2/26/2003

2/26/2003 - 12:00

One:

He was made of pity, jealousy, self hatred and fantasy. A chameleon who changed too slow and caught in his metamorphosis withdrew further into psychosis. Frail and fragile. Held with tender tending spirits. Never quite completely stable, he always thought he understood how behavior so tragic and destructive was just a knee jerk away.

So in a green hateful spite of fury and abominable thoughts, Chip was consumed. Ivory bones would have made it easy to identify him, but he was never one to be held to convention. Not a single muddy piece of him exists to burn into ashes.

Chipdiablo's vacated tunnel (dug from the clay of a deep overgrown creek bed) stinks of the human condition. He is gone from us now.

Some ink black night he'll reach out of the clay with his swollen hand and over-grown finger nails, but only the worms will know. He will eat supper with you, and as you feed him, Chipdiablo will feed you back.