John Brosio, “Closing The Deal”, 2012 Oil On Canvas, 43 X 38cm

i’ve made bad choices, but so has 你嵪香

faerie skies

buachaill tíre Rí Ceilteach Rwy'n dy garu di

i had a premonition dream of mr jones i dated summer ‘23. it was truly the white trash love fantasy i always wanted. sucked it didn’t last longer.

but i had a dream jacob and i were putting art in the back of my car, paintings. at nighttime. real late at nightt. in an urban environment. i felt uneasy because it was late.

fast forward, i saw a gun and immediately jolted up. awake.

but what did it mean.

i didn’t carry art or paintings in my car for several months. i interpreted it i would get robbed while paintings were in my car.

looking back, i did get robbed in the end.

once i got closer to meeting my prince of cane run, i was confused. i hadn’t been talking to jacob. but i couldn’t help but think about the dream more and more. it was close to manifesting.

one night in old louisville, the dream comes true.

the baron of pleasure ridge,

side to side, with the prince of cane road. they put a painted, old

ikea bed headboard

in the back of my 2008 kia suv. it’s midnight.

*britney spears voice* holy fuck balls. i turn from my trunk, take it all in. ethereal. the dream is coming true.

jacob was just a substitute i guess because you can’t dream a face you haven’t seen. and they both were bottoms who couldn’t keep up the act. jacob sure ain’t shively though. cane run and i shared toxic habits and played a long game of cat and mouse, ensuing the borderline disorderly explosion. or episode.

but truthfully i see it was message from universe ou spirit, that i could not successfully integrate my drug addiction or drug use like i had been trying.

the best i could hope for was a sexy overweight but psychotically unstable, south side BOTTOM. bear. on drugs. security guard. bitch ass [REDACTED].

the end of the dream signaled the end of my summer fling, the summer i turned 27. the summer i became a MAN. jk unless.

on a warm, late june afternoon. my dad and three of his friends surround me, as we ascend his front yard. we walk up the pebbled concrete steps.

Lee knocks on the front door. we’re at the house of the man who had just held me hostage. bruised my neck. the week of our birthdays. odd timing. i have a bad history with birthdays though.

(psych ward @ 21)

we hear a bullet enter a chamber. cocked.

time to go.

Immortality. 1901. Endpaper. 

Sydney Laurence (American,1865-1940)

The Hour before Daylight, 1925

oil on canvas