There exists a flame inside each and every one of us. This flame burns continually- from the
brilliant moment of its (often unwelcome) inception, to the bitter last dying
breath exhaled like the cool wind of the desert at night.
Fire exists in our hearts and in our souls, aye, but the
true flame has yet to be grasped. We are
but sparks of the ultimate, greater combustion that will incinerate all in its
volcanic vulge of ecstasy and venom-resonate volleros~
A man once told me, “Ya gotta walk the walk, and talk the
talk. And when ya walk, ya walk tall,
and proud, and carry a big stick. And I
will SHOOT any mother fuckin’ tweakers or niggers that come around here, tryin’
to get into my shit!”
That’s a hard cup of fire to swallow. Especially being a
borderline tweaker, myself. No, I never
hit the shit- well, okay, maybe once, err, twice… But hell, if that was the
least of my worries I’d be a happy man.
I’m an honest son of a bitch, I tell you what. And I know there are more cats out there that
will testify to that than you can shake a sherry shot at.
I’ve lived a hard-ass life, that’s for damn sure. Been up and down these rivers, oh, I been up
and down these rivers… Were I born a
ferryman, I’d drop my wings and ride the nearest boat to the southlands. Heart of a negro in me, I tell you what. Maybe it’s just that repressed, slave-like
sentiment, I don’t know. Something ‘bout
it calls me open like the gates of darkness in wake of St. Elmos’ fire.
But what’s all this talk about fire and what-have-you? Why am I sitting around, wondering these
radical notions, in such a mysterious time, in such a magical place? For, ever has been the plaguing mind that
insults the dignity of mine hind… such a juxtaposition I must assume, will come
crawling right back to me, none too soon…
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