Messiah

Thus, have I arrived from Brazilian Jiu-Jitsu, sweaty and profane, and do I have a large one in me. And I can tell when I have a big one coming—because I begin to feel faint, and the world appears to me clear and detailed, the lights so bright, the colors saturated, every detail standing out in full force and image.

Perhaps, I am the ones the aliens sent—who lives and operates in four dimensions, seeing the higher truths where others see none, and I am the Messiah, and the second coming of Christ, and if there is a God walks among men, it is I.

But, I know what it is—and was Christ schizophrenic?—and perhaps even my hero and my savior, he cannot relate to myself—but when God fails, do you turn to the Greeks, and in them, I see I am schizophrenic Hercules, prodigal and bold, and oh-so-mad.

For what strength lies in this slim, 5’8” frame!—and just a white belt, but did I tap two partially resisting opponents, one brown and the other purple, the first in a punch-choke from closed guard, which I had been working on for a few months—my entire “career”—and the second in a bow-and-arrow, which I had worked on in class, then in a single-armed arm-bar from side control, which I accidentally discovered.

And they complimented me!—but, I flatter myself, for I shall never compete, but only train in class, and to me, the sport is an art, and did I compose this work while I danced on the mat. Just like that arm-bar, which I found by accident, did I stumble upon new fruits and truths, ripe for the plucking, that in my magnanimous and bounteous self, may I share with this cold world.

So!—let us dance upon a theme of the spider and the bull.

And why should I not compete?—because I am the spider, and not the bull—and like Hamlet, do I spin up elaborate webs and theories, intellectual frameworks and scaffolding, one idea leading to the next. Not am I like Romeo, who saw the rosy red-cheeked Juliette and charged head-on, only to be lanced by the matador of fate.

And those who compete are bulls!—never shall I let them touch the fragile and delicate webs of my life and thought, and my being. Thus, do I train and dance, graceful and never-to-fight.

Oh, reader!—do you imagine my system vulnerable, and you shall find a Gordion knot? Then, I shall assist you—and I am slim and short, not-so-strong, and hardly 140 pounds, light as a feather!—and you are stronger and bolder, and more manly, and more masculine, I am sure!

So, let us go further and further—for I am bright and brilliant and intellectual, yet would I give it all to be a sex symbol, mindless and full of heart and good-natured being, for those of us with intellect are cursed with the Hamlet problem! Did I solve it earlier, and here is the answer, once again—it is in Baker’s Dozen, a former piece of mine—but Hamlet has two choices.

The first, is he sees his father suffer Divine retribution, and thus shall his uncle do the same—and the second, is he speaks to the apothecary and finds out who delivered Claudius the poison, how many people are involved—and he cleans house.

These are his options!—and perhaps, they play like counterpoint, and in the middle there is a melody of simple fate and fortune, that I would discover, of course, but he would not—because I am bright and brilliant, and off of me reflects the many facets of human being, prismatic and variegated.

And speaking of venom, now, let us return to the spider—and Hamlet is the spider, and Romeo the bull—so, what is the King of spiders? Perhaps, it is the Tarantula, who is fuzzy and harmless, I imagine, maybe slightly misunderstood—and one does not think about beasts too long, unless he wishes to become one—and not the black widow or any other variety that depends upon venom.

For there is enough venom in the world!—and God knows it, and I do, too.

Each depiction of a spider in reality makes me cringe and suffer, withdraw into my body my long legs, like the creature itself! Behold your superhero Spiderman—how lame and pathetic, and it hurts my heart to see, nor is he worth any attention of mine but a brief notice of a poster I would like to tear down and replace.

Consider Superman!—much better, bold and straight, cutting through the air like a knife, with a sharp jawline and eyes that blaze bright, more relatable to a man of my figure and make. Yet he too, is imperfect, for he has a Kryptonite that is outside himself, and my Kryptonite is within, and I have it conquered and vanquished, yet does it strain and struggle as a beast held captive and unwilling.

For I am like Hercules!—tough and sinewy and schizophrenic, and everywhere I look in society, do I see the head of a Hydra, that I may cut off and cauterize the wound, plant a seed in the Earth, and let the rotting remains of the corpse serve as fertilizer. What can I say?—I am like a God upon this Earth.