Let The Good Times Roll (Excerpt)

A sudden ineptness fills every cell in my body like some covert drug junkie being outed in public for the first time, the real joke and sadness being that everyone around him has already known about his illicit and self indulgent melodrama long before he was even minutely ready to admit those faults to himself. So now I am busted in debtors prison, drug court, and the no fun zone, a multiple award winning brute that must now spend the next ten years, maybe twenty, and possibly the rest of my living life, moving away from all the rash decisions compiled like some decadent encyclopedia of hellraising, carefree, unforgiving, and impulsive memories. They have not come to break my legs, only my heart, my spirit, and my independence, there is nothing left now but to become a cog to the labors of society who I have loaned my services to for the past 25 years. The bill is due, I cannot pay, the bosses will take me into their ownership, strip me of all wealth, priviledge, and access, there is a cell waiting for me in every town in every country in the world, a stale, yet sanitized space, a void where silence grows louder and louder, it is deafening, my only company amongst these confines. I've been told I can either work or die, nothing else, no more parties at the beach clubs, multi-day spending sprees in metropolitan cities with unlimited credit, carte blanche from the local authorities, and the blessings of the gods to act with the most lowdown, primitive, and obscene remoseless directive seen since the era of Genghis Khan.

No, the powers that be allowed me to rule, to beat the gong mercilessly, leaving a road of ruin in my wake no matter the place or time, the laws of nature did not apply to me, gravity, space travel, and black holes were completely at my disposal, other humans would not question those abilities only marvel in the actual performance of such metaphysical feats found in the texts of the ancient greeks. I did not question my role, just merely sought to execute the part with precision wrapped inside an exterior of anarchy like disregard for safety, consequence, and morality. Words, images, web page, and sublimation are the tools at my disposal, to craft chapter after chapter of historical context from half baked recollections, musings from a bar stool, and juvenille humor amongst colleagues who only dream of such burlesque conduct, yet since I have nothing but time now sitting in this cell, the only thing left to do is attempt to make some sense from a portriat that would even haunt the dreams of the painter Francis Bacon.