The tiles were arranged so organically, were it not for the phosphorescent hues and contrast, one might take it as a natural occurrence.

The rainbow stone tiles, as the men took to calling it, returned light with surreal intensity at each of their many haphazard edges.

Without the use of chemical enhancements and calculatory engines, we might never have so much as understood the tiles’ purpose. Certainly our crude deciphering would have been impossible.

The language is reflexive. Each placement and subtle shift of hue, thickness, or spacing changes all meaning. The availability and variation of the medium affected what could be said and how….

Yet they found the means to express whichever it was they meant! Their written tongue was absolute art! Technical Manuals have brought me to weeping bliss.

The subtly and complexity of thought necessary to employ such a variable tongue astounds me to this moment. Even after all we have seen.

at least there is this

I needed something beautiful today.

I'm so glad this exists. Few have captured the beauty of everyday living as well as John K. Samson.

The Weakerthans broke open my brain so long ago.

The shining smile of parking lots, shadows, and dive bars... may it never leave me.

I took a moment to put on makeup and present a face to the world I wanted to see.

My mistake.

I expected only a few things to fuck up this morning.

I only anticipated 45 minutes for what should have been a 30 minute trip.

My bad.

Ten minutes. Ten minutes too late.

The construction doesn't matter. How I was blocked in and had to fight through, and then close gates, does not matter.

I do not matter.

I needed this and failed once again.

fuck

exhaustion

I’m so tired. Living exhausts me, day to day.

I understand privation, now more than ever. I had everything taken from me because I look strange*. *Which is to say, I exist outside a meaningless mathematical mean. How silly a thing about which to be concerned?

As to whether or not I get to keep my everything now, remains to be seen.

I’m so fucking tired of telling the tale. I’m so fucking tired of remembering it was real. I’m so fucking tired of nightmares with police.

I am so fucking tired… tired of smiling abuse. Tired of dreading doorbells.

So tired of this, so tired of them, especially.

Old names and wrong genders grate like a hair shirt. So tired of smiling and silent abuse.

I get it. You wish I wasn’t here, wish I wasn’t strong, wish I was not real. I am, though.

You hate me. That’s fine. I don’t really care about you. Just, it’s the way you are. You are so fucking exhausting.

Fuck you, Arkansas. Fuck you.

Don’t even get me started on Oklahoma.

Cupcake Wizard and the Bully, Preludes 1.

His morning started too early, always. Kevin didn’t really remember a time when he wasn’t tired.

Cats moaned in gross excess of sex outside his windows. A hollower version of similar sounds echoed from his stepdad’s room. Jim was watching porno again, or maybe he was just passed out with the Skinemax blaring.

Broad fingers and chewed nails rubbed his eyes.

Kevin sat up, cross legged in bed. His heavy arms draped across a big and freckled belly. He yanked a sheet over top of him.

It could not stop the sounds of the city nor the lights outside his window nor even the crickets, but it helped. He sat like that for quiet hours as anger slowly swelled inside his guts.

Morning was the worst. Jim would be awake.

Kevin hated the sunlight as it shone through his well-worn sheets.

“G’t up, fat ass!”

It was barely cogent. Jim was piss drunk again, but he always woke up early.

Breakfast was nothing beyond dry toast and verbal abuse.

Kevin was hungry when he bailed early down the fire escape.

in brief moments I can remember the sun on my shoulders
the wonderful press of too many bodies
the clear call of distorted guitars
raw and wonderful words
movement
the joy of movement
when we were young