April

It’s 4:20. I scraped my pipe, but there were smooth, shiny pieces that came out, which I thought might be glass, so I decided to treat myself to not inhaling, and I dumped the resin in the trash, but then I went out onto my porch and lit the empty pipe, heating it like a stove, causing a little bit of smoke to come out, which got me a little high.

Everything I do is for the good of the people. I don’t know who I am without you. I don’t see you as people though. Everything I do is for the grace of God. I see you as an extension of the holy ghost. You are the voices in my head outside of it. The legion. The one that I have been talking to my whole life. I’ve gone over this: you are the voice in the woods and at the top of the stairs. I wouldn’t call you the thing that pushes the closet door open, or the thing that hides in my hanging robe. You have always stood with me, watching when that shows, helping me through and giving me a hole to shovel myself into.

Everything brings a spirit with it. Life is full of them even in the emptiness. The less I sleep, the more anchored I become within the realm wherein I can perceive them. I keep asking how I can go on here, within this pressurized desert, and every day I keep on going. Life is mysterious like that. Power fountains from adversity. Have faith in the lord when you lose faith in yourself. What have you got to lose?

You have got nothing to lose unless you surrender to the darkness. But by then you are already lost in the sense that you are found being carried by a clipper becoming the tumor of yourself which dangles on clamping youth and feeling, the collapsers collapsed beneath life.

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My wife wakes up from the couch after twelve. She’s distressed. Her stomach is in her hands. It’s hurting. I walk her to the bathroom and rub it for her while she pees. The stream is closer to my face than I’m comfortable with. I’m worried that I’ll have to wash my robe.

I lay my wife into bed and rub her stomach for less than five minutes more before standing up and making my way out onto the porch. My atomizer has gone bad. It tastes like burnt steel. The worry is that one, if not all three, of my batteries are going to blast out and implant themselves into my skull after blowing off my fingers.

I re enter the apartment and continue working on my website. Twenty minutes in and my wife is rocking around, moaning. I’ve got my headphones in, so it takes me a while to notice. Once I do, I go over to the bed, and she tells me that she is experiencing sharp pains.

It feels like I’m hungry, but I’m not hungry, she says.

She has me turn her over. I do it as slowly as I can, but I could go slower. I’m trying to avoid her pulling me into bed. I still haven’t masturbated. Masturbating in the bed is out of the question. Musette is too sensitive to movement right now. I need to escape. 

The outside world is a cold, dark place. It’s questionable what keeps the lights on. After staying ahead of the clippers for three quarters, we were overtaken and sent into a loss. It was the first time the playoffs had come home in over five years.

I almost, and certainly could have, cum to Kim Kardashian’s sex tape but for a loud fart, which may have been a bong rip, and which erupted right before she told Ray J to cum on her face. It was part of a soundtrack that shouldn’t have existed other than to devalue Kim. It definitely sucked my orgasm back into myself, and I had to cum to a video of two of my favorite twins competing against each other at shoving different size dildos into themselves.  

My boss has me bring twenty boxes of poetry, which he got from the old Serendipity Books, into the store so that an employee who once had my job can triage them. This former employee now runs the literature department of our state’s humanities council. He writes poetry and will be performing at an event that we have scheduled for this weekend. We had another event scheduled at a local restaurant, but they dropped the ball on publicity, and so my boss canceled the event with them, and brought it back to the shop, where it was originally scheduled to be held.

It feels like a defeat, but I know that I did more than was expected of me. I’m hoping that my boss sees that and that he doesn’t ask himself what I’m possibly good for. Should cuts need to be made, I hope that I survive. My team is losing. My city is stagnating. I have found a home within inertia. I’d say sorry but for that I don’t say that anymore. I don’t even have a computer, and I’m hanging on by a thread. Little packets of moments come through the twitter feed: chunks of time.

I’m in charge of copy. We’ve got to have the event live on our site. The littlest little thing can throw everything over the edge. Baby with the bathwater. Watch for brown paper. Watch for bubble wrap. Check your recyclables. There are diamonds in the rough.