…

It hurts, the back and forth whipping nature of life, and I miss my grandma. I had touched her cold, dead face, and I sought to make the book as dead as her. A fascist agenda. A flipping of the egg so that we can keep on cooking without burning out.

Leave it. Let someone else bury the corpse, pamper the dead meat. Present it for viewing, diffuse the blood, inject preservatives.

I am not a mortician. I am not an undertaker. If I deal with death, then it’s in the dealing of it, and that is life.

Hunting targets with the swiveling crosshairs of my cursor.

Look inwards and elevate. I don’t need names right now or ever. Call them what I want: McNugget, Bill Thompson, Malone — they’re all the same within the dream. It doesn’t matter if I betray their trust. It’s temporary, and for the greater good. Who’s gonna hold on? I’m doing what I’ve always done better than ever. Pushing this envelope. Trust me, I’ve seen the specters of complacency, and I have felt their magic. Every challenge is its own breed of conflict, and currentivism is all about conflict.

Again you remember the whys and how of it all began. You’re standing on the snow capped mountain field, bathing in the golden sunsets of Salt Lake City. Land of a sea that ships itself to keep sailing. I have come far. Yesterday, I was just a boy from the bronx — nothing like a seed in my wife’s belly to go shatting herself all over Instagram, getting my neck reamed for your safety, even though they’re going to kill you because they’re monsters. If I could take anything back, sweetheart, I would have never let these guys have gotten a whiff of us. You didn’t know what you were doing, dad, she’ll say, my sweetheart, my constant hero, the new currentivist star. The littlest spot, I tell you, taking my finger and trying to pull me into continued honesty. Girl, I’m just trying to keep you safe, I say. I’m pulling on the coat tail of the guy at the table, telling him that he could have been thinking this all along, or that I am the Sam Raimi to his Harmony Korine. He’s like, no dude, I’m actually Val Kilmer, and you’re goof. There goes your head, like your daughters, plopping off the curb like how it had toppled from the chair so many times before.

It’s a bad brain bonanza, missing connections. The psychic void filling the negative space. What am I supposed to say, sorry not sorry? I’m just trying to get by in a system that doesn’t care about my kind. Undercover and being caught. Just praying not to die today.

It’s coming at us from all angles. The pressure is on and the rain is falling. Baby at home woke up and wondered where her dad was. I don’t know what to tell her. I’m in the clouds and can’t come down. I really don’t think that it’s the weed that’s making me this bad… I remembered the thing with my first drag this morning. As soon as the shower started. My heart rate was jacked. It was already over.

Forward motion is where the money’s at.

I don’t want to crack. My obsessions have glued my face to my phone compulsively. Every inch of progress feels like a mile.

It feels like falling off the beaten path.

A sad thing to say.

Last breath of statements.

Lying in the dirt.

Passed out for the last however many hours.

People have been walking all over me and murdering my dad.

They’re holding my daughter hostage. What choice do I have but to surrender?

This is bigger than these games that we play in the dark — these shadow dances.

We’re killing ourselves. Keep on believing.

Constantly Cucked: The Story of My Life

Fucked again, the sequel begins.

Finding out what this chapter’s bosses look like. I mean more or less who we’re investigating. What suspects do we have? What even is the crime?

And why do you keep growing your beard out?

We sent you out here to do a job. We want you feeling the part. We want you doing the best that you can. We want the best that we can get. It’s not a coincidence that you didn’t get that scholarship. You’ve got self-worth issues. You can’t trust the people that are giving you compliments. You are not capable of sharing. You sit at the accountant’s desk now. She lives in you. You are the bookkeeper. It’s unofficial. It’s all under the table. We can’t be seen together in public. You couldn’t continue, but at least you got through what you did. At least now people are caring about you. It doesn’t seem to matter how much you try and convince them not to. It’s all just too good to be true, isn’t it? You’re more about living that delusion. You’ve always been a poser rather than a punk. You’re fired.

People have responsibility quotas.

They can only take so much.

I’ve had to accept more responsibility than I’m capable of carrying for the sake of my family.

Tonight, I was thinking about it, and hanging didn’t seem that scary. Seems like something that I could just do. Not too much thought about the pain or mess. Sorry for the people that would have to find me and do away with me. At least I wasn’t ripped apart or pierced.

My parents are slipping from me.

“Which side of the coin are you on, bibles?” they ask.

“Who do you work for?”

I’m from the state.

I’m a national hero.

“You’re different, bibles! We’re working to get you to understand that. We’d like for you to shave your face. Perhaps we could let a little light into the room. Lamps dimmed. Fluorescent off. Put on the chill mix.”

“The speed of the tape is going to be very important to us.”

“We’ve come a long way from headquarters. Our respective homes. Flights take so long, and so little work can get done upon them. Houston, we’ve got a problem.”

Thank God for trains. They’re packed. Three cars in. Forty-five minutes. The baby is spinning corkscrews on our laps. If I left my phone here it would be worth it. A casualty. All hands on deck. If you’re leaning, you could be cleaning. My mother-in-law is sitting in front of me. Every other knee belongs to the other. They’re touching. The sister-and-law is across from me and to my right. Her knees are exposed. She must have bought these jeans with holes already in them. It’s like wearing shorts, but you don’t have to show as much skin in less crucial areas. I swear that I spotted a new spot near her knee. It’s little. I can cum to it. In Vitro fertilization has been cancelled, and the adoption of a three year old is on the table. I wonder what would happen if big-dick-brother-in-law made magic happen — a miracle in the bedroom. Not only is my sperm potent, but my technique breaks the barriers that you have erected. It’s worth a shot. I think that it could really help. Those kids will find families. You’re only interested in white ones anyways. I swear that I heard you say that, and in this state, it wouldn’t be all that unthinkable. Just don’t shy away from my offer. 

Fire rains from the shelves. Thunder overhead, within seconds of the lightning. The boss is trapped next door. My inbox is full of mistakes. I can’t see straight. I’m crashing through the asteroid belt, and the damage is exponentially increasing. I’m yelling at my coworkers. “Hold onto your butts, fuckers!” I’m slitting the throat of my lunchbox. I’m spilling my rations. Tape bleeds from the incoming orders. “Nobody breaks down their boxes…” says Estelle, right in my ear. I’m making her shake. I am Michael Meyers. She doesn’t believe in the death penalty, but she’s willing to make an exception. I’m pushing my boss out the door. He’s got a flight to catch. Fargo to London. Roadshow express. The knife in my hand. I’ve got that look in my eye.

The gallery has busted. It’s taken the front room with it. The back room is bleeding out again. It’s always a mess. Despite our best efforts. We can’t use the shelves anymore. We’ve got to take this show on the road. To the Sheraton. Make it happen, Maughan. You’re on point. Three tables. One display. $25 to $500. It’s a locked room, but keep your eye on your stuff. Mormons are creeps. They’ll eat your guts and keep you alive long enough to keep it fresh. They are all about conservation. Today’s right is not a conservative party. I mean the far-right is a veiny fist, just jacking it. My parents store their food. They’re prepared to hold out. They are aware of the nasty nature of this Earth. They can sense something coming. They won’t call it global warming. They are not to be held responsible for anything. All that they have to do is pray, read the scriptures, help their neighbor, abstain, and they’re going to be given the power to fight off any threat. If death shall take them, the lord is waiting, with all of their loved ones, in a better place than this, because this place was just an illusion. It was a test.

I’m still in the war. I’m still breathing. There are more books incoming. Pinged by the captain: Commander Ahab. Through the front door into any sort of space that we can shove them. He’s sending messages from the sky. He’d better not still be in the shop. I swear to God. I don’t like losing my cool. What I mean is that I don’t like the implications that it implies. I appear on threat radars. I’m something that is not looked forward to. Day-to-day life would be better without me. What’s it going to take to make that happen? It’s what people’s brains start chewing on.

Scan the enemy for weaknesses. He shouldn’t be too tough. He’s already faltering. He’s about to fall off the map on his own. Were it not for his dang family. Putting little girls on the street. A mother unwilling to work because she’s preparing to pump another baby out. The Fourth of July. That’s when the magic resumes. She’s starting to show me her pussy again. She’s whetting my appetite.

I’m sitting here wondering if this works, plugging into some console gurggling out from some slashed pillar, erected from the thoughts of the people that I’ve got around me who happen to be attracted to the same gender as myself, and I’m working my way out. This is sexual. You take this path, and you’ll find yourself in a position of power. An iron fist over the land, spilling its guts every way along the gold that is a wonder with the sound of music, the power that you have to lead the people if you really want.

http://bit.ly/2EOnvaq

Have you ever asked yourself if you’re on the wrong team, Kit asks.

I ask myself that every day. I am a secret agent. The secret’s not so secret anymore though, is it? For crying out loud, there are levels and plateaus. I’m flying by the seat of my pants. It appears that I am not competent to handle any of this. The only place that I feel safe is in the written word, and that’s the realm where a real bullet is being risen like the head of a cobra from my charming disposition.

The book blew up, and there are intruders raiding the halls. I don’t feel safe roaming them naked anymore. I no longer feel smart. I no longer feel strong. I feel as though safety lies only within weakness, and if the blade still comes, well then at least I cowered.

How could I expect anything different? Three of us went swimming: my mother-in-law, my wife, and myself — I don’t know if the toddler counts as a person yet. Seems like a quarter of something. I would have liked the youngest daughter to have come — the one with the mental problems, but she stayed upstairs, on the sixth floor, where the lady walks back and forth with her headphones in, counting her steps, doing what she must to get her goal — you don’t think that she’d be going outside do you? Do you have any idea how much harder the world is for women than it is for men? This lady likes to listen to her headphones when she walks. If anybody knows something about that, it’s you, bibles. Stop jerking me around, and leave me alone.

Bombs of thunder to this new streak of constant daylight battle.

“We need you to set the turret.” says my boss. “Torrence will be there. Retrieve the vehicle. Pick up shells. Stock up. Drop the package, and man the damn thing. Deliver every ounce of damage that you can. Right now, I’m counting on you bibles. You’re counting on yourself. Your paycheck depends on it. Your family depends on that. I don’t want you having to eat anymore maggot pancakes. Do your duty, soldier.”

There’s raw chicken festering under the oven, but there’s no way that it could have gotten there. The dog has been trying to reach it for hours. The floor is wet with his salivation. Musette is writhing around in it. She’s a strong character. The leader of our life even though I had told everybody on the crew that I was the Sherlock and she the Watson.

I’m in a race against time. I’ve got my sunglasses on. The 4 x 4 is pumping. It’s minutes after the hour. I’m not concerned with the literal definition of time. I’m between universes. I’m in and out. Time is a different beast at this hour. I make my own schedule, so long as I make it to the show on time. The show being a jungle hillside. A foxhole in the desert. A tree perch. Somewhere to launch a wholloping plasma blast up into the sky while big boy blue takes it to them with the one after another.

Slice and dice. Watch and pounce. Out into the parking lot to pull from the one hitter. Talking to the other sellers. They know that I am his man. He’s got my back. I’m still here. I’m doing what he has done. We’re in this together. “You’re lucky.” he says, my six massive shelves looming over him. “Very little stakes.”

I’ve got my pistol under my jacket. I’ve got to do the song and dance, lure them into the range of fire, feed the beast, blast some heads, take some body shots, make translations. We’re going after some pretty big fish here. What was I expecting?

I am with a crew of knowledgeable cowboys. Who am I in comparison? They’re men: The Bishop – commander of his own; The Historian – he called the prophet a murderer. The respect that I have for them both is magnanimous. And don’t even get me started on my boss – The Boss.

I’m in a different league. It’s a different sport entirely. There I was, standing next to Han Solo, a Jedi, a skywalker, the murderer of children or the child of the murderer. Perhaps some child further down the line, a child of my own, my saving grace or my demise. The all of it entirely. A living masturbation, shared with my wife. The reason that I’m in this whole mess in the first place.

It takes a heavy hand to right this shop, and I’ve now seen one of those in the Bishop. My grace and keen vision can only get us so far. My boss is taking on water. This is me reporting on the scene, the accountant having told me that if the shop goes down, it’s on me. We’re living in its worst era, and I’m the angel of death.

I’m back at the counter. A merger has taken place between T-Mobile and Sprint. My past has caught up to me. My credit record rises to the surface. They’re trying to kick me out of my iphone. They’re leaning in, asking around. I’m looking them dead in the eye and telling them that I don’t know this person that they’re referring to.

The lid is blowing off of this chicken. What was it just yesterday that I was reaching out to my cohorts asking if they had any work that didn’t involve the actual handling of cows.

“I want to breathe spirit into this flock. I’m not actually looking to strip the flesh and display the wares.”

I am the flesh of course. I am the one they call bibles. It’s a major existential crises that I’m going through. Musette’s dad called today. He’s acting like there’s nothing wrong, like he’s just been preoccupied. “Totes my fault.” he said.

Literally every angle. Every one of my safe spaces I’ve left glaring openings into. You want to buy the book? Ten dollars. Ten dollars to do away with me. You want to put me on stage? You want me to confess at your ward house? Make this official. The local chapter of antifa banging on the door. If you’re not with us, then you’re one of them. That’s what they’re saying. Have you ever felt so justified that you could deliver a bullet to someone and have a hero’s funeral? That’s where we stand today. I’m in the line of fire. I am an apathetic enemy. I am slouching to Bethlehem. I don’t give a damn. I’m bored, I’m frustrated, and I’m being taken advantage of. What do you expect from somebody like me? This sort of development is natural. It’s why the Nazis had such good style. There’s a peak of pure artistry before the invasion of wicked cruelty. We’re standing on the precipice of a bloody political war, and I’m going with my gut, trying to be the best that I can possibly be.

I’m the one who actually has the gun. At this point, I don’t have a choice but to use it. It’s the only thing that can save my career. End the persecution. Put me in jail for defending myself. Nazis don’t have rights. MAGA monsters in the manosphere. I’m rising onto the map through your life. I didn’t want to have to do this… I was placed onto so many blacklists. I don’t have any other skills. I’ve got to break through, and a pie in the face is more damaging than you say that it is.

Meet me in the Mormon aisle. I want to show you something. See all of these expat books, they were my undoing. I’m the new book guy. We passed like ships in the night. I’ve seen you so many times… There it was then, huh? All along. I was trying to take a sledge to my head and set my family free. I wasn’t out to destroy the world, but it was clear the next link in the chain. I just wanted to go to Mexico and be waited on like a rockstar. I didn’t want to have to live in a third world country. I’ve been looking for love. The shit shot up like a rooster tail. Out the ass as I feasted on the light of the lord.

Come on bibles. Make it to July. Impregnate Musette. That’s your task. She won’t need you after that. You’re better off dead. Just bring the offspring forward. Leave me alone until then. I can pop the cork at that point. Slurp the thoughts as they spill into the shelves. Feed the roaches. Light it up, for my unborn child. The Maughan estate.

Either that, or go for the sister. Pretty in pink. Unbuttoning her pants at the Chick-Fil A, pushing at her tummy with her fists. She’s lactose intolerant, yet she’d eaten the baby’s ice cream, put dressing on her salad, indulged in cheese. I know that there was a smile on her face when I came busting in with my sunglasses on, cowboy juice dripping all over from my intrepid travels.

She was wearing a tucked-in undershirt. Her pants go clear up and over her belly button. I couldn’t see any skin or the color of her underwear. Somebody was at the table with a mint and a towelette. I’d seen a note at the register telling all employees to speak with an empathetic tone. It wouldn’t be great what I would do at this place. It’s not time for people to have to turn over their social media to potential employers. I could have been preparing to exist within the dark web, but I’ve been lounging around watching The View.

All that I have left are my prayers. I’m seeing how close I can get to God. I’m trying to get clean. I’ll see where the blade doth fall at that point. Come naked before me, my children, and let me look at you. All of us have to stand there. All of us have to feel it. That’s his gift to us. There’s no shame, just the pain.

Grabbing at the karma, digesting it, and passing it on once I’ve had all that I can stomach. New York seems like a lifetime ago. Wait a minute… did we fail? Were we never supposed to bring this child into the world? Did we step outside of the painting and into the frame?

It feels right though. Live a living love. Christ on Earth. Paradise in your pocket. Dreaming her back into my day. Wherever we may be. Our small rooms. I’m an injured man; the size of the place makes no difference. I’ll tell you what, we can stop at the grocery store on the way back. Remember how you used to love running those mountains on Sunday? The church that you got into at that point? Just a window away. Missions for me. I could go door to door, but there’s something on my brain keeping me from doing it: a skull wall: writer’s block. A dreaming giant. Footsteps on the fog of war. Fugue like state. Beethoven at the brick factory. “Give me another hand!” he says. The walls going up around us. Turret fire slowly throughout the day. Just a couple a’ fishing buddies. A whole new world through the magic carpet in tablecloths. Black as my soul, bibles that I am. Striking higher in the night.

I paid for my ticket, but my time is valuable; and I put in a lot of work, further breaking my back.

For what? So that I can rummage through the Deseret Industries. One could say that it’s lower than thrift. It’s basically garbage. Given in goodwill. Church based – so there’s that.

My daughter playing with every car that she can get her hands on. If it has wheels, it’s on the floor. Lined up together, like street parking, getting in the way of people trying to browse.

“Can you pick the stuff up and put it away?” asks my wife, and I’m like, “She’s playing with it though.”

This is what we can afford. If it’s over three dollars, we ain’t gettin it. She plays with it here; let her have her fun.

Cane hobblers of false legs don’t scare her. She’s not paying attention. Anything with wheels. Surrounded by filth. Putting her hand in her mouth. Scratching her head. Rubbing her eyes.

If only the guy were in a wheelchair…

Then he could have really distracted my baby, keeping her hands off of her head and out of her eyes.

I washed her hands so many times. Part of me is letting her experience this world of germs. I want her to go barrelling through this barrier of germaphobia that I’ve built around myself.

Before it ever gets built.

Sometimes we’ve just got to shut our mouths and let the walls fall.

My stupid self can’t live and let live for five freaking seconds.

Contacts still in, drying up my vision.

It’s not the same. On the toilet again – just like her mom. I’ve got to get my glasses on though. It’s another day of work. I was really feeling it – the threats. Another mishap in my department. I’m overloaded and underqualified. It’s only a matter of time.

I’m melting in the park. Bikes are coming awfully close to ruining my life. I’m going to fall. I’m not going to be paying attention, and I’m going to walk out into an intersection. I’m sending a signal that I’m wanting to go. My mind is evaporating. I’m looking for Ryan Bryan.

I’m looking for death. The blades of the universe are reminding me that I didn’t go to college. Definitely not one of the best ones. People are hanging themselves for so much less. They weren’t as close to rock bottom as I am. They weren’t riding it for years. They were afraid of merely facing it. Life would be a waste. I’d rather take my chances at another shot. I end up there, and it’s over for me.

Life is so hard, and yet death feels nigh impossible.

I am no different from my father-in-law. I need someone else to pull the trigger. I’m sending out the psychic waves. That usually ends up working the world in my favor.

Not like it was ever much of any good though, or why would I be directing us this way?

Something must have gone wrong. I was delusional. They were right. The grandeur was not something that I would ever have. I should have taken up a trade – but who are we kidding? I was born for either this or nothing.

That’s what I’m thinking, here pacing in my room. A living room in a Japanese Bathrobe. Fighting for this side. Upholding my responsibilities. Praying to God, asking if salvation can hit yet.

“Take out a small business loan. I don’t care if you go on Shark Tank. If you can make it work, great. More advertising, but we literally might get bought by Mark Cuban. It could be worse, I guess… and if the lord really does speak through us, then we can overcome him.”

“I just want you to know what I’m about.” I say, sending him a pdf. “This was from yesterday.” I say. “But I know that you and I are tomorrow men.”

“We’re not looking for first-person work.” he says. I’m telling him that it’s not first-person. “I’m just the first person.” I’m no fan of faking the feeling. That’s not saying that I’m not hyperbolic. I’m attracted to the fresh and shiny feeling. What’s it going to take to get there? Do I have to dig, or am I supposed to let it come to and through me? Do I need to be purer? Are you looking for another sin? is this when it gets to the point where I’m not confessing my sins but committing them.

It’s hurting as the hole stays open. A wound from this sector, the window spinning. Windshield wipers doing their best. Plink… plink! plink! plink! PLINK

We’re spinning out of control. I’ve got my arm extended. I’m holding on through the cold darkness. My face in red on the left hand side, and my child keeps telling me to sit in the spot that I was sitting in when I was comforting her after her mom walked out.

The truck book. She’s lining up the police cars. These are things that go. Coming to the door. They’re taking me away, of course. I’m the man. I’m the dad. I’m the father. I’m the husband. I’m the suspect. There are no marks on her, or the baby. Of course! My damn feed. The toilet where I flush away the poison. The refilling shit hole. That’s me. I’m just hoping to have had it knocked out of me for a second. The wind or the waste. I was shocked. I was stunned. I’ve been slapped by a girl before – don’t get me wrong. I’d be foolish to call myself innocent. I’d complained about the dishes. I’d demanded a hug. I wouldn’t get out of the way. I wouldn’t stop pestering her. She’s the one in there with the gun. I’m rapidly shoveling. Yeah, she could aim it at herself, or she could come out here and fire it into me. The thing about that is though that if she did, there wouldn’t be anybody to take care of the baby – except for the twin. I mean, she’s about to adopt. A three year old, white of course. I’ve got one coming up. I’m working on getting another year in, but I’m not doing well. Job loss. Marriage failing. The police are closing in. I’ve got no time to write. I’ve got no energy. I’m praying for suicide but requiring death. Anybody but you would be wrong. I guess this means we’re soulmates, babe.

She’d called me disgusting. We deal with these holes differently from each other. One of us has to submit. Seems like it’s always got to be me. One could say that it takes strength to be that person, but it takes something out of you. It shouldn’t always be you. Making it be that way is a form of Neglect. It’s abusive.

“Why do you think I’m in such a bad place?” I say. “Why do you think I’m such a cuck? Do you think that I was always like this? If I have been, then you’re certainly highlighting it, and that’s not right. I didn’t choose to be this way. I wouldn’t be this way if I could choose. This is a disability, and you’re taking advantage of it. I may be retarded, but you’re evil.”

I’ll sleep on the couch. It’s fine. I’m not going to go in there demanding that hug that I’d asked for. I’ve just got to grab the blanket and my pillow. I can shit in the baby’s bathroom. I’ll go to bed early. What difference does it make when you want to die?

She should know that I loved her. I fought at every angle. Sometimes you just can’t get out of all the space clutter. Situations are risky for a reason. Not everybody escapes. God is either dead, he abandoned me, or he wants to see me suffer. I can’t imagine he’s got my best interests at heart. Right when I start getting on top of things in one area, another of my areas explodes. Pretty soon I’m past the point of no return. I’m not exiting the event horizon. I’ve always said that there would be bigger bosses. Tell me about ’em, will ya? Sing me the songs of your travels. I’ll be here. I’m not going anywhere. Knife through the chest, and I’m sinking now. I knew that there was a reason that three was a big number. Turning the gears of my compulsions. I’m sinking into it, through the flesh and into another universe. It’s not the way that I would have taken myself out, but I wouldn’t have ever taken myself out. I just got lucky. My love and kindness was anathema to you. What choice did you have? I pushed you over the edge.

I’m not trying to play a joke or tease you. I’m not trying to make you crazy. What I was trying to do was avoid detection from the monster that looms over our relationship. I feel proud of how I acted, but I’m sure that you’ll convince me otherwise after I talk with you later. It’s why I wasn’t hiding from the baby. I’m not good at that, but I’m not going to call you a bitch or a whore or anything. I’m not going to slap you or choke you or stab you or shoot you. I’m fighting for love. I’m fighting for us. I think that it’s good for her to witness it. I’m sorry that you have to be the bad person, but I take responsibility for my actions and I expect you to take responsibility for yours.

“Know that no matter what happens,” I say, “I will always be sorry. I’m sorry for trying to get you to hug me. I’m sorry for complaining about the dishwasher. I’m sorry that you can’t control your anger. I’m sorry that it becomes physical. I’m sorry that you looked bad in front of the baby. I’m sorry for writing these things about you. I’m sorry that I can’t be a better husband, father, man. I’m sorry that I’m not the abusive one. The baby isn’t supposed to run to me. I don’t have the means of taking care of her. I’m always at work. Where would you be without me? Living in the lap of luxury while I take another job. It doesn’t matter. I’m sorry for making you out to be the bad person. I’m sorry for smiling, sweetheart. I didn’t know that I was. I was just trying to bunker up. I love you so much, sweetheart, and I miss you. Let’s not talk about it. Let’s forget about it. It really doesn’t matter. I don’t care. I’m willing to take responsibility. We’ve both got our problems. I’m a big enough person to take the hit. I’m not trying to be self-righteous. I just want to hold you. Is that okay? Can I maybe get that hug now? What do you think?”

“Where’s my damn truck?” asks my boss, arriving back in town.

He’s the last person that I want to see right now, especially jet lagged.

“It’s right where you left it, sir. There are some shelves in the back of it. I didn’t have the keys to the bottle museum. I can unpack them once you’re back. I made $1,2000 dollars for you at the fair. I know that it’s not amazing, but I made some connections too. A couple of guys from some other bookshops. The historian. He and I are like best buds. I think that I might be his protege. The way that he speaks truth to power. It’s phenomenal.”

The handlebars are heating up. I’m trying to keep breathing. My gut is returning. I’m losing sleep. When was the last time that I went for a run? I don’t know if I’ll have the energy tonight. I spent silent hours slumped against the couch, shivering in sad fear last night. 1:30 is better than it could have been, but how many of you others out there get up around seven? I’ve still got some days ahead of me in this week. But I’m taking an extra day off this weekend for father’s day. We were supposed to go camping with my father-in-law, but then he went and ruined so many lives.

I turn to the navigator’s chair, but it’s empty. I asked too many questions. I never improved. I can’t face the truth of the situation. My brain’s got problems. My therapist was right, or was it my publisher? I need to get a CAT scan.

“Musette,” I say, “navigate me to the nearest hospital.”

The car is out of control. Plink, plink, plink.

The boss is back in town.

His plane is landing.

He’s throwing tact out the window.

He doesn’t give a shit anymore.

He’s tired.

His diabetes is flaring up.

Maybe he heard me talking bad about him with Torrence.

Torrence is rubbing his hands together, watching the chips fall.

I fell for his trap, hook, line, and sinker.

Why else would he have chosen to get a room with me?

Doesn’t he know how bad I snore?

I’ve slept on the couch before. There’s nothing new with that. This doesn’t mean anything, babe. It’s nothing new. Honestly, don’t worry about it. You know me, babe. It’s just fiction. I’m just letting my feelings fly. It’s a relief for me. Everybody knows that I take artistic license. I’m protecting the innocent. I don’t call you by your real name. The entity that I portray in the text is not you, it’s some kind of monster. I’m not calling you a monster, of course. It’s just that sometimes, probably because of my own weaknesses, I feel threatened by you. I don’t know… I mean, scared? You know. Everybody goes through this in a relationship. I know that you probably have some similar feelings about me. Like how much I annoy you. And I’m a guy. Kind of crazy. I could do some serious damage. That’s just life. Domestic disputes are so dramatic. It’s easy to go off about them. It’s really just an exercise in emotional release. I didn’t mean anything by it. You know that, right?

Spiritual heir to my father. Holding his fist in my face for questioning his religion. Prince charming. My mother with her head in her hands on the sidelines. I’m defenseless. I’m alone. I can’t face this guy. He’s old now though. Still got some fight in him, I’m sure. But there’s no war at the moment. It’s on the homefront. A new generation of terrorists has infiltrated my family as my family. I put my dick in it. I’m a slave. She wants another child. I’m going to give her what she wants. What choice have I got? I love my children. My children love me. My wife was once my best friend. But it’s time for the child to rise to that position, isn’t it? That’s how it goes. I need someone to take care of me. I can’t take care of myself.

There’s a car waiting for me a little down the line. Musette is driving. The baby is in the back. I’ve got to play it cool. If I act upset, it will only make things worse. I can’t be sad. I could try to be upset, but she’s driving me to Popeyes. I’ve always wanted to go here. She’s treating me to something special. She knows that she crossed a line. She’s trying to make amends.

Honey glazed chicken strip meal. Five tenders, a side, a biscuit, and a drink. She’s even letting us get two other sides. It’s a huge drink. She always gets coleslaw. Don’t even question it. They gave us iced tea when we’d asked for Coca Cola. I try to like it, but I just don’t.

I’m feeling daring. This is my dinner anyways. Can we get mashed potatoes? I’m asking. I’m going to get that hug. I’m going in for the kill. I’ve given her the time and the space that she was begging for. We’ve reached the limits of that desire. Now I can get a little something or another. I’ve got a hand print on my face to prove it. It’s not there anymore, but the baby saw it. She kept pointing at it. I was like, baby, please. Don’t look there. I want her to keep coloring in the lines. I want her to keep loving her truck book and police cars. She’s having me sit back there against the counter. She’s solidifying the moment with her mental engineering. She’s building something out of this moment. I mean, what can I say, but you’re welcome.

I’ve got to keep on training. If I die in the line of fire, it will be better than dying committing the sin of my mother. I’ve seen the way that Musette beats up the dog. I’m not innocent in that regard, but she can really let rip. And for what? Breathing too loudly? Looking at her the wrong way? He’s annoying as shit, but he’s got a sweet soul. I truly believe that despite all of the hostility that we’re breeding into him.

I’ve got to get over that in myself, but that’s a different issue. Right now, I’m focusing on standing up to the demon within Musette.

It’s a personal problem in the end. I’ve got to be able to stand up within myself to stand up to her. She’s coming at me a hundred miles and hour, and I’ve got to be able to go at her 101. I’m not talking about devastation and speed alone. It’s simply skill or the grace of God moving through you.

The narrative has all of these entry points worth wedging my stakes into. I’m trying to get the thing to split so that we can go on water. I’m trying to save the earth. The wind is just going to keep on coming, and we can paddle wherever we need to.

A new house ahoy. A beautiful house. I mean, it’s got potential. It’s my uncle’s. His daughter is living in it. She’s paying six hundred dollars in rent, but she’s not paying it. Her dog is shitting all over the bed, as my dad likes to put it. It’s problematic, but I’m well aware of how a house can have its insides cleaned out.

Time changes everything. It’s father’s day now. The message about the house has not been responded to, but my dad has spoken with my uncle, and my uncle told him that he needs to work some things out first. I’m just a child. I’m a nephew. Nobody asks me about my writing. We just don’t talk about it.

It’s horrible. It shouldn’t work this way. I’ve got to recharge. I’ve got to get into bed. I’m soliloquizing. I’ve got to move the needle. This only one piece of the puzzle. That’s what the new pop guy doesn’t understand. Has he even been here, I wonder? Does he understand ello? Does anybody? Do I? Does my therapist? Does my dad? Does my brother-in-law? I am simply at the door, and so are you, and I’m convincing you to let me out. We’ve got a lazy locker and a mischievous knocker. Mix the two together and you’ve got a fully incorporated Appropouture!

It’s a shaky barrier. The whole edifice. I’m afraid for its survival. One of the scariest parts is that there doesn’t seem to be any reason that I should be afraid. I keep hearing this voice in my head telling me that I should quit, and I can’t help thinking that it’s the same voice that woke Atticus up in the middle of the night, popping in to ruin his life. Something is definitely driving me forward through this channel. There are frightening threats popping up in the flesh. How did they get this muscular? I’m asking. They are vulnerable, sure, but so am I, and I can be attacked in a way that leaves them free from repercussion. It’s very easy to steamroll me. It’s the vulnerability that lends me my miraculous magic. You have to put skin in the game. It’s why they’ve got theirs. I’ve got the gun. Everyone that I think is a danger is in danger. You can see me unraveling online. The fact that I’m not there is troubling. That’s why they’re bringing it to me.

Flame injections. Highschool hotties on my hotline every night; why do you think I write?

Catch yourself, dear fool. Readjust. Whatever you’re doing right now is not working for you.

That’s what I’m talking about. Get back to basics. Keep the cool on the kettle. Get your baby in the steamy shower. Take advantage of the situation. Hold on tight. They’re entering from the left and the right, the read and the flanks. Nowhere is safe. Press on!

Who’s poor? I’m not. I’ve got a good spirit. My parents aren’t. They’ve got good jobs – right?

My uncle’s not. He retired. Sold out to my dad is what Musette says. He’s living in Mesquite. Somewhere on the Nevada border. No wonder he can’t be bothered to answer his phone. You should see the life he lives.

Silence along the shores of our future, with our ship plowing into the public, piloted by the whole family, somewhere else in the universal soup of spaces, away from a possibility we never thought present, until it had bumped against us, curling us in with its misinforming finger, so that we could hang there, with our lusty eyes tearing up, naked before their satisfied eyes, another payback, bitch, from the successful to the loser whose only way of winning exists when we lose.

I keep popping into the wrong universe as the one that I’m in branches into more directions than I am able to handle. It’s too bad that I truly have been being such a cunt. A fucking faggot. Fat, but never a bad writer.

On the screen, hair in hand.

To write bibles, I must become bibles.

blood dripping from my neck, pooling on the cutting room floor.

Show me how to get into your house, bitch!

I’m screaming, suffering a pain I can’t come back from. Knife pelting through my chest, in my stomach, at my face, at each other’s throats, even though I’m always the good guy in those types of situations.

I’m still supposed to fire my boss, but I’ve got so many of them. I don’t know if they’ll all be rid of in one blow or if this is something that’s going to take a little time. I’ve already lost one. My wife slapped me. My boss-boss and I hardly said a word to each other yesterday. He was standing at my desk, bumping shoulders with me.

Today his ass was all out and over my space, making it so that I couldn’t back my chair up. He was bumping into my shoulder with it. I’m talking with somebody whom I can’t mention anymore, and she doesn’t want to kill herself, and the guy is just bumping into us with his ass. He’s such a damn jerk – to all of us. I’ve got a job to do, and I know how to do it the right way. I’m in the force. The secret service. I’m here to save souls. I know about universal dynamics. Nobody should spend too much of themselves here on this plane. Only be present when you must. It’s better that way.

The house drifting further out of view. No more fifteen dollars coming in the mail every month.

“My legacy!!!” I’m yelling.

Alone, in the room, where I always wanted to be, free falling.

“She’s going to kick you out.” says Savage, and I know that what I’ve got to tell her isn’t going to make her any happier to be around me.

I’m my dad now. I’m my uncle. Cameron – the stupid ass. Nobody wants to talk to me. I’m a pulpy mess. Going Nowhere – just like Delicious Tacos. The Holy Grail. That smart boy from Alabama. Drifting off, away from Violence’s old school.

The ground smacking hard against her head. These softwood kitchens, right?

My little angel girl. Always been too good for this world. It’s going to grab you and pull you down. The better you are, the faster it will go. I’ve tried, and I’ve been trying, and I will continue trying forever to keep you from falling. I will try to protect you from these forces of evil. I will try, like I try all things; and I will fail, because I always do.

The house burning in the banks. More qualified residents, being upfront in their approaches. Just like my sister and her husband and my wife’s sister and her husband.

I want to be home with my family so that I can observe my daughter and make sure that the bruises in her brain are not obstructing her thoughts.

We’re not going anywhere anytime soon. My mother-in-law is coming. Too bad she doesn’t have an income. She could have helped us out with the house, but fuck that. All of the repairs… There’s no way. We’ve both got new leases. Each of us are damned against it.

It’s hard for me to believe – where I’m currently at in life. How did I get to be such a grump? It’s the grumpiness that’s caused all of this other crap to happen. The stresses at work. I’m hardly even looking at she-who-shan’t-be-mentioned, but my question is why? The baby has changed things. I would have never taken on this much responsibility if I didn’t have a family to look after – my wife in an uber depression ever since the house blew up. I’m still testing my baby’s intelligence – holding up fingers, asking her to count, seeing if she can string words together – seeing if she touches her head.

There’s antifreeze leaking at the curb. It’s green, and it attracts pets. I want to let my dog go and see what he does. He’s been sitting so annoyingly on the couch, staring at us, this bulge, like his belly or his balls, could bubble up and bleed. Little asshole, serves him right. Do you know how many times we’ve tried to save this kid, but I’m not innocent. I’ve got such a temper on me. Calling the cops would do me right the fuck in. Dragging his limp body across the cement, just like how I’ll do to my daughter – and the daughter down the street. Bound to get me shot is what it’s going to do. Cops love dogs and so do most people. Look at what it did to the John Wick franchise: a murder of trained killers. I’m just a pudgy queer wanting to be a woman so badly these days. No wonder my wife goes and stabs me the way that she does. Serves me right. She was doing us all a favor. My gut spilling out into the kitchen, in my daughter’s eyes, shooting from my mouth, hers wide open, receiving.

They’re everywhere. They’ve infiltrated my home, my mind, my computer, work. I could let it all go and be whisked away into a fairy tale. It’s so scary, I say, talking about my mother-in-law who is moving in next to us. I’ve got to get the time off. I’ve got to be of assistance. I’ve got to try and acquire some boxes. My boss wants them though too. He’s planning a big move himself.

He’s losing his mind, that’s what one of my coworkers said. I don’t want to be too gossipy, but the way he yells at me – in public, over email to all of my friends, I tried talking to my wife about it but almost got hit again. I was bumbling over my words, talking about how she’s my angel, how the baby’s the only thing that makes sense in my life anymore, that I’m doing it all for them, that I could take the company down with my departure. Other employees would leave. The pressure would be too great without me.

That’s what I was trying to express, but it was just another one of those famous declarations that doesn’t go anywhere. Still it is that I am at my job, working into the night, working longer than usual shifts to appease archaeologists and no-name poets who are getting more applause than I ever may because I’m here on the train, riding to and fro, another cog, not even in the field – nobody.

They seem to know that I’m scheming against my boss, all of these archaeologists. It’s his name on the storefront. I’m just running the place. I’ve got my hand in enough pots now to steer the ship to my whim, bring in my favorite friends – my publisher, my wife, my therapist, piper, and galaxim.

Don’t forget D’urban, shouts someone in the crowd. And Atticus! shouts someone else.

It’s not a real list. I say. You know that I don’t love my publisher. I have no publisher! I’m a lone ronin, once again, as ever and always.