The rage is fuel enough for a million tiny light bulbs, all flickering wildly in the dark. A limitless supply of icy white frosted flaky bones; cold rage as power of will.
Wrapped up in telephone wires – we reach out to the four winds and echo the silence of our fears. A grisly man, lacking fears but full of this rage you drive deep like railroad spikes in crucifixions, afraid of yourself, from memories of the past still stuck like flash frozen mirror glass.
The kind of rage-driven-fearless that chases black bears from piles of coffee grounds, “no free meals here sir,” via steel-tonne forged, skid steer living, like one trigger-pulled horn after another. Life – going hand in hand, forward motion on the joysticks. All bears are cowards and run, save the beautiful men who have asked me to love.
Love is so damn difficult for men – man, rather boy, staring down cougars on the bluffs trail – tail tersing, walk home from school – like hair of the dog, coyotes run when chased but I have never seen a cowardly wolf.
Grizzly in the beartrap, claws like butcher hooks – but he is a little boy, a juvenile alone and afraid, and I am not, and he is not the only one in a cage of his own actions. The concept of knowing where you want to be – but feeling lost on the inside, my lost insides including lust and the liver.
I’m two “myselves” short of a tonne, weighted like gasoline in the tar – thrown down from ramparts’ – buckets kind of fun. Life is wreathed in black oily tendrils of substance devoid of anything but truth and I will remain as such until they eventually dig me up from La Brea.
I shall be hung skeletal from the rafters, in a post-death place metaphor museum of learning – and yet living this way is like being filled with angry bees and infinite honeycombs waiting to be filled.
…
This memory is always fresh, and hard. Talk my father out of suicide, sitting on the edge of the smoke bluffs – with our hometown sprawled across the valley, like a night-time star model below. Quantifying the value of human emotion, to justify life to a man based in numbers. My cousin is freshly dead, murder of the self, most foul, with two teens and a wife left mourning and I don’t know where I stand anymore.
Words themselves are being laid down in epitaph – hanging the question of: “What if I could save her from hanging herself by being anything more than a fucked up fourteen year old boy?” I call this rage a madness, sticky black ink spots of the heart – festering and bubbling unless you stir it forever, leaving boiled over bits of self in a soylent green paste – reeking faintly of diesel.
I look into the mirror and my memories gaze back, and I remember that cold rage is fuel. I am not afraid of grizzlies or the grisly, only of myself.
And a million tiny lightbulbs fizzle out.
