Tuesday, March 12, 2013

New joint. Vision. At the COMPOSITE {Arts Magazine}.

Quite digging this we are. And quite thankful to the whole COMPOSITE {Arts Magazine} crew for that. Excerpt? Word.

"From there I head out to the cemetery where my dad is buried. It’s peaceful here with its sloping hills and trees, the endless skies, and the view of the river off past the woods and across the way.

On a quiet day you can even hear the water sloshing up on shore, which is nice for when I sleep here, which is often. I don’t know when it started. At first, it was a place I came to drink, and hang-out, and acknowledge that I wasn’t going to escape my father’s long, drunken shadow any time soon.

But at some point, being here seemed better than being anywhere else. Things didn’t make sense in other places. They never did, but it’s worse now. Now that I can’t blame my anger or confusion on his sickly, ghost-like presence.

It’s just me and the life I didn’t make and don’t have, and who needs that?

I place an open can of Yuengling on the grass, I lay the two-by-fours down by the grave, side by side, and I start to drill. I am building a platform with a small roof, a place to sleep, and maybe keep a cooler, a generator, a mattress, and a lamp."

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