THE EVIL OF OUR WAYS

(Original Image by Jack Trout)

I see the needle. I stick it in.

I see the bottle. I pop it, drink it down.

I see sweets. I eat them. Salts too, because Death is a long way away, and I need to come down now.

I see the weights, the bike. I jump on, pump, and sweat my soul out.

I see pounds of pot in plastic bags. I smoke it stalking the streets of San Francisco, looking trimmer than even.

Doctors prescribe me pills. I swallow them without guilt, these divine chemicals that chain me to the grand standard.

I fast. I eat nothing for weeks on end. Some sunlight here. Some tears there for hydration.

I’m light enough to float. I am enlightened. Those poor people below, they must know the Truth, the evil of their ways.

I slept in my car last night, an empty house, an unkempt apartment. The cold was unbearable. I swallowed the sun as it dipped over the horizon.

The cosmic forces of old know not of social media, the ethnic struggle, the ease of white dwarves swirling their binary dance. They must be educated, for our way is the only way.

Consumption is the foundation of the universe. Serotonin on tap. Baptismal waters of ecstasy flooding the cerebellum.

The only meaning is nonsense. The only path is sideways.

The gods chortle at the inebriated spider, their pathetic web of cliches and misconceptions.

I lie on the cold jail floor.

I lie awake on satin sheets.

I lie in ash along Diamond Lake.

The past is a prison sentence. The future is a friend with benefits, but only for a little while.

If you were to walk backwards, could you follow down a different path?

If you were to break all mirrors, could you see clearly?

Life. Death. What the hell is the difference?

Righteousness is a game we play with each other.

The pill is better than the booze which is better than the needle which is better than the gun.

The real ones, though, move in shadows and whispers. And if they had their way, they would disappear entirely because the game simply isn’t worth the candle.

I may be going to jail for a long time.

I may be dying of liver failure.

I may have already died of liver failure.

I may not have put ink to paper, but I did anyway. Something to do with soul. If you have one too, better not hold back.

Your indulgences will consume you soon enough. And your quivering piety, sooner still.