I have been being butchered in this city, this period of time that I’m living in, this pocket of presence. I knew that it was coming, but how could I have predicted this? It’s so necessary, however, the scalpling up of your skin sheath, the dicing up of your minced meat, in order to find those little tumor bits and pluck them out like strawberry seeds.

Gods don’t die, but they can be poisoned. I’ve seen it before. That balding head of mine. Back then when I had to finish that tangible product. The ol’ QVC bestseller, what all those hours spent watching Shark Tank are for. Something I can stuff into a suitcase and port around with me like how you’ve got your porta readers here, some of those subway passengers aren’t hip to the trip, and possibly even more less so in the cultural hub that is Salt Lake City, all my counterparts sitting up in nature reserves with a rifle laid out on their knees, the first snowfall of our globally warmed season sprinkling the tarpaulin hot air balloons of their fantasies for cop killing and teenage wife wedding. Multitudes of the spirit blasting angels out the window as I stand up on that stage tapping the podium of my testimony like Moroni on the temple spire, holding up our flag, letting you know that there are still saints in these latter days, and that the castles can be ours if we read through the stones and find magic in our hats.


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