I wrote this a while back and recently reworked it – new clay, new vision. You won’t get the orphic reference until the end, but I insist the entire piece is merely a riff on inverted reflections of lyrical cubism in a variegated temporal dysphoria as seen through orange glass during a supernova hurricane of the soul.
punched in the back of the head on the track during off-season. I’m thirteen and running in a white t-shirt and light grey warm-ups and tears are streaming down my face. A cadre of ne’er-do-wells defends me from the attacks of the hillbilly fuck whose daddy beats him, but I disdainfully brush away their pity, and I run until my asthma attacks me and I collapse on the track. I can see my house just across the street and think to go home is even worse. And I am…
View original post 1,589 more words