* * *

I'm gonna kick your ass! I'm gonna make you eat dirt! I'm gonna embarrass you in front of your friends! I'm gonna make your friends question their loyalty to you! I'm gonna shittalk you when you're not around! I'm gonna make them doubt you! Doubt your strengths! Doubt your own loyalty! I'm gonna undermine you professionally! I'm gonna call your dad! I'm gonna make him upset with you! I'm gonna make him want to kick your ass!

I'm not joking! Prepare to get fucked up! Prepare for pain! For disaster! Despair! Intolerable ennui! Because it's fucking coming! For you!

...Thus ended the monologue in my brain. Well, better to say it in there than to say it out loud. Instead, I just looked blankly at Someone’s Child.

“Are all adults as dumb and smelly as you and my dad?” asked Someone’s Child.

“Probably not,” I said. I handed the kid his receipt and watched as he walked away, out the door of the Rite Aid. That little shit bought the last pack of Reese’s, too. There went my one potential source of break-time bliss.

Only 4 hours to go.

My friend Jim helped me buy my first real bicycle. It was a racing bicycle, Falcon was the brand, British, and I could hold it aloft with my pinky. Jim was cool. His sister Judy was his twin, and we both worked at Exxon that summer in the Supply-Side Economics department. This is back when cafeterias had yogurt machines with topping bars. Judy and I worked as secretaries. We were slim and didn't need to wear bras. Two people in our department had the last name King, and one guy's last name was Bloking. He was the one having the outrageous affairs. Jim taught me how to fix a flat. He helped me pick out a little kit that fit neatly under the slender seat. The few times I rode without Jim, cars would often pull ahead of me and slow down, and the drivers tell me I was beautiful. This would happen on barren stretches and was not good. One time, on my way into the Santa Fe hair salon, the phone rang as soon as I picked up a magazine and the receptionist told me the call was for me. This was before cell phones. A businessman in the parking lot had seen me walk in and wanted to ask me out to dinner. Jim and I rode together in the Five-Borough Bike Tour in New York City. It was great fun, I was smart enough to wear sanitary napkins for cushioning, but I still felt like I was gang-banged by a rugby team when it was over.

jim told me he heard i was unhappy. to let go. well he grabbed me and put me down and washroom porcelain dug into my back. cold as arctic water. i asked him who told him i was sad. he said it was my eyes. but i hide behind my eyes like brides behind veils. can't tell shit about me. well there was no getting him off me so i had to get him off. that afternoon i traded the bike for some benzos and hit the road.

you can pay your way with benzos but its a bad idea. dude took like 30 mexazolams and decided he'd better things to do than obey speed limits. he told me he wasn't shipping anything heavy. told me with a wink straight out of a horror pulp comic so when the cops got on his back i knew it was a bad scene. thought about pinning the mexalozams on him. he could drive, though. that pavement so worn out and cracked it was like the surface of the moon. blazing pile-ups in his wake like a vapour trail. straight down the lane like a pinball.

we got a motel room near los alamos. dude tried to put the moves on but the mexazolams caught up with him. he flopped into bed with a grunt. collapse of headboard into splinter strewn black hole. he died choking on puke in his sleep. i took what was left of the benzos and his keys and went to open up the truck.

I am back in that truck, the tanker truck. I have to climb up and there’s my guy, you know in a Mack vest and grimy hat. His name is Jimmy something. Jimmy Stick. Jimmy Gimme. Jimmy Cash. All these Jimmys. This is the James of Driving. He never popped a balloon. He says I want to look at you you do the driving. it’s a nine-speed transmission. He mimes what to do. He has a super-long coke nail like fucking Grandpa Joe. There’s a gear shift lever, so I start low and flip it up as we cruise. The tanker has a lot of weight, it’s full like a terror plane, so I have to start low to slug it up the ramps. I have to learn how to double-clutch. I need to keep moving. Ol’ Jimmy says slow down sis. You take your time with this. This ain’t none race. We're gonna ride this rust bucket with an open spigot from coast to coast, over and over until there is nothing left to drip onto the causeways, highways, Greyhound flyways. You keep driving, Penguin Fingers, till Jimmy says Bingo. This is all you need to know about waste management.

So we get to the recycling center and right away I can see they've got some kind of scam going. People pull up with a couple sacks of cans, and they're getting, like, hundreds of dollars in cash. There's no way those cans are worth that much. And they are all driving Buicks. Someone grabs me from behind and tosses me onto the conveyor belt. I'm heading up onto a high conveyor belt, passing under an intense ultraviolet light, and rolling with the cans down a hug chute. A sorter is pulling larger material out of the stream. "Go left, go left, I hear someone shout and I leap for the other belt, just in time to watch the smaller bits drown in a pool of molten metal. But I don't have time to think about that fate. I've got to face my own as the sound of gears becomes louder and louder.

I realize that I'm glitching. Everything is repeating. I can't get off this assembly line. I'll go around and around this recycling plant forever, unless I cam get a call out. Cell service is blocked except for a few second when I pass under the skylight.

Under the skylight the call connects and then nothing. My hand becomes the phone. My legs become the conveyor belt. My eyes the gears wheeling around. And everything as nothing in my becoming.

Click.

"Hello hello hello?" The voice on the other end is not mine. "Who's calling?"

nothing makes you think of bones, of standing on top of them. the names, hewn at delicate angles from the slate. the slate slouched from time in the overgrowth. nothing makes you think of sloping, of careening down a hill, propelled by angles.

nothing makes you think of salvaging what counts, is of some indelible value to your memory. a smell. nothing makes you think of soft of sweet of floral steeped in rain. nothing makes you think of how a distant forest fire singes a july sky. nothing makes you think of blue far from the bay. of a bright, sandy, mountain yellow.

i get all of my linen from belarus

i get all of my linen from belarus
i get all of my linen from belarus

Between the rider and the spruce forest is the sound of the horse stepping in thick mud.

Between the rider and the sound of the horse stepping in thick mud is the spruce forest.

the group mind heart beats for the void-womb. is she dead or alive because they will take her child away. will she feel it? gender is a spectre that haunts our wyrds. is it at all possible for you to love me? shards of lotus-amethyst scattered across the group mind like tripwire. she beat me but i still feel for her. toxic thoughts to enter the group-mind as i vanish into the bright light of the forest-cloud.

i miss my friends but there's no going back. the loam bears the weight of the tathagata but i wish i had broken your heart instead. i cant carry this weight. i smile to myself as i wander dead asphalt. i'm worried that my final form is a̶̻̼̓͒͌͆̌̀͑̎͌̍̕͝ ̶̝͎̜̜͇̬͐̐̀̈̈́̿̽̈̅͝͝h̸͙̬̦̻͇̫͍̯̊́̊̽̚͝ẽ̷͓͖͖̪̩̣͙̂̽͜ą̵̡͓̩̱̲̳͉̪͔̯͉͉̎͋̉͊̀ͅv̷̡̮̼̤̘̲̥͕̬̻̭̀̂̀̏̓͜y̴̢̤̼͖̽̃͑̐̉̈́͛ ̴̧̭͙̄̓̊̆̑͛͋͝͝h̶͖̮͖̹͎̽́̾̽͜͝ę̵͇͓̘͙̪̼̠̖̗̳̳̜̞̓̎̂͒͌̎̈́̅̈́̀̆͗̄á̶̢̨̤̭̗̘͉̗̩̻͋̽͛̈́͑͆̊̀̕͜ͅṟ̶͊̌̊̈́̆͛̐̓͛̈́̃́̎̈́̚t̷̢̛̺̞͚̺̠̘̹̺̼̠̃͗̌̄̈́̔̓̾̈́̓͛͐͝

if you'd talk to me again i'd - liminal- phone angels wing us to stars - moon in pisces - the hatred stirs- we need to win - broken spirits lace our lungs - hauntology could save us but you're playing - corvids never trusted us. if you talked to me again i'd grovel at your feet. past the light............... broken silence, echoes of what we were. well, i still love you and we are growing older. we all die alone but i want to die alone with you. dewdrops coat grassblades, glisten like rubies in flares of mist. i am drowning.


i miss my friends bheart instead. is a̶̻̼̓͒͌͆̌̀͑̎͌̍̕͝ ̶̝͎̜̜͇̬͐̐̀̈̈́̿̽̈̅͝͝h̸͙̬̦̻͇̫͍̯̊́̊̽̚͝ẽ̷͓͖͖̪̩̣͙̂̽͜ą̵̡͓̩̱̲̳͉̪͔̯͉͉̎͋̉͊̀ͅv̷̡̮̼̤̘̲̥͕̬̻̭̀̂̀̏̓͜y̴̢̤̼͖̽̃͑̐̉̈́͛ ̴̧̭͙̄̓̊̆̑͛͋͝͝h̶͖̮͖̹͎̽́̾̽͜͝ę̵͇͓̘͙̪̼̠̖̗̳̳̜̞̓̎̂͒͌̎̈́̅̈́̀̆͗̄á̶̢̨̤̭̗̘͉̗̩̻͋̽͛̈́͑͆̊̀̕͜ͅṟ̶͊̌̊̈́̆͛̐̓͛̈́̃́̎̈́̚t̷̢̛̺̞͚̺̠̘̹̺̼̠̃͗̌̄̈́̔̓̾̈́̓͛͐͝is a̶̻̼̓͒͌͆̌̀͑̎͌̍̕͝ ̶̝͎̜̜͇̬͐̐̀̈̈́̿̽̈̅͝͝h̸͙̬̦̻͇̫͍̯̊́̊̽̚͝ẽ̷͓͖͖̪̩̣͙̂̽͜ą̵̡͓̩̱̲̳͉̪͔̯͉͉̎͋̉͊̀ͅṟ̶͊̌̊̈́̆͛̐̓͛̈́̃́̎̈́̚t̷̢̛̺̞͚̺̠̘̹̺̼̠̃͗̌̄̈́̔̓̾̈́̓͛͐͝is a̶̻̼̓͒͌͆̌̀͑̎͌̍̕͝ ̶̝͎̜̜͇̬͐̐̀̈̈́̿̽̈̅͝͝h̸͙̬̦̻͇̫͍̯̊́̊̽̚͝ẽ̷͓͖͖̪̩̣͙̂̽͜ą̵̡͓̩̱̲̳͉̪͔̯͉͉̎͋̉͊̀ͅv̷̡̮̼̤̘̲̥͕̬̻̭̀̂̀̏̓͜y̴̢̤̼͖̽̃͑̐̉̈́͛ ̴̧̭͙̄̓̊̆̑͛͋͝͝ ̴̧̭͙̄̓̊̆̑͛͋͝͝h̶͖̮͖̹͎̽́̾̽͜͝ę̵͇͓̘͙̪̼̠̖̗̳̳̜̞̓̎̂͒͌̎̈́̅̈́̀̆͗̄á̶̢̨̤̭̗̘͉̗̩̻͋̽͛̈́͑͆̊̀̕͜ͅṟ̶͊̌̊̈́̆͛̐̓͛̈́̃́̎̈́̚t̷̢̛̺̞͚̺̠̘̹̺̼̠̃͗̌̄̈́̔̓̾̈́̓͛͐͝is

A wet cough. And you mute sodden beast.

I am still searching for that empty space in the road. That's the space your brick came from. What a mighty brick recipe it was. The brick maker died and took the recipe with him. Not a single crack or chip in a single brick on this whole stupid street. No brick maker ever outdid the guy. There should be a space here, but I can't find it. You created that space. That void. Like the origin of zero. The tally rock removed and the divot left in the sand. You created that space when you removed the brick and you threw it at my parents' house. The window exploded and the brick cracked my head open. You created me. You snapped my knees to the floor. You created my pained undulation on the carpet. One leg repeatedly kicked the couch. One hand reached for nothing. I dragged and kicked outside with the sun beating down on the gash in my head and brick road. One uneasy step after the next. Shutter to one side. Almost fell. Shutter to another. Fall. Crawl. Scraped knees. With each reach and pull my shirt cuffs scooped the dirt and glass off the road for the street sweeper guy. You're welcome. I will find that space. I will see that void.