Elixir Vitae

When you exit through the back door of my medulla oblongata, please inform Sarah that my new scent will be worn on weekdays–the weekends belong to Jimmy Choo. Essential oils of which permeate the pores and solicit the hairless corridors of the nostril.

Frankincense, lavender, cedarwood, cocoa butter, coconut and almond oil, and vitamin E will conjoin during the auspices of the cool as cucumber cocktail hour.

There is no need for simple syrup, for I possess a portable urinal that allows me the simple convenience of relieving myself in bed. There is no shame in pissing in a plastic bottle when your IV fetters restrain your mobility.


Red Opulence of a Present Mind

Amongst the crowd that He was addressing, there was a young skeptic who attempted to rattle the clarity and focus of His message. She heckled, "And what of the color red Dragon Master? Can there ever be enough in our lives?"

Sensing that His light was beclouded by her shade, He approached from a different angle:


You who possess the profound timeless beauty of a red rose prick up ears to hear the message of a decaying man.

It is incredibly thrilling waking up each morning with something inside you that is using your body to kill itself, and ending the day alive and victorious in spite of it.

But you do not have to be on the brink of mortality to immerse yourself in life. For your undeniable allure and attraction is cherished by the senses, cherishing the present moment. And that is all you can really glorify: the present moment.

So keep those seductive lips red–red with passion, red with vitality, red with life. For there can never be enough red in your life, and your pulse will thank you for it."

Having recognized the message as truth, the young girl became a disciple from that day forth. 




Requiem of Our Cotton-Mouth Specters

Many sat around Him at the mouth of a dried-out lake bed one summer afternoon. Having their splintering attention, The Dragon Master spoke thus:

The swelter of introspection distills us into multiples. Impurities of which are cast into vapor. Take heed of the remaining condensation, for it is the requiem of our cotton-mouth specters.

Without warning, He spit onto the cracked dirt, and stayed there until it had evaporated in the broil of the afternoon heat.


Admonitions for The Undomesticated of Spirit

Bougainvillea baby red hues

Carry the river to the mystical muse

Be like the eternal child, and drink from the wellspring

Will as aromatic as an aged bottle of chartreuse


Refuse, the noxious fumes

From the zephyr causticity of society

Preserve your spirit, and you will circumnavigate your anxieties

Dissipated souls fill the catacombs of our existence

Foraging for a pulse, vitality, anything is better than that comatose subsistence

So refuse

Refuse to lose


So that you may lose



Pantomimes of Ebon

End of week, Sunday, sun aglow.

Lying in cancer ward bed, second chemo cycle done, awaiting discharge.

I revisit the stretch of wall where my flickering shadow companion entertained me on night one. She's absent now, but I smile regardless.

Behold! Your Dragon Master is returning home, and I will find you in the penumbra of My hermitage sanctuary later tonight. So rest your witching hour pantomimes and cryptic elucidations, and conceal yourself in the interlude of daybreak.

For not everyone can perceive your timeless beauty, but I do.


A Convalescent Apologia for Daily Napping

Three days ago my oncologist informed me that my liver was "injured", and that she'd have to lower the dosage of my chemotherapy to prevent potential liver failure and ultimately the need for an imminent liver transplant.
I finished my orange juice, and took a nap.
Today, my liver numbers are almost back to normal, still a little hurt, but well on its way to recovery.
I think the nap helped. I need more naps. Everyone should nap more.


A Foreboding Prelude to the Amplitude of Pain

There was a shadow amoeba in my hospital room the size of an adult hand, and I watched it make its rounds as it crawled up and down the wall for 17 minutes straight. Blinking sparingly, I followed its foreboding gestures so that I wouldn't miss it's intentions.
I was transfixed with its disciplined oscillations and wavering habits. It would flicker assertively at times, grow faint, disappear for split seconds, then abruptly emerge as its blacker denser shadow reincarnate–all while adhering to its committed three foot linear path on the wall facing me.
It was unsettling, yet poetic in its deliberateness. I could've watched it perform its routine all night, but my nurse interrupted my curious voyeurism so that she could replace my chemo bag.
And with that, at 1:46 am, it was officially the beginning of my second day of my second chemo cycle week.
I could hear the sinister laugh of the abdominal pains, bone pains, nausea, and vomiting in the prelude of the approaching day.


Dysphoric Meanderings of a Virtual Anomaly

I was awakened mid-sleep by rustling noises outside my lair. I went outside and flashed my light in the direction of the dead of night disturbance expecting to find the elusive possum that's been unscrupulously dining on the unripened tangerines from one of my fruit trees.

Instead, it was her–the pestilence that's been keeping me from resting in peace. She was cowering half-baked, behind my water heater hoping not to be noticed, but I knew she was there–I recognized her posture and scent.

I turned around and went back inside, leaving her outside to meander around in her dysphoria under the probing fire of the moon in Leo.



A Fruit Tart A Day Keeps the Cancer Cough Away

It was insufferably hot for a picnic in the park, so we roosted in the concealment of my shadowy lair instead.

We sprawled our sweaty bodies atop her Solapuri Chaddar she had extended on the floor, seeking salvation from the condemning inferno rays of afternoon summer outside.

She brought me borsch, matzo ball soup, potato salad, and a fruit tart that made me feel loved–I really like fruit tarts.

We discussed my cancer health, and thereafter, easy things...like the buffoonery of my sworn enemies.

After we said our goodbyes I went inside, laid down, and finished my fruit tart in bed. It's good to have friends that understand you.


Don't Eat It, Send It Back

She was someone I could see myself with. Undeniable beauty, impeccable style, sharp wit, sassafras in abundance–a real live one.

The flirtatious banter crescendoed over the weeks, until, at last I decided to dig a little.

I asked her about her most recent act of vengeance. She hesitated as I prodded with curiosity, but disclosed a full account of the event in question.

What a masterful chef she was, for her dish was certainly served cold.

I felt a sense of dejected disorientation, as I mourned the possibility of any romantic future with her. 

The thing with chefs, is that they have the tendency to delight in the dishes they serve, but the years of heartbreak have taught me to watch what I eat.

Needless to say, I won't be pursuing her anymore.

I'm sad. Very sad.

Yes, I AM The Dragon Master, but I am of tender disposition, and I have an affinity for seductive delicacies that afford a sweet aftertaste.


The Symbiosis of String Cheese and Existential Dread

A delving diasporic day where your emotional equilibrium scatters into convenient little multi-colored boxes that are arranged by spectral hues on dusty dark wooden shelves in your unconscious mind.

It's that kind of day.

A string cheese kind of day that peels away at your awareness, one existential dread at a time–leaving you with easy thoughts and temporary serenity.


Wading In An Obsidian Sea of Nostalgia

The Cancer moon has bestowed upon the night's sky, and I'm wading in an obsidian sea of nostalgia.

Rose-quartz feelings abound–I reminisce over our late-night shenanigans brimming with drunken laughter, and naked summer afternoons teaching you Spanish.

You were the spellbinding caprice that sparkled my fascination–full of mischief, and a tender vulnerability.

In retrospect, I was too jaded for the unconditional embrace you longed for, but hopefully the current beard isn't. You're most magical when you're happy, and King Duck and I hope he makes you smile.


Serrated Inhalations

Her latest sadistic pleasure has been the dragging of barbed wire across My liver and abdominal muscles.

Shallow breathing helps, but I've had a cold, so with each forceful cough I feel the rusty metal pierce my afflicted guts.

She scorns Me throughout the day with stabbing zeal, and I can hear her heckling heels as she dances with unfeigned malevolence.

Little does she know I have murderous intent and her days are numbered.

Let it be known, The Dragon Master is judge, jury, and executioner to those who commit heinous crimes against Him.


The Dying Man Who Gasped Ignored Gasps

The evening before my neighbor in bed 12C was to be transported back home for his remaining hospice days, his anxiety began to set in.

His pleas for help were attended less frequently over the course of the night, as the overworked and overstretched Filipino nurse attended to her other patients.

Eventually, we learned to ignore his wilting gasps and groans of pain so that our weak bodies could scavenge for sleep.

His dying noises gradually blended into the ambient hospital drone of bedside monitors, overhead pages, and the graveyard shift caffeined chatter of nurses in the fluorescent hallway.

It's funny how quickly we forget the dying around us when our own lives persecute our thoughts. Maybe that's why we dream wonderfully absurd dreams–to find temporary asylum from the reality of our impending mortality.


Unknown Mediastinal Mass

I'm going to break my DragnMastr13 kayfabe right now to address something serious that's been happening in my life lately.

Some of you know me in real life, and you also know that I've been having strange health issues for the past few months.

Initially, I thought these were related to some kind of mysterious allergic reaction I've been exposed to, but a few hours ago I got a step closer to understanding my medical condition.

After coughing up bloody phlegm in the shower yesterday afternoon, I decided to seek emergency intervention. I was given an X-ray, and CT scan, and the ER doctors confirmed that I have a large mediastinal mass in my chest–basically, it's a tumor.

At this point the doctors don't know whether it's benign or cancerous, but I have an appointment with cancer specialists this Friday.

At the appointment, they'll perform a biopsy to confirm what I'm dealing with. And then I'll know what my medical plan of action will be. If it's cancerous, I'll need to start chemotherapy immediately.

Needless to say, I'm in a state of complete shock. I feel emotionally numb at the moment, as the full weight of everything hasn't really set in. I don't know what else to say. I'll keep you guys updated as I get more information from doctors.

It's 6:06 am, the sun's come up, and I need to get some sleep.


A Polychromatic Epiphany

And when asked about the notion of duality, The Dragon Master spoke thus:

It may appear so, for the human animal seeks reprieve from the labyrinth and fog of life. But verily, I say unto you, duality is but a mere mirage.

The world is not comprised of a black or white binary, but of a spectrum of greyness. And what makes life worth living is the manifestation of vivid colors that saturate the white light.

It is so.


Gnawing Over the Brink of the Horizon

Verily, I say unto you:

As the black forest fires rage in the shadow netherrealms of The Second Circle, I too rage.

Alert the sentry, for The Dragon Master lays siege not with marauding armies, but with a calculated intensity you will soon bear witness to.

It is so.


Vestiges of Dew

And outside of the city's gates, as its populace clamors, The Impeccable One waits, obscured in shadow under the vagueness of night, He observes.

Behold! For His presence is nebulous like an early morning mist–everything He lays hands on becomes wet with His will.

Soon they will come to know His greatness.