Stories

Rinse While Hot

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It was a maniacal upbringing! I didn’t have anything to do with anything!

The wounds were fresh and cauterized and the wind never stopped moaning through tireless hippie years, staunch memories, munched-on dreams, thwacked sentiments, morale-less compounds, and loyal-less indemnities. My wit has only been sharpened by moist shitty rocks, all dangled by fishing twine from a dark ceiling. My hatred for humanity embellished by supercilious flowers and acid trips. Serenity reaches its place climbing up rocky ice crevasses. Mighty aesthetics reach dubious lengths via weeklong benders.

I stepped on my ex-cigarette and went, clear through the wetlands soaked with booze, the sandstorms glistening with cocaine and cigarette ash, biting my tongue seeing the ketchup fall, and finally reached the rocky oasis with palm trees burning like hair and boulevards spanning the earth’s surface, and the incandescent sunlight reflecting off the ground into my downturned head, on a long walk home during dawn, past the scientology museums, wooden tourists, and haphazard firefighters (indignant in their own right, because childhood stars play as them in their washed up TV actor days).

And I arrived home to my little Mexico and went belly-up in my bed for a hot week. Then life seeped back into me, and I walked to the water store, because I couldn’t take the tap, and my roommates syringes littered the livingroom, while the thought of my love fucking raspy beer boy runts plagued my unswept mind.

Renegaded charms marched on through my dreams, through the drudgery, through the muck, offsetting my apocalyptic visions like lipstick on a dead whore, serenading the course hearing hairs in my ears like an astonished ocean choir. Waking up each morning peppered by the comical sun doing what ‘ought’ to be done.

God is always on acid.

Harvesting all those empty promises was like learning to turn soil in the dust bowl.