Morose Cement

Depleted and morose, my body emitted a relentless, pulsating pain.

As the decrepitude reverberated throughout the bone marrow, it cemented itself at the joints, leaving me incapacitated and without the strength to stand.

I was a tree stump of a man, chopped down to pieces.


Salivary Malaise at the 2nd Circle of Hell Sizzler

In the second circle of Hell, there exists a godforsaken mall across the street from the ice cream parlor I had recounted before.

Wheezing inside the intestines of the desolation, only two establishments are still in business: JC Penny's, and the Sizzler in the food court.

If you find yourself at the Sizzler, beware of the young Ardat Lili that works the dinner shift, her treacheries have been witnessed first-hand by your Dragon Master from afar.

As you dine, she will linger behind your unknowing back and drool onto your muddy, brown salad.

Her invisible saliva consists of a diseased, larval-like substance–of the same DNA strain of maggot that grovel the floors of the damp and gloomy charnal house where she embalms the putrefying corpses of the dead with her sinful mouth.

Her oral secretions swaddle the decaying meat of genitalia with fungal ecstasy, preserving it for the posterity of the sexually damned.

An ejaculatory personal inferno at the 2nd Circle of Hell JcPenny's

In the second circle of Hell, there exists a godforsaken mall across the street from the ice cream parlor I had recounted before.

Wheezing inside the intestines of the desolation, only two establishments are still in business: JC Penny's, and the Sizzler's in the food court.

If you find yourself at the JC Penny's, beware of the young empusa that works in the fitting room, her treacheries have been witnessed first hand by your Dragon Master from afar.

As you undress, she will enter the fitting room and violate your genitals with her four hands, working in an efficient and malevolent manner.

Her technique will elicit a toxic ejaculatory personal inferno, caustic seminal fluids of which will sentence your urethra to death as it vomits from the tip of your corroding, melting dick.


Algo Que Pica

I petitioned her for a depraved taste of El Salvador, and my supplications were heeded on a Rabbit Rabbit August afternoon.

A little package arrived in the mail, and I opened it.

There were two, tiny, carefully-crafted tropical fruit sculptures (double entendres that piqued one's lechery). And when you lifted the lids there were sweaty little people fornicating with insatiable thirst and hunger for eachothers' juices and flesh, respectively.

When asked for something a bit more risqué, the wrinkly little Salvadoran shopkeeper replied, "¿Algo que pica?" She reached for the shelf behind the counter, set them down, and pointed with her mouth.

My accomplice bought them at once, wrapped them up in brown paper, and shipped them 3,000 miles away to their new Dragon Master.

I showed my Salvadoran abuela, and she approved.

Now, when I sit down at my desk to write or edit photographs, I like to lift the sexy fruit lids and admire my sweaty little fornicating people before summoning The Muse.



March Onward

Of those who have eyes to see, few have vision.

And of those who have vision, fewer have feet to march onward.

Choose a road, and walk! Your personal epic is awaiting your footsteps.


The Chicken Liver Virtuoso

Every Thursday afternoon she would arrive at Our quiet little neighborhood square. She'd sit on one side of the weathered, beef-jerky-bench under the gazebo, alongside her brown-paper-bag-companion, where she carried her midday indulgence.

As she listened to music on her headphones, swaying her head in lackadaisical figure-eights, she'd snack on fried chicken livers in an elegant and dexterous way that made one believe they were witnessing a kind of performance art.

I was ever her only audience–no one came, no one saw–except me.

I dislike fried chicken livers, but I continue to be enchanted by her eating of them.



Sinking in the Quicksands of Their Treachery

Be vigilant, for the slumbering swine amongst the midst lie resentful and malign with green-eyed caustic loathing.
They wish to keep you in the filth and slop of their somnambulism.
Beware of their treachery, beware of the quicksands of their virulent and petty distractions.
The more you associate with them, the deeper you will sink.


Conduit to the Soul

It has been reasoned by The Impeccable One that consciousness is the conduit to the soul.
Be present of mind, and you will awaken to a latent dimension of attention and focus–artillery that will detonate and thunder across the myopic terrain of your cognition.
When you focus your attention, you will march upon the gates of self-overcoming and beseige the fortified citadel of the mind.


East of No Ideologies

My words ride strapped on the bare backs of galloping Mongol warhorses ready to find their mark–projected by the bows of cold-blooded and benumbed barbarians.
From across the East Cerebral Valley the revelation whizzes through the air,
marauding the village people in your unconscious where your beliefs about the unknown are conceived under the dubious glow of comprehension.
Having been impaled by the message, the only thing about you that will slowly die is your ignorance and malnourished perception, for you will begin to drowsily awaken to an alternative set of eyes, and seeing will become anew.
I come to awaken the snoring swine within your boudoir, and I will boot it out and lead it to its deserving slop pen so it may roll around in its filth!
I will rid you of your vile and foul doctrines–impotent ideologies that offend the hairs in the nostril and inhibit the mind.
Thus spoke The Dragon Master.


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.