Ryfe

The biological bits are the same as everyone else. I’ve been described as an English major-type. Demon-possessed is another label that’s been wielded against me. But that was from my wife’s grandmother, and she’s dead now. So, I don’t know if that still counts. Misjudgments about me have been abundant in this life, but still, I am grateful for this.

Born was I, a small child in the county, with enough salt to treat a wintry street. An honorary member of the ‘hood, my quest has the nobility of Robinhood, a Kevlar vest like 50 cent, and zeal like a muzzle blast. Anathema I have been. A poor man said once I had the eyes of Jesus. Smile Empty Soul’s self-titled album is my anthem. Within the suburban Caucasian majority, I’m a minority white. The purest laughter comes from satirizing my own caste, LOL.

My sense of identity is untethered from the inefficacious fertilizer of mankind’s approval. Satan has appeared in my dreams, but I’m not his. I had to retire as a climbing arborist so that I wouldn’t die from not writing. Before my daughter was born people told me, “You’re going to be a great dad.” In St. Louis there’s a Lutheran church that extended a disinvitation to me. I accepted. I’ll die being a lover. I’m 5’ 9”, hazel-eyed (gave that bit to my daughter), and YNWA dyed. Laboring beneath a verbose style, some unseen force inside of me is resistant to polluting first drafts with more common words.

Somewhere between manic creative and moral philosopher you’ll find my voice. One is Bethany and me. Tori is my deepest kin. Heaven has my heart. Perfect sorrows have been my companions. Holding enough passion to bankrupt the IMF. I am an eviler sinner than you. This is not a charade.

Ryfe Greenwood is a pseudonym.