Uncategorized

3:36 AM O.

DON’T BE A MARTINEZ

.

Emblazoned over the fucking mausoleum.
“What drove the kid?”
“A fear of his ancestors.”

So I ran. I ran away from everything that made my blood.
I abandoned Christ, and found plenty of reason for it.
When Father looked me in the eye on a Sunday morning
and told me man would be arrogant
“Man is a fool
to think he can reach the stars
in God’s domain.”

.–

When I was a kid
I wanted to be a scientist.
For sure a meteorologist, because I was terrified of tornadoes.

When I was a kid and they asked me in sunday school what I wanted to be, I always went straight to Scientist. I never knew what kind, but that was it. The closest approximation of a life as adult as I could imagine.

I’m pretty sure the church beat that out of my head.

.

.

I find my god in art.
The Rothko piece should have made that clear enough.
I don’t believe in your Christ, or Messiah;
It’s nothing personal.

I don’t believe in him,
because then I would have to say I don’t believe in the Prophet either.

Moses. Buddha.
All of them.

a million mingling inks
or something like that.

.

.

.

I find my god in art.
This past weekend me and she went down to the contemporary
to make a promise before god.

We made separate promises.

This girl walked me down to the picnic table of an altar
and we spoke to god a little bit
side by side each other.

I find my god in art but that’s the thing innit?
Ain’t that the great grand fear?

.

.

pheeew-
I had a really bad trip when I went to memphis.
got all scrambly in the head On the Road to Memphis.

Had a friend,
this is true,
had a friend who absorbed so much THC in one sitting that he saw the black demon spirit come to him, as in a waking dream, over the backyard fence;
saw this black void of a figure come slowly out from the sun to him,
eclipsing,

Saw this hideous terrifying spirit satan
and cowered to his feet, shouting back:
“The Christ O My Lord;
Please Sweet Beautiful Jesus,
Jesus Christ My Savior,
In Your Name,
PROTECT ME.”

.

.

.

.

 

and -poof.
the spirit was gone,
so goes his story.

.

.

.

Yeah, I scrambled my brains up a bit like that.
& I can tell you a lot more about him too.

but for now I’ll sleep.

Standard
Uncategorized

More Rothko Piece

♪♪

I had by chance seen the latest MoFAH Rothko Retrospective held earlier that same year. I did not disclose this to my line companion, I hadn’t any true enough beliefs about the matter to engage him in the conversation, and our time was running short anyway before we stepped into the first of Kusama’s two exhibits, Love is Calling, which I knew I would walk out of in tact and decompress alongside my sister, but did not share that same object permanence for the conversation between line companion and I; but I digress.

I had happened to go and view the recent Rothko retrospective, with additional audio tour for a measly five bucks. I went alone, because Aftermath of Obliteration of Eternity is a far easier sell than Untitled (Red, Blue, Orange). 

I went and sat staring at a Rothko while the tour played for me Concerto in A Major for Clarinet and Orchestra, K. 622, and for a second I sat and stared at the same piece of canvas Rothko must have found himself staring at, listening to Concerto in A like he listened to every morning, perhaps sipping coffee black and wondering if today would be the day, that day when validation finally usurped the slowly creeping sense of unfulfillment.  

Perhaps I read too much into Rothko’s suicide, but I can’t imagine it a common affliction among the self-satisfied. 

I went to the Rothko Retrospective and took a piece of him home with me, stole the song he hummed himself midst working and thought silently on Vonnegut:

“To become your heroes, do not only read your heroes; you must read your hero’s heroes.”

Standard