Aslan's Land

Tonight my mind is sitting on the bench. I have been put out. Shot out. Expelled to Planet Ringo. The temperature is just shy of 40 degrees. The frozen water burns on my face. The sky is black and raining ash. The tide of the ocean pours onto my feet, gushing through my black combat boots. Yes, I am still ready for war. I am on the bench, not in the hospital. I over look the horizon, lightning comes from the setting sun and tidal waves are rushing towards me. PSALV-MURON, the holiest wave of my youth, comes at me now. It is not a power I can hold my bat to; it is not a demon I can conquer in battle. I cannot run to or from the wave, for it is linear in manner and parallel to time. It is coming. It is crashing down. In comparison I am a small man. One of fear and hesitation. I need to crouch down and take precautions, but I am paralyzed in my fear and weakness.

What will I find behind this wave?

The depths of darkness and loneliness? A sea of regret? Will I find myself in lockdown and another world thrown away? Will reality even keep its meaning?

Or blue skies and the eternal sun? Or a new crew and the true cowboys? Or a girl anew, bewitched by the numinous love of the true creator? Or the shore of Asland?

Oh how I wish to see the shore of Asland. If you don’t know where that is, it is the land of the noble savages. Void of the user. Void of the liars.

AM I A USER? AM I A LIAR?

Not do I use, not do I lie. Is it my destiny to do so?

My body continues to shiver and quake. It is in part due to the high voltage in this reigon of Ringo, due to the vanishing ARX-IGNIDERMIS. My body cannot stop beating, my body cannot stop stop pumping blood from my pores. The sun penetrates my leather skin. My fear dissipates the arx-ignidermis, my screams leave my only protection in ruins. I bury under the glass and steel that makes my home. My current home that is.

I am away. I am on the bench. I now live in a glass wasteland. The only thing that moves is the deep ocean. The only thing that moves is the only thing I fear. The only way I can leave is if I face Psalv-Muron. Perhaps I do not have to face it alone. There are two. A true cowboy and the girl.

The Champ of Angels.

A true cowboy. A man worthy of song. His face is like an angel, and he is gentle. Despite all of his strength he doubts the power of his words. Despite the power of his words. I gotta feeling in my gut that me an him are gonna be buds for a long time. If there ever was a true cowboy, he’s one that’s faithful and blue. I find security in his commitment to my cause. When a champ like my friend says hes got your back, you know that that demon is full of shit.

Blackbird.

The girl in my dreams. Honestly she might be my wife. The question that rumbles in my head is not if I could see us get old together. The question is it her destiny to be my wife. That is the question in my head. Skin like the setting sun, and hair like a cold dark night. When were together, folk music plays and poets play piano. My legs shake and my heart is calm again. My lips stop moving and my eyes start speaking. My secrets are safe. My tears are safe. She is not ashamed of me. I don’t know if she can handle me, but I know she’s not giving up. Neither am I.

So am I prisoner? Am I captive?

Lord keep wisdom close to my bedside. My shelter is breaking, my land is foreign. My life is feigning, but opportunity is my doctrine. Hold my eyes to the wave, let them not stray to the lightning. Stay and wait for me to change, what is a patient without his doctor? You are that which I love. The song of my soul. If you keep your eyes upon me, perhaps, perhaps I will grow old.

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The Place Where You Can Always Beat Your Fists

I'm here to raise my drink to your desperate ballad.Scream at me through your clenched teeth.I know youre not alright.It's not alright.I know everything's all wrong.Everyone is gone.I watched them leave. I see you plead. You throw your fist at my chest. And I try. And I can't sleep. My heart is fucking yours and I'm not going home.I passed up the exit for the retreat 8 miles back. This world is filled to the brim with retreat, and not enough people to meet you where your at. Your'e not alright. Its not alright. You can keep up the fight. You can lose and give up. Either way tell me whats up. Cause its still not alright and it wasnt alright and it probably wont be alright! I know darling. Sing me that song. Rage against me with full force. Tell me about what they do to those who bleed. Tell me how you came to know your demons. Tell me what the fuck is wrong with you. Yes they brought me down too. Even though we keep on weepin we can still hold hands. Thats where God's at. Thats where God's at.

My Button Breakdown

There I lie. I lie in the chopped grass in the center of the field. In this valley no one can see me. I am in my sanctuary. Their words wrap around me and as I assemble there, the puzzle, I attempt to dig into myself. Bat in hand becomes my shovel as I drive it into my heart. But I cannot go deep enough. I cannot penetrate my soul. Not with their words. I only reach ores of this world, only rocks defined by ages that will wilt away in their seasons. I am far from my core.

My mind often wanders off of their rhapsody. Onto the cold wind seeping through my clothes. Grabbing hold of my attention. Manipulating me into shivers. Surely the mere air is not as powerful as the songs of my kin? Surely their words are immortal as I am. I feel the muscles grow underneath my back and my legs become strong and durable as I run. I only know this prime.

I know the sweet kisses of young girls under my high school’s trees at lunch. I know the approval of my coach as I run faster than I ever have. I know how to put the shapes of our bodies onto paper. I know the immortal heroes in my books. I know the fearless rebels in my movies. I know my three scars, the one on my leg, the one on my chin and the one below my lip.

Now, in present time, as the cold wind took me away, the cold wind brings me back. I am not with my young sweethearts. I am not with my coaches or my paper. I am not with my rebels or heroes. I am with my scars. I am with their words. I am with the cold wind and the short grass. I am with myself.

I am taken away by distractions. I want to be close to my soul. I want to hold and look at its depths, unclothed and naked. I want to see the curves and its sides and the habits and the movements of my soul. I want to be close to myself. I am not close to myself.

I am close to these words and these girls and approval and fiction. But I am not any of those things. That is not who I am!

Am I the contents of my heart? Am I the contents of my actions? Am I mortal? I am out here to ask these questions. To even ask why these questions are stirring in my heart to begin with. In my failure, as I search for definition I have found a case of buttons to put on my coat. I am not unclothing and I am not even putting on more clothes. I am putting buttons on my coat. I like girls. I like indie rock and roll music. I like comic books. Just buttons on a coat.

Back in the present I have discarded my clothes. I have discarded my headphones. I am kneeling on my blanket. This world offers me no solution. The papers are lost and the heroes are forgotten. My body fails me. The love of my girl dulls into gray. I grow out of these songs like a pair of jeans that don’t fit me. The alcohol and tobacco isn’t worth and the weed doesn’t take away the pain. I am not even into drugs anyways.

I lay naked on the blanket in the center of this sanctuary and I have discarded this world. All I feel is the cold wind getting stronger and stronger. And I bow and kneel before something stronger. I have no other choice now, I am tired of fighting and struggling, I am weary and ready to admit who I am. That’s what I want to know isn’t it?

I open my bloodshot eyes and there I kneel.

The Angry Sun and The Southern Land

The air smells of my sweat and my nicotine. The angry sun is unrelenting in the southern land. I grind my teeth as I impossibly sleep through this goddamned unbearable heat. I dream of the strange beast. The animal is like a rabid wolf with super-real presence. Its numinous words are like that of a lion. Ears are like planks. The spine is protruding from its shallow body. Its human hands dig their dirty fingers into the soil. When it speaks, it speaks of my thorns being my demise. About how it will conquer me.

I tremble.

The air smells of my sweat and my nicotine. The angry sun is unrelenting in the southern land. The true cowboys are weeping on my porch. We read the books on my shelf. We don’t smile, we don’t believe. Strip me of my shirt and shoes. Vent with a bloody fist and book of poems. Love a good girl but only cry for your good men. Don’t you dare fear blood or sweat or your older brother or the insanity of the crimes against me. Remember that only broken heroes and underdogs can bring us hope. Give a firm goddamn handshake. Look a man in the goddamn eye. Don’t forget the poor, cause the rich are void of all beauty. And never turn your back on any son today or tomorrow.

I am no backbreaker.

The air smells of my sweat and my nicotine. The angry sun is unrelenting in the southern land. She wears her black tanktop and her cutup jeans and her black converse shoes. She don’t sweat. She smells strongly of lavender. Her hair shines blue. Her love is desperate. Her grip is nonexistent. She don’t know why I love her. She don’t know why she gotta be. She sings me sweet blues in the summertime and tells me horrible stories in the winter. There’s a story for every line on her body. And its proof that it’s tragic and its proof that it happened. Along with the wolf and the castles, the girl appears in my dreams every night. We fight these creatures together. But were separated. At the end of every good fight we gotta say goodbye.

I sleep alone.

The air smells of my sweat and my nicotine. The angry sun is unrelenting in the southern land. But the air is cool now. The moons up. Everything is pitch black except for the white moon. Sometimes, when the moon is full, I imagine it to be the eye of God himself. Sometimes, many times, its just me, the moon, and the clothes on my back. I take my bat with me whenever I can, cause you never know what demon awaits me. I know I’m a wanted man. But I fear no evil, for God is with me. I fear the Lord. God knows I beg him for mercy, for she knows I need to. God knows I sing him sweet songs under moonlight. If I ever had a lover I had Christ. God knows I sing with whatever I got, to raise an upbeat sound amidst the rampant pain and paranoia. God knows I don’t just sing my song for me, I sing it for her and the real cowboys. I got this one life to sing me song. Violence may ensue, bad men may curse us, and treasures may be lost. But we got what we got. Hallelujah.

I know me song.