… – bibles

April 8, 2016

bibles, are you there?

Tulpa, Tulpa

Peking doves.

Tulpa, Tulpa.

Your mission is to send dispatch. How can we save you, if you don’t send dispatch?

To fail is to be forgotten. It is to be abandoned by the lord in our audience. The light in our eyes.

Ride the yellow horse, young cowboy. Bring home the beef.

Ride the yellow horse, young beef boy. Bring us the bacon.

Old man of the Salt City sands.

Remember Guatemala. Remember the orient.

The heavy pages, weighted of steel, reinforcing the walls within your mind. Praying them apart with spiritual beasts. Guides and guardians. Medicine for the sick.

Depressed. Much too depressed. Desperate? No longer sure. Not enough. I’ve sold my soul to the family. Heart, body, and mind.

I’m tied up. I’ve got to keep them going. This apartment isn’t big enough for all of us. The food storage is spilling out into the living areas. We’re trying to keep it cool in the dark. The boy is on his way.

Pardon? I’m depressed. Very depressed. Can’t go on. Bled dry. They’ve got my ass in a vice. I’m a withered up ol’ grape. A can of spam.

You interrupted me with the way that you were breathing. The solution: the hardest part. The continuation of what’s it mean to mean something. Writing about writing. How to escape the feedback loop.

Johnson & Johnson.

Sad

I am a sad man

A sad dad

A bad dad?

Perhaps.

…

It‘s a question I keep asking myself. Ryan thinks that I’m going to hurt my family, and I watch a lot of incest porn. I’d like to think this is a cleaning. In a way that you have to look at the dirt when you’re cleaning it.

I should be writing like a maniac. This is my moment to shine. Plague town blitz. Etc.

Such great works should come from this quarantine. Lock the doors; leave the bastard inside. We’ll await what comes out, once the death has passed us by.

Not for me though. Poor me. Not for me. I’m a prisoner – in my blue duds.

I’m so frustrated. All I want is to be free. To let the wind blow through my hair.

Running full speed down the hill. Putting in the work to get up. Climbing. Gnashing my teeth. Focusing on my cousins, my father, my publisher, the young guns, the transgenders, the up-and-comers, the meth heads, the chewtards, my fairy godmother, mental patients.

Anything I can do for you, sir. Anything for a few loyal friends and lovers. A little taste of the spiritual energy, please. It’s what I need to survive. I’m an imaginary friend. What part of that don’t you get?

I exist within the head and what you feed me becomes my form. Becomes my blood. The holy sacrament. Ry Guy’s special sauce.

I’m just looking for another chance to confess. My mundane aspects bore me. We’re going archetypal. The spiritual train keeps chugging. The loyal friends and followers, down in the engine works, shoveling coal. Blowing off steam. A smile through the crook in my neck. Something to let me go to sleep and have a little peace in my life.

I can’t go onto twitter anymore. I know, it was supposed to be this season’s project. But they hate me. They do me wrong. They ignore me. It’s not a shadow ban. It’s a conscious effort. “Is it cause you’re mean?” Asks Manny. I don’t know. Figure it out. The sweet and gentle version of me has been buried beneath the bitterness. I’m just a shrively old cunt now – pissing vinegar.

It’s all social media. I can’t rise above. It’s tearing me apart! I’m blowing my brain out, trying to get on air every night. Every minute of the day. Every chance I get. Every mother loving minute…

I’m always thinking about it. Rolling around inside of my head. Scoopidy poop. I think it’s time. Plan B. Energy drips down the page, leave ‘em hanging. I always said that I was an unreliable narrator. Oh, everybody uses the term, but I am enacting my power. I have to focus on becoming a CEO. I’ve got to take the ship. My father wants my art. It’s an embarrassment to him. Not only does it remind him of what he gave away, but it also threatens the farm. If I wasn’t such a dang wreck, I’d move this show to Facebook. Bring the bacon. But then, I know they’d lock me up. Take the illusions further down. Reveal the white walls. The suicide trap. The future’s been written. Free will is an illusion. Demi-gods to the slaughter. The angels have fallen with our hands around their feet.

And here I am, just another CIA operative. Cool Kid Cam in Action. Trying to research the feelings of new enemies. Within the mausoleum of @madness. A place we never left. Burroughs’ head babbling like we’re the beats reborn. As if the forty under forty had never been written. As if my name, and your name, and his name, and their name, and all of our names hadn’t been conveniently left out. Like we didn’t make the team. Like we’re starfighter bravos, picking up the left behinds, casualties to history and its popular icons.

I am an author, dad! I say, barging into his office, the papers in my hand billowing with my steps, slamming against his death, written from atop the fridge, strokes blasting behind my eyes, tumors exploding like volcanos from the ridges of my brain.

Read it and weep. My contract with god, and your death warrant!

I come for souls upon thy ship. I walk them through the worlds. I live on veils and haunt thy sails. I’m a phantom from thine blood!

The yellow horse calls my name from the other side of sleep. All of my extremities become disconnected, latching themselves to the walls. I am more than human. I have merged with the computer God, the typewriter entity, the liquid page, the compressed scroll.

This is how we angels live. I tell him. These, our best minds of the generation. We who live as light. A dark shadow upon the face of the streaming sun.

A gentle boy. A kind soul. Haunted by demons. Trapped in the illusion of the present. Stretching into the past and future. Interdimensional senior serious. I’m just a kid. An indigo child. I’ve reached into the stars, clutched my astronomy, and chucked it to the ground. I was born the day I died. I need no more information than that. The blue skin bitch. Such a beautiful child…

I’m the dead ex-girlfriend, having lived too long upon my penis. The proper tool for getting tang. Roughing up my hands with leather. 8.5 miles a day, I walk through the desert of my body and brain. This is where my dad lives. This is foreign territory to me. I must drag his ship into the spirit realm. The virus gives me passage in the dead of night of the living breathing corporations. The traffic slows. People forget what time it is. They haven’t opened their windows. They’re afraid they’ll catch it by looking each other in the eye.

Mindless queer mentality.

Alive in my hometown.