Promise of Light

There are several crucial points in every human beings life: moments of absolute clarity-or those of ultimate chaos. And while both of these categorized happenings are capable of throwing your accepted perception of reality into a filthy, never-ending spiral of unsure destination-they are as necessary to the development and ultimate evolution within a man's mind and soul as is a mothers milk to a newborn child. We need to see what is just beneath the surface of this mass accepted reality-and yet-dually, we need to see only the surface-taking it for the very rewarding face value that it so richly deserves. In accepting these truths-we open new neural pathways...leading us to the goal we so adamantly search for our entire existence: Human acquiescence. We are alive for the purpose of living-to obtain our own humanity. All nations, races, religions, sexes and whatever other varied category that man is capable of being herded into seek enlightenment in one way or another-but-more often than not-they only succeed in allowing the vehicle needed to silently slip away from them without the slightest consideration of importance. This vehicle, this pathway creator and slayer of previous perceptions can be defined in a single word. Literature. Call it poetry, prose, essays, short stories or novels-but be sure that whatever name attached to it-the real definition is life. ~ Father Deschain ~

Letting faith replace love-

we fault heritage and destiny

closing paths

macerated in historys bloodline

 

Value the divine mouth

 

We slave till crimson rains at our throats

pumping and thrusting for someone elses heart:

The Dog Faced Sect labors still

linking past with future

and the time for chaos is always

 

Kicking what binds the crushing of onyx

I acknowledge no rest...or cast

For niether effect sin or the facade of ink

 

Rust

soul grease

cock

threat

 

polish the lie

Complex
complete
composed
combustible and common

Absconding essence
unreserved malaise
contemplating benevolence in the quest for Quist
Sins eligible for sainthood
grotesque breathing
plighted and plotted
union unsound


Alone?
empty?
renounced?
forsaken?

Granted.

~ Father Deschain ~  

The children look at me

They see me
and I all but see them

They kick about my soul                                           
singing through the draining
of time sealed occular lochs

Tears being no replacement or father
to accompanying whispers
and the laughter
only divinity can afford

An imagined loss of the vultures cry
has ushered a solitary bloom of kinship
a bond buried deeper than original sin

The children look at me-and I all but look back

They confide to my bloodline
of their blessed mothers
and the fathers long missed
in the dream of flesh
and breath

Love is more than just a word
to these children of every griever
it is fuel and motive
golden brightness and warmth

It is their mommy and daddy's true purpose
and the only substance tangible
to the dishuffled babes

I am told of forever and glorious bliss
from the thoughts of a soul...
so many souls

Pronouncing peace and wishes of ease
to the ones that gave them a heartbeat
a name
and priority over any other

I choose not to see their image
fearing such a selfish act
would escort then from my knowledge
of perfection

I satisfy my greed by hearing psalms
and feeling kisses
upon an undeserving brow

"Give this to Mommy...Pass this on to Daddy"
and I try
I try with everything I am
to impart a teaching of love
and memories of adoring
dependant eyes

They will never forget you-
holding in certainty
your encompassing emotions
of precious intent
and the meeting you'll share on eternitys lips

Because the children see me

They look at me
and I all but look at them.

 

~ Father Deschain ~

 

  Allow me to begin by stating that every man and woman on this plain of existence has his or her weaknesses. One of mine may or may not be my inability to type a single sentence without a grossly disturbing spelling mistake. On the other hand-one of my definite weaknesses is that I am highly allergic to stings of any kind. A single wasp can kill me if it is intent on doing so. Now, I find this to be absofuckinglutely hilarious, because I am one of-if not THE toughest son of a bitch that ever walked this or any other planet.

 As I have stated somewhere on here before-I have-on more than a few occasions-eaten living human meat-straight off of the person I was beating at the time. Just suffice it to say that I have seen and done some shit that would make most of you quiver in your pretty pink panties-and then proceed to puke into them and call it a day. The reason I have confided this weakness towards stings is so that there will be no confusion as to the seriousness of the situation I am about to describe to you.


 Today I captured a total of two wasps and four bees in a mason jar and proceeded to construct a device that my wife-upon finding me underneath of it-saw fit to call a "Death Trap". I locked myself into a camper that I once resided in a few years ago. I then propped the jar of stinging death upon a makeshift trap door device that I made from a broken and withered shard of blue foam insolatio- board. Next I laid an old discarded door across from the plank (release mechanism), and slide down onto the floor underneath of my new toy.

 While there I found a crayon and wrote three small words on one side of a piece of cardboard-and one large one on the other. The three small were "scrambled, lost, and worthless". The large one was "Unloved". As I said a prayer to the god of nowhere (for slow pain)-the door to my camper was pried open-and my wife began to slowly reason with me until I surrendered to her loving embrace. I was so close.

We will all fall someday...~ Father Deschain ~

 Most people have heard-and will use-a term such as "irrational fear" a great number of times in their life. When attempting to belittle a potentially frightening event-whether it be a real event from the past feared of being repeated, or a totally imagined proposition altogether-these types of terms are thrown around quite liberally in today's society.

 But, it occurs to this writer that in order to seize a persons mind, a fear hast not to be rational-it simply has to be. Explaining how impossible it may be for these fears to come to fruition in "the real world" does nothing to extinguish the very real possibility of a  crippling horror stomping its way into the human mind and leaving the shattered shell of an unfortunate victim in its wake.

 The old adage "we have nothing to fear but fear itself" is only true on the most superficial level. Let me assure you that fear alone-or fear itself-is an entity that is a tremendously dangerous creation: a beguiling deity that is most worthy to be ruled by.


 "Irrational fear"..."nothing to fear but fear itself"? Yes, but fear itself-no matter how irrational-is enough. More than enough.

Without relent or remorse, but strapped with fear... ~ Father Deschain ~

            The dam containing Quist and his life force broke

20 miles of warm wheel skins
on tired road
Emotional over pouring of events to come

What if’s and how to’s
answered
by raspy vocal explanations of a man
speed freak
and self proclaimed
God
on borrowed time

Machines echoing beats
of a soul created
from mating destiny and fate

an agony so sweet ensued
body shaking
feverish
breathe...breathe...breathe

HIS time
breath in
push hard
ignore the flames

Mind on the prize they say (Mind in the fire today)
awakening
true revelation
came upon my heart
brought by awe witnessed
on the face of a once broken
and beguiled man

I stopped
yet the determined soul did not
HE was in control of HIS future
including his arrival gate

I then stood testament
to something few see
even once in a lifetime

The authors final Character
A Kee
his Quist
and another story to come

A love not of this world
but one of peace
and purity

A dream within a dream...

~ Mother Deschain ~

 

Keenan Eric Ashley Quist Watkins entered our world with an auspicious grin slithering amidst the paradoxical perfection which is his newborn face.

I had always harbored a son in my minds eye. I had nurtured him since the days of my first memories, and planned his every trait along the mental journey that was his life. I had a whole imagined future-in which I loved him-and watched him grow. The time for imagination and future plots are now as dead as my heart has been this past decade. The boy is here now-and we would do well to lift our heads to the welkin and listen to the whispering winds of change.

He will be all that his mother and I have always been-and none of what we were perceived to be. He will have everything that we were never afforded by the laws of mans society-yet take nothing that the temporary powers are not fully willing to place in his care. He will be... more.

The boy was given the name Keenan to reflect who and what he came from-and to give him pride in all that it details within my explanation to him-and only him.

The boy was given the name Eric so that he would know of the great love and respect I have come to have for my brother (his uncle and godfather)-and guide him towards that same revelation of "brothers to the bone". It is an issue that I will never waver on.

The boy was given the name Ashley to demonstrate the concept of there being no shame connected to indulging in lightheartedness and the enjoyment of life-yet at the same time-imparting knowledge that it is okay on other levels to extrude a pure, uncut definition of what it is to be a primal man; seeking nothing but protection of yourself and your loved ones through uniquely profound acts of violence towards those who are attempting to harm you and yours. See the Evil Dead trilogy for enlightenment as to just what in the fuck I said there.

The boy was given the name Quist because he has always been Quist...to me. I have written several pieces in my lifetime that deal with Quist and his projected life/metaphorical destiny. In short-Quist is pristine and unhindered by false idols and false ideals. He is what he is-and all that he touches will either crumble beneath the righteous might of his burning gauntlet-or turn to gold by way of the perfection imbedded into a realized and harnessed fantasy.

I love this boy-and maybe that is all I want to say. All except for my eternal thanks to his mother-for the greatest and most rewarding gift that any man could ever have imparted to him.

We now share the prize.


I reluctantly entered into the game of life and love with the purest of intentions-and what I believed to be unmistakable actions of uncut love. I have been beaten on all levels-and am now cold and alone. I would ask only that my son sees everything I have written as a testament to who I truely was. I loved you, my baby, my son, my boy-never allow anyone to tarnish that truth.

He will be more than...~ Father Deschain ~

                            It is the small death we cast to our beloved
                                   
                                      Thrusting insecure reflections
                           until adorized traits are commonly granted
                                             and taken as such

                           Burdens rendered from acts of cherishment
                          the limpness of time skewing accepted favor
                                sewing want and securities soft need
                              into dreaded laze-and seeing brilliance
                                  through naked and scarred smiles

                                                   Too close
                                                    too close
                                             too...BLINDING

                            The trip times a deuce in lunar mathematics
                            six months escape and eyes harden anew
 
                                          Sunshine blooms stark
                                                      uncut
                                 as omegas phoenix corona screams
                                        LET THERE BE LIGHT"

                          Running sugar leaks from vocalized emotion
                             all solid definitions of the faceted beauty
                  pinpoint affections until the long sleep plots employment
                                        from the living of daily life

                      Second hand ticks of bitter tastes shall forever burn
                       in the miracle of bleeding brightness that is our love
 
                           We are one heartbeat in sacred matrimony
                    and never shall we seize or separate from our fate(faith)

~ Father Deschain ~

Once again
begin
place boots upon the yellow brick road

Dyed rectangles torn
footfalls and...
"I'm spiraling down-
to the hole in the ground where I hide."

There is no peace for me
fooling myself
that someone offers reward for attempts-
redemption-or even reprieve

Are whisperings from below
torn bricks to be held true
Base belief on precedents cast
in time
Have blind faith
Hope all was promised
in sincerity

Carry what was contracted
words of love

Do I stand when roads to reprieve crumble
Recovery and redemption cast hollow

Damnation chosen over silent tears
servitude
or slavery

Gods of humanity:
mongrel dogs
lying at the feet of true eternity
sanctimonious curs begging for scraps-
prayer emitted from minds of the high ape- oafish acolytes

Never place trust in loyalty
Or the favor of mutts

Grow tired of praying upon knees
for bestowment of basic human rights

Grow tender to preying upon weakness
for believing base human lies

Define love
the need to survive
trust
lust
honesty and fidelity
nothing directed

Anything but pain

~ Father Deschain ~

             Perception
                     (see reality)


Everything experienced in life is tainted by limits. We see what we are able to see-we hear what we are able to hear-we touch what we are able to touch-and we feel only that which we are able to feel. Human minds are limited to describing that which we perceive-rendering any attempt to relate anything abstract both futile and insane. We define our existence through a process that negates any ability to understand. We are weak in the fact that any detail hidden beneath the absolute thinnest lair of surface will forever remain so, because the surface is reality-and anything buried below must simply stay there. Whatever may or may not be slithering across the darkness is irrelevant-as we are forever doomed to  confines of perception and the limitations of what has been illuminated. We can not smell what is not there and we can not defend against that which is not present. The following will be added to daily-the results of which predicted to be Ragnarök.
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                                                        Chapter One:






  Hard, rigid, deep chocolatey hued creation-though somewhat soft and pliable in the accelerated heat of this particular Sunday afternoon-its inner layer creamy and white, in stark contrast to the aforementioned shell-this miniature has been problematic in the lives of those who find it beyond their control to do away with sugar packed treats.

 So many find it a near impossibility to rid themselves of the company of this faintly sweet smelling oddity once the association has been made. We might try again and again-but after the initial connection between mans almost instinctual habits of laze and surrendering himself to the ease of indulgement, a lack of self control or commitment to upkeep often forever forges a physical bond to this well preserved demon of choosing.

  But the man lying face down in a pool of his own blood and vomit had not chosen any association at all with the above described cockroach which had dutifully dragged its fat, bloated ass from the depths of a box of discarded Junior Mints and journeyed beyond the mans semi parted  lips-across a set of slightly time deepened, yellow teeth-and directly into his left nostril.

 The man with no name awakes in a state of  utter infestment: his various cavities engorged with a virtual blitzkrieg of  foreign objects and animals, a statement of disarray-made to any watching god- or victim of happenstance. Upon clearing and cleaning the vessel of flesh that his mind seemed to be tethered to at this juncture in his existence-the man slowly props himself up onto cracked and now freshly bleeding elbows; his vision  cascading shards of broken sight into a world of pain...he had seen better days.

 Surveying the landscape for any similance of recognition, searching his threshold for some sign of  relief, scanning the minds eye in hope of some hint or description of lucidity-the man with no name had nothing to lose........