Musette falls victim to the sickness.

How do you know if you have strep? She asks. Do you think you had it?

I thought I might have had it, but there was no way to be sure. I thought I might have died, but did not.

She takes Dayquil.

And put some in your purse. I say, as she is going out the door.

She is on her way to a Pacifica pop up shop.

Today is the last day! she said.


She took the extra twenty dollars we had pulled out for my pot which ended up costing forty instead of sixty.

I’ve got allowance! she sang.


From the pop-up-shop she is getting picked up and taken to a baby shower. It is the second baby shower she has been to in a month.

How ominous. I say.

Last time she made the diaper cake and won the raffle.

At my sister’s wedding I caught the garter.

I wouldn’t have done it on purpose. Something compelled my arm. It was an automatic catch.

It was all the portent Musette needed. We were the next to get engaged.


Child rearing is in such frightful juxtaposition to this cruel and violent world.

I’m trying to follow the soul of my dressing conscious. After yesterday’s same tie fiasco, I feel it is more important than ever to be in tune. I put on some different pants, as it must also be unlucky wearing the same pants two days in a row. Wearing the same outfit two days in a row is just a bad idea altogether. It’s best to stay fresh in this life. Take it from the food family. Can’t go wrong with some fresh meat.


I end up wearing a grey hoodie. I never change my shoes. It is just something that’s not done.

I am concerned these shoes are too designer to last a very long time.

They fit my current incarnation perfectly.

They will probably wear out around the same time as my new favorite shirts.


And there we go, just like that, magic boy wonder, making miracles with the flick of his wrist, his  power shimmering over his beer lip, below his bald scalp. Ties wrapped around their necks like crookshanks to the stars. Something hotland charcuterie said got me thinking it was a beach of poverty watching you from the strands of chanel 42. The red light flicking against his face like a recorder taking snapshots over and over again, even though the light was green, with Major robinson, and the attractive man, looking at garza number Tuxen for over three minutes straight, without a word of release from either side, as though there were some sort of major malfunction with your chromecast, causing it to run exceptionally, if not astoundingly laggy.

Satan’s kingdom crumbling beneath the hot light of God’s resurrection. Don’t get me wrong, with the way you were saluting his white bread over easy, those girls started looking at you Mr Nice Leg’s McWhiskers, dancing over there in the warm bowl of the sink. Good old people giving you the way your lighting should have looked for christsakes, not being able to wear the same tie two days in a row because it’s bad luck; which is what I wish I had known before donning the same tie I wore yesterday when picking up the pot. No wonder Sven gave me such a weird look. Just keep your head up mr mosquito biter. The reason for mistakes is to prepare us for the future rewards of God, as I said.

Gotta get your demonology back up to Paris state. You’re feeling the right way of lighting through life without your priorities straight. Keeping it on track with the burning sensation of a throw-back-Thursday. Don’t give me that no-back-Tuesday. For the spilling of go-back-fro-days. I’ve got another coming’ back for yeas. Be the time of night for you’re on the lowdown. I haven’t got a reason for seeing my number. Don’t get the backside of a lean side growbound. Children wearing their clothes backwards, going full dandy, with their mouths in their handies. Potentially there’s no monday you haven’t seen that wasn’t spiced with morbidity. Surely there hasn’t been a day you weren’t scared to look too deeply into, for the love of Christ, the mother loving son of a bitch, who got your worrisome naughts tied up in tangles. The way the holy lord holds my motor made me think there might actually be thoughts up in his skull worth seein, and that there is nothing in the world more sincerely seen through than the art of fiction. There were two cover stories wherein the man made waves amongst the native American worry worts. The walls painted in wood plaster. The pictures of old authors, pushing the means for destruction the other way, looking like you’ve got two double barrels and a microphone; I said, two storm chasers and some microfilm. I don’t mean you’ve got to go back to the way it was, but at least don’t hold your questions for the way it might be.


I’m just waiting for that boy to show up with my drugs. One might call ‘em herbs. I’m calling ‘em already wanted and not had. I’m drinking that absolute. The only two flavors which come in the sample packs are citron and Mandrin. So that’s what I’m sipping boys and girls. I know I’ve got a large female audience. None of them have said a thing about me being piss penis this pot and pussy cunt suck it bitch. I guess they know me at spirit. They see I’m a naked boy, flailing his meat whip, spitting, and wringing his heart. You can’t get on someone’s case when you come in their room and they’re doing something like that. It ain’t the same as being invaded or bumped into on the street. He’d be a totally different boy in that situation. But Bukowski never had a radio like this: a magic radio! with all the world’s albums stored spacelessly inside his typewriter! No dj but thyself, and thy own personal Gacy, who is yelled at like, “Ok Google” and “OK Gacy”.

Oh to round that sharp edge off with a little fire and a little smooth smoke, it would offer us all a bit of heaven without feeling so much goddamn blood, like you’re some pj patient up in chopper Sanchez, flying within the golden hour, to the blue scrub room where they all look at them grunts like “It’s your game caused them come in this way! You and your digital camo! Causing children to take bullets through their brains. Causing our neurosurgeons to take cat scans and go in with big old vice jacks and special electron microscope tweezers. You’re the sons of bitches paying our bills so we can pay off our schooling.”

That’s what they’re looking down on them for.

It’s like Clive said, “School’s the next step, brother!”

That’s what they’re always telling ya.

Cause they gotta feel better about themselves. Standing on credit reports. Loan letters. Lettermen lessons. little round glasses. And them caps which have unbiased logos on them. Blurred out for television just fine the way they are.

He’s on his way. Ten minutes out. “The wife’s still not in.” I say. “Should be fine to come right up. But of course, I’ll meet you at the door.”

My album is almost over. I had wanted it to be playing when Sven got here. It is such a good album. I am not feeling lucky. But I should probably hit the “I’m feeling Lucky.” button anyways. Because what else am I supposed to do? Play an album I have already heard, just to impress somebody? that would take away the magic of the album for myself. and that is unacceptable. “The ball’s in your court, Gacy.” I say. “Do not let me down, my sweet angel. What have I ever done to you? Now is not the time for nervousness. This is a first impression moment. Rarely do I let coworkers into my home. You can do it my baby. I love you.”

I have to be feeling lucky. I have to be feeling lucky. I don’t have a choice.

Turns up he doesn’t even come up.

“my friend’s waiting for me in the car.” he says.

We make the tradeoff right there on the sidewalk outside my building.

“How much do I owe You?” I ask.

Forty. He says.

I pull out my wallet. He’s holding the pot in his hand.

He says, “Ah, what a cute driver’s license picture.”

I say, “Ah, thanks.” and hand him the forty.

‘Such a good deal…’ I think. ‘Is he just being nice?’

Oh well; it is my hand.

I go back upstairs. The last song on my new favorite album is still playing. I open the bag. The stuff is densely connected to branches. It is brownish green. But it smells like the pot I remember. It’s got little crystals on it. ‘Oh Sven, please have given me the good stuff. Because I am with you, and we are ok. And we should strive for each others’ respect. And had you come up I would have shown you all my great stuff. My great music. My great bookshelf. I may have even shown you the book I wrote. “Oh, I wrote that.” I would say. Or, “Do you want to see the book I wrote.” Oh, it would have been so great. I could have won so much of your respect. If you had only seen my home. The deeper part of me. I’m a married man. My wife ain’t home yet. I do these youngster, illegal things in secret; because I’m still hip. I’m still cool Sven. “Just let me let you into my life.”

The art of the fugue plays over the speakers. Could this even be possible with Spotify? I want to be the type of person who looks like a saint in your eyes, but do you see an aura, or just a low down sludge? Because isn’t all art trash? Oh god’s touch in my special place. He’s revealing my own specialness to his species. The speechless. They go on crying. They go on saying, “You are saying the things I’m saying in my heart.” If it wasn’t for Paris I wouldn’t be showing you such magnificent melody. If it wasn’t for the million free shots of Absolute it wouldn’t be possible. If I hadn’t had those three different variations of the same Scotch whiskey, I wouldn’t be happy. The music I’m hearing over the speakers is the same music I am playing over the keyboard. There is a symbiotic relationship with the dream. Keep those folks in motivation land. That was the job of Glenn Gould and now it is yours. It’s so much better over Google Play. Palpable the difference. Gerhardt making it all come forth. Gershwin bringing us the rhapsody. Gotta get with those good times. Gotta get on the bandwagon before the bandwagon has left the station. Gotta look up in the sky and see the aliens before we are even capable of seeing them. Gotta look up in the sky and see the future being created by the core of us always without us even knowing it. Don’t put the headphones on. Don’t heat your head up without a release. Just let the neighbors deal with it a little longer. That’s why you bought the nice computer speakers, isn’t it? That’s why you’re getting the pot delivered to your home in only a matter of minutes, isn’t it? What’s it all for if not that tingle in your dick tip? Clit vibrations if you’re a girl. And by a girl I mean the kind of girl whose clitoral peak has peeked from beneath its hood, meeting your fingertip with its warm rubbing jelly for the throbbing bald mountain. That white, round globule of strobing sensation; that barrel baritone; that magic metronome; that clicking clacking hitting back and forth the corn cob spears. You know the kind I’m talking about. The kind which makes the ink well spout. The kind which drives the maniac to heaven. The kind which drives the homeless person to spout her holy water of old tossed out soda pop against the curb, against your face; that holy place she’ll never see, her teeth so rotten to the core, it’s making Satan scared.

Google is making an attempt at not only taking over the entire web but the world, and I am not making a strong enough attempt at keeping myself separate from that. They are spreading themselves thinner than any empire and if they are to fall, now is the time. They were meant to be search software, and they are spreading into cars and homes. They will make sure many things cost many things, and monopolies are more expensive. Protesters are yelling at us against them but it is inconvenient to listen. For net neutrality to exist it is the job of the consumer to choose more than google now. The only problem is, the revolt of the angels always fails. And when it fails the angels are left in a Hell worse than the one submitted to: one wherein their music is erased, their documents destroyed, their maps anihalated, etc.

My radio’s always like, “I think you’d like ‘this’ ‘this’ and ‘this’

And I’m always like, “What does it matter? Is there even a point to life?”

The Paris pieces just rolling from one moment to the next, using the albums worth of photos to help me through the process.

What the fuck is Sherry? I ask, reading the label of my scotch bottle.

Everyone kept asking me, “How am I supposed to make it in alt-lit without you?”

and I said, “You’re not.”

Everyone’s always asking me, “What does the famous author’s life look like?”

And I respond, “Well, just like yours, only so much better, in such unexplainable ways.”

Musette calls. She’s like, are you hungry? And I’m like, I’m always hungry. She’s like, don’t bring Charleston with you to pick me up then. But I’m like, he’s crying. so she’s like, ok, bring him then. I’ll just go in and get something. And I was like, Ok.


Make things as easy as you can because there’s no reason for life to be hard.

Google realizes there’s more to the world than the United States.

Scotch and Espresso = the food pyramid.

I wonder if Elliott Smith would dislike always being grouped with Conor Oberst.

Army patients, happy to be injured; playing the game victim style.

They are so powerful, but it does not mean they are good.


Musette tells me her throat has started to hurt. And then her nose starts running. I have a large bump on my neck. When I try popping it, blood comes out.

She wants to get in the bath.

“I think it might help me feel better.” She says. “Do you want to get in with me?” She asks.

“You want to take a bath?” I ask.

It’s one o clock am.