Paige’s Poem

Written by Paige Craig
Check out her phenomenal photography at her website.

 

The Dark Man

The Dark Man
Written by Stephen King

Finally, after years of searching for the perfect piece in his bibliography (one that was under five minutes and that hadn’t already been done by someone more talented than myself), I have found a work of Stephen King to record.

My mother’s favorite author is Stephen King and there is no memory I have of the eighteen years I lived with the woman that did not include an entire bookcase containing most, if not all, of Mr. King’s books. It was only a matter of time before I picked one up and started to read it for myself. That occurred in the summer before I entered the 6th grade, and the book was The Dark Tower: The Gunslinger. I picked it up because the book had an utterly badass cover:

The_Gunslinger2

I mean, look at that thing. I knew Stephen King as an author who primarily wrote about creepy ass things happening to authors and children in Maine, but a cowboy? With a crow? What the fuck is the dark tower? And why the hell is its distant shadow above the sunset?! That ain’t no physics I ever heard of. I opened the book and read it twice. I had no idea what the hell was going on, but I did know I loved it. I would spend the next sixteen years, more than half my life, riding the Dark Tower train, and I’m excited to narrate something directly attached to the DT universe.

For those of you who don’t know, The Dark Tower series is King’s self-described magnum opus, and it is connected to many of his other works. It details the adventure of Roland, a gunslinger (a sort of western knight) in a land that has “moved on”, and his quest to reach the dark tower. I could extrapolate more, but I’m not sure it would make much sense (Ka like the wind; I aim with my eye, shoot with my mind, and kill with my heart; 19; Bango Skank; I’ma kill all dem honk muhfuhs; I left the world I knew to watch a kid try to put booties on a fucked-up weasel; Blaine’s a pain; Go then. There are other worlds than these.) If you like sweeping sagas full of violence, honor, love, destiny, betrayal, loyalty, friendship, lots o’ shooting, and some simply fucked up shit, then pick up The Gunslinger and thank me later.

This poem deals with one of Roland’s main antagonists, a wizard who goes by many names and many faces but always wreaks chaos and destruction wherever he treads. I hope I do the character justice. Stephen King is one of my artistic heroes. His words have been a part of my life since the day I was born, and so I hope I do the work justice. If I have fallen short, I cry your pardon. If I have done well and remembered the face of my father, then I say thank ya, big big.

Note to Stephen King, if he happens upon this: If a phone call/IM online chat thingy between you and I could be arranged, I have one question I have been dying to ask you. It’s not for a job or a critique on my own work; just a question that popped into my head after reading a lot of your stuff. Thanks for doing what you do, and for all the books.

The Family of Regrets

Many a time had a drink have I
And some of those to quite an excess
Hung over the next day as I wake with the dawn
Has become a common occurrence
I’ve discovered that hangovers are unalike
Some as different as night and day
It entirely depends on which liquor you drank
That will determine the suffering at play
Wine will leave a headache, dull and annoying
Not horrible but also not pleasant
While the headache from Gin is like a spike in your face
A pain akin to the might of God’s judgement
I’ve always found myself queasy and nauseous
When Vodka has been filling my bucket
Yet when it’s Beer, I find myself bursting
And becoming uncomfortably intimate with my toilet
Though Whiskey comes in many forms
The same outcome will always occur
Whether it be Irish, Scotch, Bourbon, or Rye
Fuzzy head, achy body, and double vision ablur
And last but not least, the worst one of all
That is a combination of those that came before
All light, all sound, even breath causes pain
Because Tequila wants you to die on the floor
With each of these maladies I have become well-acquainted
They’re as familiar as the back of my hand
Yet I continue to drink, despite all the pain
Because who wants their life to be bland?

poison

The Story of a Dream in a Story in a Dream

You were in my dream last night, most of which isn’t important
It was the normal affair of reality and lies twisted therein
But at end of it all you gave me a call
A call to me in a dream I had that you were in

You were saying that you had just had a dream
And that I was in this dream that you had
And we were in the desert among the starlight
I had done something neat, some sort of crazy feat
In this dream you had dreamed in the dream that I had dreamed last night

And right before you said what I did this dream
Some escapade fantastic, an exploit utterly mad
I woke up, confused and confounded
Amazed and astounded
At the dream within a dream that I just had

But I was disappointed with my slumber
At least with how it ended
For I never learned the exacts of my glory
What was so great about my midnight jaunt
To justify a multi-layered dark hour haunt?
I guess I’ll never know the whole story

And I blame you for my dis-satisfactory vision
You should talk faster, not so much ado
I think that it’d only be fair, though you were not really there
There, in the dream that you had that I was in
In the dream that I had that you were in, too.

confused-full

“Yeah . . . I’m sorry about . . . about doing that . . . I guess . . .”

Dedicated to My Current Hangover

Oh Hangover,

How do I – ow – love thee?

Let me count the ways;

. . .

. . . uh . . .

Well, there’s . . . no . . .

The highs aren’t as sweet if we do not travel to the low –

. . .

No, that’s not right . . .

. . . uhh, love is pain and – ow . . . no . . .

. . .

. . . I feel your love through every dry heave, through every churn in my stomach, through every pound in my head . . . no, that’s stupid . . .

Shit, I got nothing.

Fuck you Hangover, you dirty, filthy, rat-faced, sucker-punching, pig-tailed, knee-biting, party-crashing sonofabitch bastard.  Your cousin Hammered and his little brother Tipsy are just so cool, but they always bring you along for the ride because their mother feels guilty that no one likes you.

. . .

I’d say good riddance, but I know I’m going to be seeing you again tomorrow.

And the day after that.

And for the rest of my life.

Signed,

It Took Me All Day To Write This Because My Head Hurts So Much