Can we pause this, asks Musette. Can we get in the shower so that we can meet up with her brother in law and Korean girlfriend who is practically his wife?
Can’t we just finish this, I ask, this episode of Ghost Adventures delving dangerously into demonic territory: horned shadow, black trash bags full of body parts left behind from a summoning ceremony, hundreds of chicken carcasses. Happy Easter, @bibles. Don’t u not think these things can come to pass? Chicks. They can come through the cameras, I’m tellin ya… Through the cameras, and surfacing on the screen. Streaming out the speaker grates. Over the phone and over and over and over. I mean, they’re using Skype too. Learning how to use technology. Rerouting calls. That’s what I’ve been saying. Haven’t you learned nothing from The Babadook experience? I ain’t tryin’ to tell ya, but If it’s in a look or it’s in a book – do ye really think cameras are any less powerful? Do you really think that a blog is not a book? Do you really think that a post is not a book? You could call it a poem too. Tweets also.
Don’t. Look at what they have done to the literary profession. The point being that so many books are being ripped from the roots and transplanted into this new cinematic universe, but there’s a purpose still. Don’t rule it out. We’re portraying something you can’t capture on film. Another form of that thing popping up in the doorway. Squiggling just outside of focus. Horns of the demons in the details. In the closet. A hangin and a swingin. A little hair. Corner bar. Roaches for retards in the windows with the Jews. Kids passing. Babies. Little Sailors. Staring and swinging. In the closet, meat in black trash bags. Horned creature in the closet, tucked into corners. Vulnerable. Attic ties. Basement feedings.
Fill up the schmigs, girl. Bitch, put your clothes on. We’ve gotta make a meeting. Son of Christ. Gotta get that money back. Gotta spend the holidays with family. It’s tradition. I just wish they were tokers. Beggars can’t be choosers, it’s just… why can’t we go begging someplace else? Wouldn’t the neighbors be better to spend the holiday? We could heat up somethin from the grocery store. Tit for tat. Thanksgiving Easter. Pilgrims and Indians. All the merging holidays. It’s a biproduct of modern society. We’re all after something. Got our cards on the table. Looking for a return.
Hold tight, rein bound ridwr, I say, brushing my teeth into the bathroom mirror. You’ve got a family to feed. It’s a treasure hunt. I told you that I’m looking for the holy grail. Follow me. Come along. Build the chalice with me with the blood of our Christian sweat.
Musette wearing her Easter yellow scarf. I guess I’ll put on my Hawaiian blue western. More festive than my usual green button up. Something a little different for the family.
Fill up the schmigs, and my watch on my left wrist. Wedding ring on the same hand. 22k. Ghost of some old man following me around. That’s what Easter’s all about. Ghosts, family, fear, and fun. Eating some sort of dinner. Spending money. Another train ride. Was I wrong saying that I wouldn’t return to Manhattan? Pray God, do tell.
I can do it, I say. Don’t ever tell yourself you’re not a writer.
All the Lunchables off the floor, cotton balls, tweezers from the ingrown hair I pulled out of her vagina.
I’m the first lady president she says, entering the room wearing her yellow scarf.
I ain’t going to wear it she says, feeling self-conscious suddenly.
Whatever works, babe.
Dunk the cum wads in the trash… another night of thinking of my ex girlfriends.
The same old month staring back at me from Hieronymus Bosch. The oat lives in. Stick on a moment.
Stardew vapor on the Eastern horizon.
She’s wearing the meteor that he gave her around her neck. Power of the Christ child cometh. No more Mrs president. Now she’s a goddess. Fuck the Jews.
Black ice trees on the sidewalk. The neighbors taking trash out, telling me that they went to Coney Island. Say that it was more colorful than they expected. Just opened.
Musette had wanted to see that… I say.
You should go! It’s a long train ride. Hour long. Maybe we’ll go before we leave.
Still wanting to hang out. No skin off my teeth. Musette’s the real hamper to the happening.
Shades of blue draping the scene as the meteor unclasps from her neck.
I went to bed at eight thirty this morning, I tell them.
Saks and eigths and fifths.
A couple on their phones in their Easter best.
Farewell to Hoyt-Schmiggerhorn. Farewell to the J.
A man cometh asking if it goes to Park Slope.
I’m looking at him, but I don’t know the answer even though it’s where we’re going
It does, says Musette.
He asks which stop it is.
Again, I don’t know.
Musette gives me an ugly face.
O tell the man that I don’t know that answer.
The couple in their Easter clothes says seventh Ave.
Fuck the Jews.
F stop express to Coney.
I’ll become my own train once we’re in Utah, crawling over the interstate, in my sister’s car, the blood of McBeth streaming down the windshield.
Fuck the Jews.