The ghosts of old raindrops
mock and scold.
Their scorn writ large
on these dusty roads and in these dusty throats.
To tote the barge but not lift the bail
ain't no kind of protest.
Spit in the well and
hope the master draws up that bucket-full.
Wishes.
Still, the giver of life
serpentines through this valley
like the Euphrates did
in that one book, but
it does not matter
since the scythe swings
in such wide circles
this time of year.
We can bring in sheaves until dusk
then fish for men in the morning but
our souls are still corrupted.
Our hearts are rotten like old pears.
I'm so thirsty.

I had received dozens of rejection letters most I can imagine the reactions these ******* yuppie ******* reading were thinking while saying to themselves .
Jesus ******* Christ I'm glad this guy doesn't live near by.

They hated writers yet they made there living off them .
Much like teachers except with a far better income and much better high dollar vices .

I worked my *** off they sat on there's and decided what was in .
I still read them trying to maintain my buzz and not slip into a coma
from the ******* they deemed worthy.

I was on my second drink when the I read the words yet still like seeing a car accident in front of your very own eyes I could not believe what the **** I was reading .

It wasn't so much the article it was who was in it.
I had been writing long enough to learn one thing try your best to avoid
other so called writers .

And there he was  quoted with a fake ******* age was a ******* who was neither a writer or in my thoughts anything more than a pile of dog **** by the highway .

I don't need to mention his name hell being mentioned in any forum was more ego stroking than the ******* deserved.
But it was then I truly knew the New Yorker had went from high class rag to street level ***** selling her *** to anyone with the change .

Old ******* was there about twelve years younger and in his full out of his gourd glory.
I can imagine the interview one soulless **** stain talking to another .
Speaking on something he could not even do himself .
******* write!

I was a drunk a ******* who ran his mouth and dared anyone to try to shut it.
I was a lot of things but no matter how others viewed me I was always
a writer .

I lived it, Breathed it  paid my dues fifteen times over .
Yeah it bit my *** to see a overrated wind bag featured in a rag truly great writers had struggled  to be published in.

It showed you the great decline the social media madness great writing was no longer a requirement skill wasn't needed either .
It was all superficial ******* smoke and mirrors and a nice *** .

I took another drink picked up the revolver stuck it to my head
pulled the trigger .
Nothing this time!
Looks like id live another day.

I'd love to sit at table over a few drinks play a relaxing game of Russian roulette with the ******* I'm writing about.
I wonder would he speak so boldly in front of another man
or simply **** his pants and cry like a modern  overrated
so called artist.

Yeah I was passionate with my hate .
I was anything but a modern writer and anyone sitting across
from me better dam sure know I didn't play games .

Well least not any that were safe .

I stopped reading the article when a friend called .
Hey you read that article on you know who?
Yeah I replied just finished it.

What did you think?
Well least when you run out of toilet paper you got something to wide your *** with .

My friend laughed .
You know your not right they said still laughing.
Yeah I said looking at the gun still on the table.

You truly don't have a clue.

Last night I rode
that dark train
through the hollows
of my childhood
on the black wings
of a swallow fleeting
beneath the eaves
of long ago evenings
where bone moths
were breathing
their last breaths
while dead children
slept well up the hill.

Burn.
Step onto the embers of my
Secret weaknesses and
Impersonate the
Sword of Michael.

This longing for Valhalla
Won't see me alive much
Longer.
Take me to the nearest battle.
Let me die slaying a terrorist

Or intending ******.
Or should I pray to gods of a more
Peaceful nature than
Odin?
Love and let live.

Nah, this is in my Norwegian
Bones.
I'll die wielding blade.
I'll die laughing, opened up and
Spilling.

I'll "not go gentle into that good
Night."
So burn.
Be bonfire to my innermost of
Darknesses.

There are shadows there that
Demand chasing.
Make me proud to be
Midgardian.
Burst into flames and remind me:

Sticks and stones are feathers.
Buddha and Baldr.
Enlightenment and love. Well,
I'd rather be a warrior in a church
Than a priest in a battle.

Odin's one good eye
Is mine.
The other weeps for the weak.
May they find
Comfort in the daylight,

While us
Others sharpen our
Weathered hearts
In the cold, uncertain night we
Belong to, like water to snow.

deleted for contest submission

In Dwimordene, in Lorien

Seldom have walked the feet of Men,

Few mortal eyes have seen the light,

That lies there ever, long and bright.

Galadriel! Galadriel!

Clear is the water of your well,

White is the star in your white hand

Unmarrred, unstained is leaf and land,

In Dwimordene, in Lorien

More fair than thoughts of Mortal Men.

To Flammifer of Westernesse.