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About

circa 86 there was a small birth in the belly of the city of angels. middlemost stroke of midnight, and after a slight hiccup in breathing beguiled by umbilical chords, the sea within the vivisection gave way to a slightly sick, nonetheless steadily breathing baby boy. the creation co-op by an aspiring guitar string sage for a father, and a district 7 cloud nine communications director for a mother. having never tied the knot (via father's monogamy complications), the parents kept in close quarters for the sake of their creation. with the rock god's days of wine, song, and concubines wearing thin, he exchanged the axe for ball in chain, as did mother, though not in the same vane. while the two masterminds’ behind this narrator dove head first into the day in and out doldrums of nine to five vast machine sort of fray, the boy was neck deep in defining his reason for breathing as he grew taller each day. early as his head could conceive, he showed copious an interest in ink, and the to and fro type turning of pages. he'd take hours mastering the art of spilling insides in cursive of every triumph, tragedy, and the split incisions of self since the inception. bear in mind like any worth telling, this tale wasn't left unstrained with strife of life and its often unfair gain. for as early as he could conceive clearer than the pages, the boy's yellow brick road would often run red with his own, alone at the hands of those most would incorrectly hoist as the "fairer sex". a score or so of discarded letters, a slew of misspent endeavors, abandoned tenements which once housed noble intentions, and a stale dial tone broadcasting from midwest capitals of elsewhere, the boy grew accustom to keeping teeth hidden in the face of women. that matched with a rabid enthusiasm of language in lieu of chains, smokes, and improper speech, made him one fish left of the school to most wearing the same shade that deemed him weak. a walking fun house mirror to be marred by many as a social coma leper. a far cry too dark to speak so white was the extra extra he'd read all about before every sunset's end. prolonged exposure of playing the square trying to fit circumference of the circle resulted in him making a habit of holding unfavorable feelings taciturn. for all too often they were recouping from critical a condition from the myriad of mal-distaffs and derelicts who at dropped hat would dig mandibles in. at 15 he found a common passion in the palm of a perfect mirror image he'd come to call his blood brother. 17 he'd make fire among the ostracizing aphids. deciding it would be his written pages defining his center attraction to a sizable lexicon. contorting from square into a hexagon, it was the circle that became unworthy of his space. at 18 he fell into what was and what he'd be, and post crack dissect his outer shell. in deciphering the knitch would he sew a center too golden to sell. at 19 his mind for a moment resigned from a menu of intravenous hallucinogens to cure the cancer, and cold marble hospital stints. upon lymph nodes receding he'd come to expel all belief in things such as holy spirits and hungry ghosts. though not the sort that toils hallways in hunt for attention, but of the kind that dines on doubts as the feast, and leeches we as its evening host. at 21 he'd climb olympus to find his creators just as susceptible as any to any mortal form of fear, hypocrisy, and debility to peril. several million volts of unfamiliar feeling, being taken aback at the fallible façade of mother and father's outer layers peeling. while working through the storm the boy fraught with swinging arms at the ocean current to keep himself steady. only to shipwreck on an uncharted atoll, set to shelter if he was ready. finding solace in the space of its fertile traces, and sitting under his yggdrasil, basking warmth in the coming to of his age, the whole spectacle taken in with a grin, the boy kept writing, and signed in blood his name to the page...