Alchemy of Heisenberg.

Intended to unfold
the path from Mr. Chips to Scarface,
what you got in the end
was a character carved from the blade

of far more realistic means,
the world, the path you came to follow
just in order to reshape him:

black and white organically
bled into gray, revealing the spectrum
underlying the rigid polarity:

consequence of open eyes
coupled with honesty, I suppose.

Protagonist transforms
into antagonist:
insight,
synthesis.

Post Glen. 

Blade to jugular.
Moment of truth has come.
What side are you on?

Barbwire bat bleeding.

Ignoring sharpened steel
to the skin, he speaks
his mind, screaming:

do it. Bring
it if you
have the balls, just

know I never crumbled
beneath the pressure,
that I chose
integrity

despite the consequence.

It grins, pushes
me down. Beats and cuts
me, yet leaves
me breathing, bleeding.

Suppose I deserve this. 

My rampage has left
a stick
in your eye,
but ultimately:

I will kill you.

By my hand,
you will fucking die.

Folly of a Preemie Precog.

She became everything.
The excuse I needed.

Her death
was the biggest
conceivable blow
to me, and I lurched
back, wind
knocked out

of me, and I came to rest
in a comfy cushion of: 
Well Then,
Fuck It.

Everything is gone.
Return to dust.

Nothing left
for me here. Gloves
are off. Everything
is permissible.

My future
is already history.

I know when I’m going to die.

So right now,
I own everything.

Drumpf.

Yeah?
Good for you.
Now:

Eat my asshole.
Pox on your first born,
scum of the earth.

Don’t just bite
the bullet:
no, no:

fucking eat it.

Narcissistic
puppet-master. Savior
of the paranoid

ears fixed
on conservative
talk radio. Go ahead,
widen the divide:

it will only lead
to our demise,
inevitably
leading
to your own.

Empathy
could have saved you.

Selfish and shortsighted
aiming towards
blind arrogance:

sure to get
there: in an important
way, subliminal
self mutilation

along the path
to unconscious suicide.

Make your choice,
sociopath:

I’ll be busy loading my gun.

Six Six-Word Stories, Chapter 2.

7. News Flash for a Narcissist.

Trumpty Dumpty never got his wall.

8. A Timely Tale of a Baker’s Dozen.

Twelve stories, all written while stoned.

9. Power.

Grinning, she growls, “I own you.”

10. Green.

Green-eyed monster. Seductive, beautiful beast.

11. Strange Anesthesia.

Table cold. Warm, numbing feeling grows.

12. I.B.E.

Sensations on the skin: poking, stabbing.

Six Six-Word Stories, Chapter 1.

1.
Glenn. 

Survived apocalypse, finished off by bat.

2.
I Am Jack’s Enlightenment.

Listen, Tyler: my eyes are open.

3.
Tale of a Dead Man. 

As all dreams: weird in retrospect.

4.
Jack Asphalt.

A dolt, self-aware, took responsibility.

5.
Virgo California Girls.

Miraculous entry, bliss, an agonizing exit.

6.
Quest for Truth.

Reality rebels, he suffers through lies.

DeniZen Buddhism.

Fiction
is the ultimate rebellion
against reality.

One actually plays god
in ways far superior
to the supposed
original, given
the forced

fictional perspective
tends to provide
a suitable purpose
to the denizens
of its reality.

We can mould
a life better
than this. It is a capacity
that we have
exercised endlessly

through tales
depicting lives
borne of purpose,
exceeding expectations,

no matter how low
or high the bar
is set.

We are what we make
of us: no more
or less.
We are the consequence

of who, what
we have always
fucking been.

Grave of the Governor.

Heads
of your enemies
in aquariums

laid out
in your private
viewing room

(reanimated
life in amber)

where, alone,
you can rock,

recline
on your comfy
chair, gaze
locked, drink
in hand:

really, this is
your pinnacle;

your highest point
in this enduring,
rancid, uncompromising
shit-storm
of a story. So live

it up, loser. Breathe
in the dirt I am busily
shoveling over

you, motherfucker,
a dead seed
planted six feet down,

lord of the lapis
chiseled
with an epitaph
by the departed:

King
of Nothing
but Dirt.

Warrior in the Garden of Graves.

There is a me far
beyond here, so deeper, so close
in a direction I could never
hope to point

to behind your narrowed
eyes. Cannot convince
me otherwise, for I
remember clear

as ever those dusty dunes
of death, sandstorms, still mornings,
something looming,
foreboding, like vultures
circling, waiting,

for the predictable
after which they will gleefully
peck your bones dry
of all the juicy meats

out in the desert,
wastelands
of my elsewhere.

My proof
to myself that I
can never hope
to escape my hell.

So far, yet carried
within me. Drawn to seeming
fate, so resonant, seduced
by the affinity

for the stage
and the play, just
could use some friendly

advice, for visions,
they communicate:
blinding bright,
yet here I wait.

I must better myself.
Strengthen myself.

Determined, hellfire
burning their way
through my veins…

Secrets, compartmentalized,
histories bleeding, adhesive
and missing pieces.

This is my spiritual 
inheritance (for lack
of less hokey
terms) fresh
from my garden
of graves.

Same story
always, fucking
forever. We all share
this epitaph. Death

finds me despite
the fact
that I feel
its best avoided. 

In every challenge,
there is a trick
to be learned so

as to know
just how
to squash it. 
Despite
every trial, error,

this consciousness
of mine:
it has prospered
nonetheless.

This is my war.
I was meant to fight this.