn chasity belt that opens up to hopes and dreams and closes in shame. By Him I mean God, whatever kind of overriding consciousness you want to call it that calls me out and says my name whenever something seems to have gone absolutely right or terribly wrong, egging me on. For all I can tell He exists as some metaphysical entity of absolute sex appeal, carelessness and grunge, that survives much a shit for just picking up after someone else's. Maybe its his bane or burden, there is a chance we met on the river styx once perhaps as I the closeted Pariah cursed himself for nothing and nothing, well he just stood there and laughed. Laugh.



-> I recently wrote this with the title: <-
"What do you want to be when you grow up?"
And Its basically a shit show of experiences that I just started writing about, pieced together in a mess of personal symbolism, mocking my feelings, ideas, and extreme things I have done or care about. Its interesting because the more I wrote the more I recognized how similar these strange feelings, ideas, and experiences were; In all of them I thought I had either been spoken to by some spiritual being, or that my mind came out of my body, laughed at me, and then went back in to take control. Weird right? Well then I read it all in one sitting and I noticed it looked more like I was talking about some Devil or Demon inside of me rather than God? But then I came to the conclusion that Its basically just a small piece of writing about some young, confused, horny artistic gay man in his early twenties.