My Name is Attached to the Bark of the Dark

Aioli, I am the sauce of my own dreams, then again my mother named me by her own means. She was entertained by a cooking show and heard the name blow, got a pen and wrote it down it seems. And to top it all off, what's next— you know, my middle name is Cake, she likes to bake sweets; can you imagine if she liked different kinds of meats? Thank God it wasn't a name with something more in common with what we all eat, how often Italian is set on many of our programs in specific, for us to observe their treats. It would have been horrific, just like this name that sounds oily, if it were an Italian cuisine show it would have been an echo of Cannoli or Rizzoli. Terrific. Shove a name onto a child because the impression seems good. Let me mention again for the greater observation of food, it sounds nice for the sake of a plate; but for a friend or a mate, it's an unkind mistake. The sound of a block of wood sliding up and down a grater, or an irritating deflater— If I could change it I would, it's in need of a tabulator, to sort out what's misunderstood.

Aioli Cake Stevenson, it's great to meet yah! I introduce you to myself and all yah other peo--pals. I am interested to say the least, to see my experience and expenses extend the lease to my expertise. How do I know what you need to know? If you didn't bother to say, ask or speculate about guarantees— well let me tell you why I know exactly what it is you need. What you specify is not manifested by the movements concluded by the sounds of words projected out of your mouth; but in regards to the scroll of the eyes that questions the surprise I've practiced to summarize. They are the windows to the soul, and other souls reply and spy sometimes. Don't ask me why, but sometimes at night I fly, and this is how I know your unmentioned needed supplies.

***

Now this jam can't be absolutely riddled with a rhyme, it would be a crime— that subtext is the tip of the iceberg to this whimsical backstory. Here's a chronological form, from a timeframe I can remember; a storyline development so breathtakingly enthusiastic, it will knock someone's socks off! The time mingles, but the plot's framework dominates as a mickle of one. Time is available in the same place at the same moment. Scoping all physical and astral planes— perpendicular, parallel and encircling a 360° of autodidacticism, into a higher angle of learning consciousness. Departing you from the anguish of repetition, using separation to execute excellence, away from an unfruitful life. The contemporary accessibility to a superfluity of trees without the weight of the jaded burdens of planting them. Chasing away blues, falling in failure and standing in position again to follow with faith into loops and swirls; bursting a diversity of otherworldly norms. Norms unseen to the regular eye; a dive of a good time.

You are transported into different parties and realms, shifting and jolting awakenings, centering and ameliorating your physical and spiritual systems by instructing the beat of the heart. Militant as a divine for the battle of living life itself, the way you were planned; being born into a domain of mendacity is where your mission scatters. Though continuing to live while being stumbled allows you to rebuild and complete, without the misplaced stones in the way of your blueprint to architectural freedoms. The inception to your structured future.

Bound and tied, inching off a plank, thrown into the dubious tides and waves of the deep. Your belongingness is a reprimanded tribulation. Becoming a child of the lost. Present to perfect the enslavement of forgotten promises now resurfaced from your birth to restore. Demonstrating a backup to the locality of the darkened and hardened hardwares combatting wellness, assurity and reliance; sufferings against immortally beatific entries. Your intolerance will untie your unsunken willpower that will define the revelations to the paraphernalias of your repertoire.

When it begins, time can't adjust a dial to pinpoint exactly where your story flows, it moves in leaps through portals and in-between territories of earth and the celestial. Ruminating towards a stimulus, gathered by the shine of The Light working their ways, when directed, into the shades of The Dark, these are the two essentials where the overall skill placements establish it's assembly to perform its speciality. “The Tug of War of the Gods” us chosen ones call it. And we are the rope. *Gulp*. Power against power and the strongest pull you cater to takes the win for internal and external use, claiming ethical advances of ether dimensions, through your ardor. Power sources breadth to be handled with care by only the ones it was claimed for. This extremity cannot be practiced or built— it's a given, startled by the connection of fertilization, the copyrights and trademarks of birth. But there is only one who champions regardless of where you have received your destiny. Those chosen souls are the fountainheads, tapped to spring and end the competition overall. They have absorbed and have transformed into the fullest of Light. They are The Burners, their lights shine the brightest. I am one.

When these chosen ones stray they are highly guarded and protected from even their own transgressions, confusions and the lascivious attempts from the netherworlds of those who work against The Light, they are called The Darkers, the chosen ones operating within the capabilities of The Dark. The Lighters potency are curated from the orbit of The Light, same with The Burners— withal, their light is a luminous incandescence, it's an enlightened force to be reckoned with; with a capacity to relinquish the workers of The Dark, without any back and forth battles, their presence alone is a stifle to The Darkers. The Darkers don't want anything to do with The Burners, they have a star system that is assigned to their powers, and every light source available in any cosmic reality, is an additional attribute to enforce the omnipresent glare to the darkside. Even down to a lamp. The Darkers that contrarily have a vendetta opposed The Burners, well… toast.

***

Not only was the issue the embarrassment and belittlement of my name that made me go insane; it was the absurdity and disrespect as to how I was raised. My mother was unloving to the concepts of her own immediate family— especially me, though a pushover to the maternal extended members of her kindred she enjoyed— the hoi polloi, money makers with intrinsic employment as decoy; show-offs with money as a cost. The tragedy added mileage to the agony, they were so brutal I felt the exhaust. They took claim for everything that came her way, even down to the expenses she made as a wage. Her overthinking was the tombstone that buried me in my ponderous cage. I was the scapegoat that developed rage, as to which she purposely spoke the words onto my account as an exchange. Her intelligence was a simplicity that had no range, therefore whatever she felt had to be in my name. She could not engage and empower herself with the tasks of life, therefore she took it out on me when she didn't bother to stand up for her rights. Living in a life completely shook, because my mother behaved like a creep you'd find in a horror book. Misery by the king, Mr. King himself placed upon her shelf, glorified like her Majesty the Queen amongst her commonwealth. My mother's commonplace health was a *yelp*.

The company she kept was kept to herself— the unhealthiest of its entirety is when she brought home the same sinister help. Even weirder inquiries, individuals that lacked the same necessary abilities, advising responsibilities. They'd analyzed more than what they can actually transpire to inspire, with how low they live beneath the body of their spire. They'd rather jibber-jabber in poisonous slander until they tire— these are the ones who waste and expire sooner than their own planned desires. When she and her company were fuming, it was me they were after, always projecting and assuming, a dawning of an anthem to every disaster was boiling and brewing, while my inner fruit tree was blooming. I didn't see it then, but the inner Burner was looming. Ready to plagiarize what they criticized on my name, the budding brainchild that's truly the head of my mane. The heinous tools they'd used to scrape and wither out from the walls of my identity, the ideas that were plastered by the hands of my gracious otherworldly Master's Mentality, now excavated by my enemies, those harassers of tranquility. They are barbarized because I am a prospective step of my own uprise. Outside of this I am the one, they can't define my governed strut that is already won. It is their turn to be done.

The disgruntled proverbs of my heart to depart from this miserable woman, the off centered beat that pumps in my chest sees the flame in your eyes, because mine sparks and sets the same oxidation to a frozen situation. The burning regards which put an end to contact with an attendee who entertains her own validation in her civilization. This woman is an uncourteous animal living in hibernation.

My memories are not all in this sum, some are made by the day of another cosmos and it's sun, right under where I run, the outlandish and fun. No not the drink— although I may sound drunk, but I told you this story has got some spunk. Now clean out your ears and remove all that gunk; listen when I tell you, that trauma gave me the funk! The new tunes of my rhythm and blues, that'll allow me to debunk how I was portrayed to stand out like the vapours that move out of a skunk. Maintained by the brut of a narcissistic punk and their views from where their sounds grooves.

***

Every night my quiddity is sent into a planetary held by a distant Providence, this place is called Summer-Wisehigh, my anima is instantly swept up, when I embrace the sheets and fall to sleep. R.E.M has gifted me with a land of warm light and summer breeze, each night's shift I can't wait for my eyes to reset to give me peace. However this time I journeyed too far into the clouds, where The Darkers gather around a particular cloudscape. There is also a darker darkened area near The Dark. There I discovered a tree that sits in the middle of the waters. It's roots were rooted downwards, stationed unnaturally like an iceberg. It was the primary focal point behind the two rows of rose bushes laid over a hedge just as abnormal— floating above the waters rooted in the rippling of the shallows, as an entryway to the whimsical tree.

Six sapling-bred pears were attached and just as prodigious as the overall spectacle of its branches and base. The pomes were so engorged they looked disfigured, although so plump and succulent with the exterior shade of chartreuse, making it appear enjoyably sweet altogether with its thickness. Pendulous on the nethermost branches. As I went along the shoreline, stepping in noisily, daring to grab hold of one fruit, an adumbral presence rose up from the water and the upper body surfaced absolutely bold. Before I could even take a step into the tide, the creature's features shone in the moonlight, with the embodied state of an undersea aquatic life figure, resembling a Hindu Goddess's aspect. She sailed stern in front of the miraculous bark illuminated in the dark, ready to pounce. She was the Empress Goddess Shimba Shumba Slambala, keeper of the six lowly hanging fruits, the unworldly pears attached to the young tree. That very moment when she prepared to confront me, a strike of a magnificent magnitude— a Lightning Bolt of impeccable ferocity, brought her down before she could even slither over to stand a trial against me. Right there I became the sequence breaker of the ominous forces holding back my undeniable dreams and futility; gone in an instance.

***

Dear Reader,

You know when they say the apple doesn't fall far from the tree— well the pear tree was the internal root system, connected to the heart of the calloused woman. Who then grew a foundation of wisdom, soft-heartedness and fruitfulness into and for a coming generation, the dawning of a new era of leaders in a time where strength will be needed the most. The awakening into the transitions of uplifting exchanges and melodic examples; flowing and moving tunefully into the maturity of change.

---- Signed:

Aioli Cake Stevenson… Great meeting you!