On Freedom with a narratorical twist

So this is me. Dangling off the edge of this magma laden death trap, my island worn flip flops almost melting with its heat. My sea blue eyes about to meet its only competition thus far at the bottom of my impending tumble. I wasn’t much a man for adventure, at least not outside the bar or the bedroom. There, I was king, the sole proprietor of pleasure, the man behind the curtain to the wizard I was. I got around, to say the least, not that I’m proud of the magnitude per say, but the quality…well that was impressive. I was the party, the white horse whose name was only mumbled so as not to defame the legacy I had become. Los Angeles was my kind of town, full of my kind of people. The kind of people stupid enough to screw what they think they know about people and relationships and live life going through every step facing forward, never looking back. That’s what got me here, see in this path of life that some people such as myself choose to feign as a race is full of signs and warnings but, on this road, the words are on the back of the sign and the front can only be inferred by the road itself. Some of us aren’t mature enough to realize that just because the octagon shaped sign in front of the busy intersection doesn’t say stop, it must mean go. And that is what I did for the first 30 years of my life. And that’s why I’m here in this wife beater and sweatpants on a decade stained couch unable to sleep, but far more unable to get up. O that part about the volcano was just to get your attention. You didn’t really believe that did you? But I do stand before an equally great figurative volcano, incognizant of how to turn back, unable to dive in. Living my life so fully that I never had time to look back at all of the admonitions of my past I ran headfirst into a wall. The king has lost his crown, age stripped it from me handily and now, I sit and wallow in the consequences of youth, and the fulfillments of a life “well-lived”. Going hard, I landed hard, flying high, I’ve fallen low, and now I sit alone in this buzzard filled concrete shell of an apartment, much incongruous to the blandishments of my youthful lavishness and, looking much like the bum that is now pilfering through your trash silently, I am alone, unwanted, used up, and taken for granted. But its hard to take something for free, for granted and that’s what I was—free. Freedom isn’t for the immature nor the stubborn. Freedom is too smart for the stupidity of America, unnecessary for the brave and strong of America, irrelevant to the selfish of America, misused by the wild of America. Useless by the sinful in America. Freedom is a fool’s greatest chain and that was me—a fool, this is me—a slave—to loneliness, to fear, to depression, to jealousy, to lust, to greed. The land of the free can only exist with one nation under God, full of people being justified by grace. I look around for that empty handed, still wasting away in this horse pee smelling rat hole-esque sty I reside. Praying to find out I’m still alive, concerned that won’t make a difference.

Hero of War 1.0

that beautiful middle eastern child runs giddily across the dust-fogged alley with that chinese manufactured American bullet lodged gruesomely cocked up 45 degrees portruding from his golden brown skin, as he runs towards his father, in this reminiscion, unphased by the bullet and as he gets within a breath his father falls, stiff and cold and as his bust enters the bottom sector of his minds eye, and the boy opens his mouth slightly as his eyes transform in their innocent brown, in confusion, in bewilderment, and as the two meet in their simultaneous last fall to the dirt he wakes up, again sleepless, haunted eternally by this child who had been killed in an incidental fire accident, dying underneath, new al quaeda leader Mahmar Al Zauffari, his papa. The soldier wakes from his spot in the middle of the vast desert wilderness with his uniform pulled down as just pants, his gold star, medalling his honor, glistens against the scalding Gobi sun as his body, now emaciated and laden with dusty chains slowly rises to face forth another day of survival. he can't go back, he could never go back. His conscience forbids him and his guilt will not negotiate. A hero of war, they said, a murderer and a cold blooded killer said he, and so he is made to wander this wasteland haunted by hallucinations of his past, complete with newly acquired schizophrenia as he is unable to escape the death heavy praises of his heroism which roar like a lion in his sensitive ear, and he walks, dying for food, dying of thirst, unable to be lost, unable to be found, unable to be free, unable to submit, unable to die, unable to live. he cries to the skies, yet they withold their pour, and as he prays for that cup and that day, he wastes away the last few of his here dying to die after dying to live. He lives a hero of war. He dies in the pain of mortality haunted by brutality, but finally able to be truly free, in a land where its cost has been already paid and he leadership is to say the least perfect.
Here lies Jason R. Sheffield Crpl. US Marine Corps:
haunted till the day he died
by the images of those glorious lied
winning of the medal of honor
its price, was not of victory donner
his shot was perfect and aim sincere
but in following this order he threw away all dear
to live a life as an unknown martyr of war
not during, but after, while it rotted his core
1990-2011
RIP

On Sexual Equality and Rebirth: A ramble

With the rise of a  generation of quote, unquote equality, the mark of a man has moved from the scar on his brow to the lipstick marks which so whoringly, are left much further south. The nouveau riche of the male sector, is the sensitive, bravo, and exceedingly perfect Ken-esque persona, and the hunter-gatherer is left lost and alone in the arms of a world full of chicanery and debauchery. God, thoughtfully designed the man to pursue, but in this world, where women have been given too much power, pursuit is misconstrued as some type of horny sexual perversion, while mystery and solitude are attacked by women everywhere, and as they throw themselves at men we want to catch them, maybe we ought to step back and after taking a good hard look let one fall down on their face. My manhood will not be diminished to this type of pro-female equality. God designed woman for being wives and mothers, to care and run the household, if a woman must make some extra money to HELP support the family, that is a separate matter, but it is invariably and irrevocably the duty of the husband to provide for the family. This is by no means a “Go make me a sandwich” type of approach on woman, but it seems that in this liberation of women, men are being feminized and this reverse of gender roles is playing out in the millions of divorces, affairs, and homosexual and lesbian relations that are now occurring. This new freedom has brought with it a desire of dominance for females across the nation and with the weak and easily duped souls of men as their medium, they have begun to paint a new America, and I shall be the first to say, that it is Sodomizing fast and I now sit in a position of turning back, risking the doom which surely awaits, this indebted and uncontrolled nation, or, like Lot, do I turn my back on this land mourning the loss of its people, and mourning their ignorance but, saving myself from this treacherous place, to start anew. To answer how I wish this might be done, and postulate as to the means by which greatness is reached I began with this statement: I walk through this life desirous to leave one flower who might remember my name, which as I rush through the minutiae of visceral bliss this mortal and snappy stay has to offer me I will have left this world cognizant of my existence, intelligent of my life, and blessed with the glorious smell of a passionate beauty, so that, as this world goes up in the flames of Armageddon I will not be ruined. Though the leaf withers and the flower will die, the joy it had brought shall not soon be forgotten. So as I close this off-kilter, rambling diatribe, I leave with this. You are not great enough to be given ultimate or eternal freedom nor are you strong enough to gain it for yourself, but by the mercies of the father, the little things you can do will leave an everlasting impact, and as you touch another’s life, yours is dually blessed, and your service is written in a far more important book than any that sit on a library shelf on earth. Labor short and plant a flower, lest you labor a lifetime for unconquerable freedom. 

Aware

As I lay here and think of how poor and unfair

Distracted of course with the gold in your hair

I feel like ripping this heart from my chest

Knowing you deserve much more than my best

You’re a treasure of sorts worth far more than gold

An ounce of your beauty a price couldn’t be bold

Today; however, fairly but anew

Your face didn’t have that same sparkling hue

And in the brief moment I longed to infinitum est

You ended so curtly not cheery, a test?

I realize quite surely you have grown with me to the cold

And thus with my chance over I no longer behold

With you I figure I’d be good to the last

But I know too much of me for this to be true

And thus I have no right to aghast

You treated me better than any before, if only to cast

 That back, somehow I could show love to you.