war crib



what is so affecting about how a man of your stripe

must comport himself in this wretched age of crime and pain is



fuck it though Fido. create instead

for yourself a fictional alter-ego and live through that.

him. it. act through him



but I thought that's what I was doing see

even though I'm half drunk I'm still shit lucid,

the glib demeanor of the monk

gone north, to the mountains,



the barbarian dwellings. I got a brother

lives up there he's better than me.

fucks all the fillies. sometimes

2 at a time. but nobody



trusts him. that's a lie. they

all do. nobody knows how he's profiligate.

or say few do. he

hides it well.



that part of his life is important

only to him. me, I drink. not

him;



he's got physical gifts. he's cunning whereas

I am paranoid. but he dreams only

at night whereas my

prophecy rips me apart



as well as others.

they called me a sorcerer, a wizard.



they would. if only

they knew the words

and had



any imagination.

they have none,

so I'm termed a felon.



pay it no mind. I keep

no gun

yet I'm way



dangerous.

this is how

my tale begins: