The Advocate

Latest draft. Beware: it gets dark in my head. These are my digressions: the pseudo-pop psychobabble of 22 year-old hipster chicks persuading collar-popped bros to trade in those polos and yolos and lokos for PBR mustachioed fixie apropo cutoff jorts made DIY for $88.99 at the cookie-cutter knock-off conveniently located 'round the corner from their gentrified ghetto-fab $4,000 per month apartment, complete with homeless cranks passed-out beneath window-barred taquerias serving those highwasted fashionistas (and their exposed underbuttcheeks) because this is cultural appropriation faster than you can say "National Geographic" These are my digressions: the flowetry of Jared Washington who the prison warden calls Tyrone Farraconvict he missed a stop & frisk but not the DWB down International Blvd so now he's got a nickel that turned into a dime for possession of long since legalized Mary Jane while Mr. Corporate So&So's bleach blonde spawn pleads affluenza f...

You are one of the People of the Book, a member of one of the tribes. Maybe of my own. You are a Speaker -- not for, not to, but of. About. Concerning in detail. You may even be a practitioner of the Left-Hand Path. (After all, sufficiently advanced and all that.) Or, should I misjudge you, then victim or usurper. We born from mud and clay are always defined in twofold order: by our blood and by our works. We are. You are and have become more so by your recent endeavours. And yet, you have attempted to penetrate what cannot be because it is not. No end. Transcendental as nonexistent. The flesh interface is a closed loop. Your portals will not take you where you are going. You will return, inevitably, and perhaps even with a brush of The Name on your skin, here again to the mud and the clay. Like the hand that draws the hand. We are the ink and oil bound upon the surface. The canvas encapsulates as it defies being so. Because it is blank. Still, you grasp the Deep Knowledge...