My Everlasting Future As A Writer

Never thought I’d be 23. Doesn’t seem like an age anyone considers. Damn near said ‘BEND’ to a Drippy King. I can’t contest with the mounds of Hollister dogs barking at horny ghosts. I just stray black and wear my picket fences out behind the dog-pound — shock-collar a few hoes and stay as focussed on my money as I can. Seems like a not-to-do list? Our life of constance really must’ve taken so many lives over time here on Earth. I think the amount of suicide built around depraved individuals seeking another way — something else worth something more — an emotion that doesn’t come with baggage… I thought about my dead friend today. ‘Why’ never crossed my mind — I only thought to tell him that we’re still suffering here — still striving — still trying to make it better. I’m sure he’s somewhere worth his time. Somewhere not wasted. That inherent threat that Death carries isn’t more than someone shouting for curtain call. Then the curtains raise and the whole world is watching. You perform and when the show is over — the story has been told — you walk off. Maybe go get some food or drinks with friends, maybe go home to your lover for a hug, maybe walk the streets alone dreaming ‘that show never ended.’ It’s a personal preference universe. Something each of us take into consideration when we awake day by day; what’ll it be today, Doctor? Something new? The usual? I try and not pay attention to the crowd so much nowadays. Every performer needs intermission… and so does the audience! Time to get popcorn and a drink. Quarantine doesn’t even create fulfillment. Those that pray for the audience though won’t step out when it’s time for a quick change. I call sickness! I call depravity! My witched dreams full of crucifix and seasoned bread spoiled water. My body is quiet and my mind is curling. Day by day the Doctor says, “Hold.” I find no time to relapse. I find the same audience as yesterday. Waiting to be amused, made to laugh, to giggle and forget. Just for a moment. A springtime virus to be held for ransom. My sickness hasn’t passed. Only another day on the stage that leaves at noon. I had a good day to start. Only when I arrived at my car to find I had a parking ticket.

As a writer, I have shot myself in the foot. I’ve given everything I have and yet it is not enough. I have written many a book. Yay yay. Three cheers. I have not, though, the taste of success in my mouth. Do I yearn for it? I have been working at it for years, aye, but it is not success I am pursuing is it, Jacob? You good ole’ boy! You never listened to the Dark Side Of The Moon! Facts! I can see with my eyes closed! Facts. I am a doorway with blood! Facts? I sing songs for the poor and I lend a hand when I can, yes! Go! Now, does it feel more like success? Does it feel like you have what the writers O-SO-LOVED. I often recall William Blake and how he, after being denying the hand of the woman he loved, married another woman and she signed their marriage certificate with an X. I often recall this. Woah, heavy shit. As a writer, the torment. I’ve meant the time I’ve spent writing. I spent the time I’ve spent writing. I have bought and sold properties, people, personalities, and unborn identities, but do they carry with them the badge of success? The man… his wife marked their marriage certificate with an X! That is heavy heavy shit. Does that come with a coupon? Is there any return policy with that? Can you call it a dime? A nickel? Is it worth anything to anyone? Lame. She back handed him. She cheated. Ah, but I know. Listen. My idea of change is simple as is its constance. I have a steady hand in evolution, for, me and her wedded many a back. She doesn’t cheat. She doesn’t grow old or lie. She doesn’t take what I’ve spent and I have spent all my time on her! My whole life. My life as an artist, a musician, a writer. The words circle my head with praises from both sides of the Holy War. I am rude at times, never. I am pompous, never. I am a learned man. I am a learned baby in the womb of evolution. I have to uphold the sanctity of our sacred child! Our impubescent smidge! In the long run that is… a gold mine. A German proverb, maybe…? The point is... should it be known (am I making it known?) — that the point is. The point stands. The word is bird. Let yourself be free as fuck! For I am full of that indispensable mercy. My life as a writer (as the helicopter flies overhead) must be in the moment. When I turn my brain off, let the Spirit Of Work be that as it is, and let the pages fly! I have not trembled in the truth, the face of God, or the holy word from God's epic mouth. I am simply perplexed by the notion that I am to be expected. I am to be in success — with or without the baggage I carry. My changing desires. My everlasting wounds. My precious love for the treasure… O-THE-TREASURE!!! By Golly… X marks the spot.