… – bibles
January 14, 2016
A prisoner still knocks the walls of my approaching father’s office. The staff has departed. The law of masks has been dropped. “Don’t take things so seriously.” says my dad, and I tell him that he’s going to die.
This is cellblock writer’s block. Death row, sentenced to rebirth, but I don’t want to die. The channel is in trouble. I’d do anything to save my soul. My primary competition at the moment, my father and the cloud of little idols, dancing and laughing from shrouded towers. Oh, how I want to let go and join them. If I only could, but God did grant me with this talent. I’m simply not a nobody, I’m simply somebody having a mental breakdown.
Truth of the matter is, I don’t know where I stand. Sitting here, thinking while the world turns. You all are locked up in your little boxes. Solitary confinement. I, however, on the other hand, am out in the labor camps, working my ass off, burning 768 calories a day. Walk eight miles in my shoes. They’ve got steel toes.
It’s extra weight training. My knees crackling as the cartilage wears away. My dad’s had about enough of my shit as I approach closer his chambers. The jets flying over. He’d wanted to be a pilot but was rejected.
My mom is there too. This is a family affair. They are my sister’s circle, and I can’t escape my work. Can’t escape the virus with kids. They don’t understand not to touch their face. Not to take their mask off. Another one on the way. Is this the worst decision of my life, or was that the first one? Who could have known? 7-5 just to keep them fed. Get them out of this apartment and into a house. If my parents can do it, and my sister, and the meth head from back in school – then why can’t I? I scrimp and save. I have a decent paying job. I’m in the stock market. I’m a white cis male. All the balls are in my court. What’s keeping me from success?
I am transgender. I am queer. I am fluid. I am neutral chaos.
I am just a visitor. A passer-through. Taking record. A peeking dove, watching and writing.
“No, bibles, no. You’re the hero of this story. Our Dean Moriarty. Keep us fed with your wild antics. Keep tossing the hammer.”
Put on a show tune. Show us your face.
“They’ll bleed you dry, bibles. Just with their very existence. Humans are predators. They can’t help what they are.”
The hours are longer. I never mean to shun anyone. The hours are simply longer. They’re taking more out of me. The demands have increased and are increasing. Body, soul, and mind. Time is of the essence. They are aware that I am a time lord.
The father’s forces.
The steel battalion.
Fighter jets overhead.
“Will you work Saturday?” they ask.
Sledge hammer Saturday, they call it.
The boys and I.
Weekends are for pussies.
Demons come in. Princes, rulers, whatever…
Representatives from corporate.
I am the prince
“Welcome home, Cameron.” they say.
Don’t let those others take your throne.
I am a labor candidate.
Rise up, oh cursed, wretched souls.
We can take down the beast, this boss I cannot shake.
I am of his flesh and from his flesh.
They’re here to stop me from writing. It is my sacred song.
It is the key to my salvation.
I can’t be heard calling out from these depths. The transmissions are hardly coming through. Very much cutting out. This is a smuggle struggle. I’m one of God’s children. A Peking dove, participating in another case. Sending the files across. Don’t call it a sequel. I’m more experienced than that. I ain’t no corny hoe. I’m a real one. Been round since before you were even thinking you could do something like I’ve done.
Let it go… Let them all go… How long do I have to suffer this nervous breakdown? This panic attack? A crumble crash once passed the line of minor recognition. All the spotlights. The comparisons. The gaslighting. Being an asshole. Being the subject of an investigation. Having blocked it out. The results were unfavorable. My legacy. Not publicly executed. Locked up. Thrown down. The prison that I’ve been constructing. What’s to keep these monsters at bay when the light goes out? Look at the streets overflowing. The monsters have risen to the surface. I’m still down here, digging tunnels.
I’m liquid. I’m wrecked. My mind is mush. Something has happened to me. I’ve been underground for too long. I had a chance to be lifted up, but I blew it. I’m too moralistic. I’m too pure. I’m a real one. Real ones cry, bitch. Real ones get lost, and sad, and scared. I’m not a hundred percent machismo. My lady self has not been completely buried. Here in this obliteration of bibles. Within the trash compactor. Throw me another bone, huh? What have I got to do to prove to you that I’m still the same old good kid but breathe? Huh, baby? Tell me what I’ve got to do for you, my audience, the lover of my life.
There’s too many voices. Too many people on the street. That’s what a quarantine will get you. That’s what a little touch of success gets you. At least I’m not buried beneath this wave, just shoved to the side, made fun of in secret chats, barely discussed, hardly known by the upper echelon, looked at the same way that I look at the ‘up-and-comers.’ Bitch, that ain’t me. I’m an original. A prime feature in the alt-lit community. Sure, I didn’t socialize, but why should that be a requirement? I’m still a forty likely to die before forty. I’m still a super star, people just don’t know it yet.
I’m a real one, I say. I’m a real one. I’m a real one. I’m a real one.