Excavated Laughter

She talked of crystals, and understood them. I took it in and heard the earth.
A mine I followed, impossible to crawl through. A geode that shatters with her youth.
I examined the glimmer, upon the surface. Each cold crystal had a blackened glow.
My love was there, for the taking. Now it's been given back to her.
But anger can fade if you cast it away. Dig a hole, bury it, and welcome back laughter.
A sparkling gem abandoned down in the depths. My love's been given back to her.


A Mourning Realization On the Fickle Nature of Happiness


And they lived happily ever after...

The next morning, she looked over her shoulder and realized her Siamese twin was dead.

Interpretation: It is a naive fantasy to believe that people live happily ever after–happiness does not behave in that way. Happiness is fickle and does not owe you anything.

One moment you may be happy, and the next you are sharing rigor mortis with a clump of cadaverous meat and a contorted, pallor face staring blankly back at you. 

It is ok to be unhappy–it is part of the absurd order of things.


My Menses Maiden

I'll tell you where she buried Roberto's body next time. At the moment, I'd rather get into a curious habit she had:

She enjoyed coating her bed linen with her menstrual discharge. Everything in her room was unassuming, except for the blood-imbued bedding.

If you looked closely, you could make out the age of the blood stains by their hue of burnt burgundy–the older ones were darker in shade than the newly moistened ones.

To tell you the truth, the sight of the bloodied bedspreads didn't bother me, or even their offensive odor. Nay, what perturbed me was her overbearing insistence that I suckle on the bedsheets during our weekly bioenergetic catharsis meetings.

I don't care for the taste of iron, selenium has always been my favorite tasting chemical element. However, I would go along with her relentless pleas because I knew she meant well–she knew my platelet levels were low from the chemotherapy I was doing, and she wanted to ensure that I wasn't anemic.

She was kind in heart, and generous too. 


The Girl With the Nest-Neck

Monday through Friday, between 2 pm and 6:30 pm, the Nest-Necked Girl would station herself at the intersection of the 605 South, Slauson freeway exit, holding a sign that read: "Please Help. Need Money for Eggs."

I would look through my living room window from time to time and watch the cars drive right past her, never stopping to lend a helping hand.

I admired her courage and grit. Rain or shine there she was, like a bird-shit-on statue that people disregarded in their daily lives–eggless, but never beaten.

And then one day she wasn't there.

And then the next day she wasn't there.

And the next.

I haven't seen the nest-necked girl in over 7 years, but I still expect to see her there at her corner every time I look out my window, enshrouded with an aristocratic air that only people who've suffered the horrors of life possess.



As I lay contorting in bed, I could feel the meat grinder accomplish it's simple task with indiscriminate efficiency.

Only the meat grinder were the chemo drugs, and the meat was mine.



Upon waking, the gloom and vagueness of the previous night had dispersed at the first daybreak of reality.

I was a different being, and it felt good.

It felt good to smile, knowing I was confronting a new day.


Somnolent Edifications at the Mausoleum

It's funny how that familiar melancholic feeling haunts Me during the somnolent hours of the night–when everyone sleeps, my thoughts are under persecution.

Our happy times now rest in a mausoleum of memory.

I close my eyes and wander the spinal shadows in the corridors of what-could-have-beens, but return before immersing Myself completely in the darkness of reality.

It would've been nice to have someone close to me during these grinding times, but Lady Fortune is edifying me to be a more self-reliant and resilient Übermensch. And I'll come away from it all with a shatterproof spirit.

Thus felt The Dragon Master.


A Twilight Recommendation From the Sage in the Bark

I made it to Sopherocles by dusk, and found The Sage in the Bark awaiting my arrival.

I wanted to seek her advice on how to become a killing tree after I died. Preferably, I would specialize in unsuspected vengeance.

Within my foliage would be an armory laden with timbered bayonets–camouflaged and ready to gash the eye sockets of defilers of dreams and butchers of innocence–human tumors of which I have no remorse surgically incising from the face of the planet.

She looked at me with her timeless and infinite gaze, and whispered into my left ear, "Maybe you should be a little dandelion instead Babycakes."



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.