THE AGE OF SATURN
(Original Image by Xandtor)
I've graduated from red wine to rum this warm spring night. There was less than a shot of Cap’n Morgan, and I had already drank up all the wine with dinner: the bottle of Ghost Pine and the box wine. Why? Hell, I have no idea. All I know is that I feel better, and my family feels better that I feel better, and the universe feels better that we feel better.
Foolish me, there never was a golden path waiting for the steadfast believer, only an accounting of action and time. This is why the debauched tend to live the longest, and the most pristine hit an existential wall around the age of 27. Mandi told me this represents the Age of Saturn, when one’s youth transitions to power. Apparently, some cats can’t make the journey. I’m surprised I’ve made it this far, but I'm slowly learning how small I am. People keep thrusting me into the Savior position. Poor children, I cannot save you half as well as I can save myself. And I’ve killed myself a thousand times by the end of this sentence from sheer neglect. I set fire to your fashioned little boxes and piss on the ashes. How's that for salvation?
Hot spring night beside my wine glass repurposed for rum and orange juice. I add two ice cubes, stir with a long teaspoon, and dive in. I’m making room for the Orange Vanilla twist the Cap’n now offers. Sounds like an orange dream machine on this sweltering, suffocating day. I can think of many friends I’d like to join me. I can think of many friends I'd like to cheers, to drink in memorandum, but I stop myself. That's my problem: always soliciting for company, always the obedient lap dog to those who throw crumbs from the lofts of inscrutable potential and enlightenment. Well, if the shady spot beneath the Bodhi Tree requires your careful neglect, then enjoy your gentle politics in the afterlife, where you’ll count feathers for fun and ride the dull edge of sunbeams into the tepid pools of Titan.
I don't want to hear it. I'm not an apple in a produce stand. I’m not a baguette of French Bread… maybe Sourdough though… goddamn does that taste good with some Cab and Prosciutto on the side…
Let’s compare heavens. Let’s compare embarrassments. Let’s sharpen our Saviors against one another. While you look to a book you’ve barely read, I stare at the center of the sun. I punch our solar father in the eye. I pull the plasma bathrobe over his head and sock him in the stomach. Solar flares spill like bile in the deep vacuum of space, and I land another. I'm taking on the gods, one at a time. They ain’t so tough. They haven’t had to hurt like the rest of us, and so they cower at the first kiss of pain. I only had to say I built the cross, bribed the guards, and hammered the nails home with my own splintered hands. And when Mary cried, and I slapped her a good one, and god knelt before me and begged for forgiveness.
“Beware the Ides of March, the Age of Saturn.” I told him.
