We’re moving out the same day as one of our neighbors. The guy with the name the same as our dog’s. Charlo. That’s right. Such a sweet thing. Heart beating realy too bassy. One of Death’s little numbers. Something powering you. A subwoofer in the trunk. A special knob for turning it down. Home within the castle of sunlight through the clouds. Fire in the mountains. Temples on the hills.

He’s going to Manhattan. That’s the thing. Right into the heart of the matter. Deeper in. He and his roommate don’t get along so well. It might have been a break up. I’m not sure. It would seem like they’d been together for quite a long time, the amount of stuff he unloaded. Posters of jazz players. Colorful things. A big television. Everybody’s got to have one. Come on, just buy in. You’ve really got to try bringing it with you. My whole family believes. We all like our shows as much as the next person. Keeping things together here upon the keys.

Had to get his vehicle first though. Perhaps it was one that he owned, perhaps it was one that he borrowed from a friend. A pretty beaten up looking old thing. A mini SUV of the older variety. A thing, back in my day we used to call jeeps. The thing we’ve got now more like a station wagon. This is real Chevy Chase style of me. Taking the family on it’s annual vacation. My dad’s got some sort of assault weapon locked up in a safe down here with me. The place that I possessed so long ago. I’m the demon king of the basement. My dad thinking he’s really something, with his masks and closet grumblings. I’ve got the sitting on the tombstone writing kind of Babadook book. Staring at me from the bottom of the stairs. The same place I sat, on my knees praying for a glimpse of the holy ghost. Poppa opening the door and letting the light out of his celestial room. My sinking further into what would eventually become The Alpha Institue. The druggy duplex. Sex to the ninth degree. Archways of acid.

You could definitely say that it’s not as much as most or as many. We’ve got a baby on the way. Held one in our arms. Put our fingers in its mouth. Smiled at it because and to make it was smiling at us. Crying so much so often. The birthing release smearing up and onto her back and into the room, around the windows, around the movies, onto the windshield, splattering like machine gun fire upon our vision. The car turning. Such a trooper. We’re so proud of him. I love him so much that he’s never going to die. He’ll always be in my mind, popping up in the corners, like my dad under the bed. If I can just figure out how to get that dream world welcomed through the darkness of my mind. To reach through and find my grandpa, clasping hands within this so called Celestial Kingdom. Suicide not being the end. Machine gun blasted baby fodder through the chin. Spiritual Blood Bath. Real smooth blends of the strange and terrifying around these parts. A tornado of tomato juice. It’s just unlucky. Her momma living in a shit shod, separated from the man she still loves, sailing on the grace of his suckling guilt. Seeping onto the page. Opening the dream world. Making the darkness a matter of magic. Turning the dream into overlying reality, just in the fashion Google is implementing it into their glasses. A conflation of the world we let rule and a world that can exist within the data of dna.

Sailing shipless. Smithereens upon the street. Broken down furniture that was cheaper than Ikea and came in the mail. Whatever we could fit, being stuffed into the garage. Big boy with ma dog’s name getting tired. Climbing up and down the stairs with all that stuff. Him being one floor lower than us, and weighing quite a bit many more pounds. Sweating like a warthog. Leaning up against his jeep, taking breaks.

We’re going to make it, I tell him, skipping past, handfuls of lumber, more electronics than we should have. No mattress. That’s what I said. We made a big deal. The car can only carry so much.

Did you hear me, I said that I used to be a qualifier for the Tour De France. Me, I said. Thirty miles up and back to Kindercot. Old pap going down there even today. Building some real big things for the world. Such a badass, to tell you the truth. My birthright here before my eyes, and all I want is a bowl of soup, if that’s what they’re still calling it these days. Horse splatter into the va jay jay of some kind of twisted sister, my wife, a twin. The other one suckling so much from her umbilical cord of guilt. The blood was on her hands said the nigger saying cop, in conversation with his coworker. Blood on his hands as well. It’s simply the Neegan way. All of us have got it. It’s running down the screen, the blood of McBeth. Our own very vision. It happens to the best of us. My grandma in the old folks home, missing her minutes, getting lost on the commute to my mother’s. I don’t think that she’s going to live forever. One of the last to miss the boat. Last passengers within the Celestial ride. I’ll probably lose my sister too. And all because I didn’t want to talk to some dude about my masturbation habits. Can you believe it, dudes?

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