I have been tasked with taking six boxes of poetry to Logan.

“You can use my truck,” says my boss, but I’d rather take my car.

“Just make sure you pay yourself for gas.”

The clouds, a loaded fleet of black flurries, roll over the canyon. I’m coughing, and I’m weak, but I must go on. The double dose of Flonase that I took is doing me no favors. It has been helping with my snoring, but it failed last night, so I got kicked in the back, and my immune system fell through.

I’m achy, and I’m shaky.

“Do you have a fever?”

My vision is flashing.

“We’re almost there…”

My blasted arm serves proof that I’m willing to step up and take one for the team. I’ve been dosed with a round of whooping Tetanus. The wound is throbbing. I’m clutching it as I push apart snow flakes.

The baby is in the twenty second percentile. Lucky number twenty two. She looks out at me from the 3D ultra sound, displaying what I stand to lose.

Musette’s eyes. Musette’s nose. Musette’s face.

I thought I’d take it better. I pretend not to care. It’s gotten so serious in exactly the ways that I thought that it could but didn’t believe it would.

“Please eat.”

It’s like I have aids.

Musette takes care of me. I’m being squeezed around the heart again. I’m trying not to complain. Not out loud. I can’t stop thinking that it’s my gall bladder. I need to shut up about it around my wife.

I just went to the doctors but forgot to mention it, bringing up, however, my affinity for Sons of Baconators and how they’ve got to be better for me than the regular Baconators.

This made him laugh.

“If I had a clipboard for my favorite daily sayings,” he says “this would be at the top.”

Give the baby all of your energy. Die gracefully. My grandmother has nothing left to give. Carlton can only give so much. Obviously Musette. It’s my time to pray. So much has happened that I’ve been away from. I’m losing my grip on reality. It is slipping away in the form of monotony and routine.

I’m supposed to be posting to social media everyday. That’s what the accountant tells me. She’s upset that I didn’t respond to somebody’s Facebook message. What’s the point?


The complaints are where I start bleeding out. My spiritual energy really takes a hit. I’ve only got two Omeprazole left. I expect to be up coughing tonight, but there’s a chance I won’t be snoring.

Slowly moving through my morning, I have nothing left to give. 

There’s always more, says the voice of my preceptor. We’ve still got time. 

E-cigarette in the apartment. I am outside of it. It’s for the best. I’m not supposed to use it anymore. I have insurance signups coming back around again, not to mention the fact that it burns my throat.

My coffee falls forward into the trash can. I go back and get my e-cigarette. You could call me strong, or you could call me weak for being at work today, though I know when I’m weak and when my writing is weak. What do you want me to say, sorry? Not to you. I’m not sorry to you. I’m sorry to myself more than anything.

I call this the chase, and I’m getting tired as I’m about to land one in the hole. The defenses are against me. What has this current been but a competition, the likes of which make an event, the outcome still unknown.

But I know the pieces fit. I’ve seen them fall away. Over and over. Always riding the brinks. Crashing and cresting, still obscure in my lack of absolute success.

Girls peeing, two by two, on the street, behind cars, in the Czech republic. Heavy streams and little trickles, running off the butt, soaking into their shoes, everybody either tip toe squatting or standing like a man, pulling at their clitorises, aiming for maximum distance and the least amount of blowback. 

Golden State approaches, complaining about the nightlife here, wishing that they could be playing LA.

Musette and I have to go to Lamaze.

It’s not Lamaze, Musette says. It’s a basic birthing class.

We’re seated next to soccer fans. Musette and I are wearing our Jazz shirts. The soccer fans are wearing shirts with the soccer team on them. We’ve got two pillows with us. They’ve got cases sewn by my mother in law. One has cartoon, personified sushi, and the other’s got cartoon, personified chips and dip. The dip is being chased by the chips. It looks miserable. 

The hospital feels like a church. The small hallway at the entrance shuffles us into a small elevator. The elevator takes us to a deserted floor. Biohazard boxes litter the hallway. Soft, soothing music plays from a room down the hall. The room is full of couples just like us, on their first child, pillows on their laps. 

The teacher tells the women to massage the men. I sit in front of Musette, and she rubs my sinuses and my chest. I am trying not to cough. The last thing I want to look is sick. I’d be seen as a pariah, an enemy. I shouldn’t have come. What was I thinking? But I couldn’t abandon my wife. I’m a good husband. A good father. 

They may have lost, but we knew that was going to happen. They just couldn’t make their shots, and they weren’t taking enough of them. They knew that they were through. That last game was their chance to survive, and they didn’t. This was the moment where the enemy’s will overtook ours, and we experienced our last suffocated moments as the enemy raped our surrendered body into a corpse.

I should have stayed until the end, but I let myself leave. Gor-don Hay-ward chants filled the stadium. The fans want him to stay. I want him to stay. I don’t know what I’ll do if he leaves. I don’t know if I’ll keep watching. I’ll be devastated. I wish I would have stayed. I would have chanted with the rest of the audience. I would have liked to have been surrounded by the chant. I’m connected to Hayward at a soul level, and he is the soul of the team.

I was out on the porch vaping. There was toilet paper on my dick. It fell off and blew down into the courtyard. Both my wife’s cum and mine were on the toilet paper. Some dog will probably eat it.

Back inside, my right hand, like a relentless and bedraggled horseman, hops back on my penis and wraps its spidery limbs around the pulverised girth, taking another run at clearing my pipes, chugging into a picture that I took of my wife’s twin on the trail, in a sleeveless sports top with a pink sports bra underneath. In the background, I have a video running of a cam girl, whom I have never seen naked before today. She’s squirming around the tips people are feeding her Lush device, moaning and speaking with a Brazilian accent, the television in front of her showing a couple of shirtless hunks plunging their butts and rubbing their chests together, giving the cam girl a sunset of her own to rub into.

I should really be in bed but find myself cumming again after stumbling upon an article in Uproxx that highlights Carrie Coon. I search her name nude in an incognito video tab, and the first result is a sex scene featuring her and Justin Theroux from The Leftovers, season 01 episode 07. It’s the first time that their characters have been intimate, and there’s a moment where Justin Theroux’s character hesitates, his face being zoomed in on, a look of consternation on it as he contemplates whether or not he should proceed. His wife has separated from him to become part of a white wearing, cigarette smoking cult that doesn’t speak, and Carrie Coon’s character has been suffering through the whole series because her family was taken from her during the rapture. This is both of their first moments of moving on.

Carrie Coon releases Justin from the moment by moving up and down on his cock, causing Justin to smile, continue, fall forward into Carrie, and finish.

I have to watch the video a few times, studying its peaks and valleys, before I allow myself to cum, but even after all of my warming up, I miss the mark. Justin’s face is on the screen as I’m tensed up, jizzing, watching through the side of one eye, with my jaw locked, not wanting to look at Justin, but also not wanting to miss the primetime shot of Carrie that I’ve been saving up for.

I don’t want to be gay. Justin seems like a good guy, but I don’t want to look at him that way.

What’s so wrong with it, asks the Preceptor. You would advance if you allowed yourself to cum to both men and women, transgender, children, animals, and your relatives.

Considering the possibility, Justin becomes less than good enough for me. I know others who don’t respect him as an actor, and I’m finally seeing it for myself. There’s not much to him. He’s not worth my first gay orgasm. He’s stiff, lifeless, and dumb. I need someone who can rise me up in class as well as progressivism, someone that I’d be proud to call my own. I’m not talking about a Carrie Coon, though she’s fine. I’ve fucked myself to enough women to make each individual one not so important as the grand collective. Losing your virginity opens up a whole new can of worms. It sets a standard. You’ve got to be a little choosy when selecting your figurehead. It’s a matter of making history.

The sunlight is too bright, shining through the windshield. My wife is telling me that she wishes last night could have lasted forever. 

“Me too, sweetheart,” I say, relieved that I went to sleep at all, having little to no grip on the situation, links tugging at my penis left and right, the cum continuously refilling and puttering out of me like I am a magic car with an infinite gas tank, Herbie the Love Bug, riding again and again, fully loaded forever.  

The constant drone of a weedwacker hovers in my proximity. It isn’t a sound that I’m supposed to hear in the city. The building’s yard crew is out. Carlton is pooping on a pulled out weed that a brown skin man is hunched over on his way to pick up. 

Mr. all smiles, full of hellos is rounding the corner. He’s the grandpa on Arrested Development. I’m having a hard time choosing whether to ignore him or exaggerate effulgence. I didn’t tell you, but he came out of the elevator the other day as I was about to go up the stairs. We both had dogs. It was the first time I’d ever seen him. I was heading off to work. He was taking his dog out to the bathroom. He said hello to me, and I said “hi” back. It was a quiet “hi”, subdued in my antisocial fashion, but he looked straight at me and said, “Oh, you don’t speak.” 

I stopped, turned, looked at him and said, “What?” 

“I said hello to you,” he said “and you didn’t say anything back.”

“No, you don’t hear. I said ‘hi’ to you.” 

He laughed nervously. I turned and headed up the stairs, and he went out the front door.

After depositing Carlton into his kennel, I slung my bag over my shoulder, told Google to shut the music off, and then I left for work, popping out the back door coincidentally right in front of Mr. all smiles, full of hellos. 

I craned my neck and looked up into his face, making sure that I had his full attention, and then I waved my arm in a long arc, giving an exaggerated “WELLLL, hello there!!!” which made him giggle again in goofy injury. 

Dropping my eyes, I made my way to the car, confidently, slowly, and without looking back. 

Seeing him again, here and now, I choose to neglect paying him any attention. Any more over the top social interactions, and he wins. The whole point of going out of my way in that fashion was not to prove to him that I could but to punish him for interjecting that I should. 

I’ve got other things to deal with. Now that the situation is down in writing, I can move on. As I said, time is slipping away from me. I’ve got to catch as much of it as I can and bottle it into the book that I’ve been commissioned to write. I’ve got white supremacists waiting. Misogynists. Call us the old gods, if you want to be kind. If you want to be cruel. I like to think of myself as a fixed sign. That which is dead, still living. 

Every step an opening that I have to attack, driving the paint, shooting from far out, playing tight defense, and treating every instant like a defining moment. 

I don’t have the luxury of neglect. Musette is telling me that she’s been thinking, last night and this morning, that it might be a good idea for us to switch over to my work’s insurance earlier than we had been planning. 

Let’s just rightly assume that Gordon Hayward will be back on the team next year. How else are the Jazz supposed to remain the Jazz? What’s a man without his face? What’s a team without their heart?

You are my favorite clown, says my best friend in the form of my personal online therapist, but where’s my publicist, my agent, editor…

I don’t know what my contract looks like. It’s hard for some people to fathom why I even bother hanging around.

I’ve got to figure out if I’m on the blue plan. If their rates are the same. What hospital we’re covered under. And what needs to transpire for the transaction to take place. Last time I spoke with the agent, he’d told me that it would all happen like ships passing in the night. Now we’re trying to speed up the process, disrupt the already delicate procedure. You know, of course, that I would rather not, but it seems to me that Musette’s hormones are shifting. There’s no point arguing with her. She was practically screaming at me in the car.

The baby shifted in her belly. I’m getting pinched in the love handle by my boss. He’s saying it’s just Cameron. Normally we go down aisles that aren’t occupied by people. But it’s just Cameron. And he’s the boss. It’s how molestation happens. Assault. We’ve never had a sexual harassment course.

Going part time gives us the opportunity of opening an enrollment period, but it doesn’t have to.

My agent told me that it was my job to keep Musette working at her job until the baby’s birth.

Nobody’s got any time for the media. You’ve got to find the way into their hearts and homes. The way you present yourself makes all the difference. Becoming of the new world that you were born into and birthing is a matter of life or death in the lit scene. People look to you, o warriors of your city, we the worrying, worry about us. Worry for us and worry with us. We are walking. Talking. Driving the story forward. Driving it home. Nailing it. Don’t be scared. Try new things, and don’t be afraid to make mistakes and break a few eggs. Who’s with me? That’s the more important question than asking who’s against me – though both are relevant and revealing questions.

Blood in the toilet, but I’m okay. Survey says I’ve got a lot of years left for the living. We’re taking this birthing class, and I wish that they had ones for heart attacks and strokes.

You should be more focused on birth and life right now rather than death, says the preceptor, pointing out the pile of baby objects that we’ve got accumulating in the corner of the apartment where the Christmas tree stood just a couple of months ago, before we threw it off the porch.

Death will come, but the birth it’s taking place as we speak.

I tear a ligament rising through an orgasm I’m having to a braces clad girl sucking the dick of a dancing bear. My dad’s knee has blown out again, and it looks like he’s got elephantitis. 

You don’t have to stand to cum, says the preceptor, your prostate will be just fine pulsating prone. Don’t lose sight of McBeth, who has reentered the scene through the playoffs. You can’t make Hayward stay. You can’t hold off death forever. Injuries are bound to happen. The Lord won’t let you be invincible. It’s not even invincible. 

I’m speaking to the crowd here while emptying another Omeprazole bottle and shooting Flonase up both of my nostrils.

I got you some more snore strips, says Musette, not wanting to have to wear earplugs at night, not wanting me to keep the unborn baby awake.

Preparation is the boy scout way, and I still can’t get myself to seriously start hunting for a mother’s day present for her. 

Don’t you want the baby to survive, asks McBeth.

We just bought her new Crocs, and they already don’t fit. We only bought them, like, two days ago. She’s stomping the trash at the foot of the passenger seat. Water bottles, empty boxes of fries, crushed soda cans. 

We’re going to start nesting soon. A hormonal trigger is going to flip. I’ll have to invest in more paper bags. The recycling is sprawled out like our laundry. Once upon a time we had clean clothes. Nobody can tell they’re dirty if you don’t stink, but I can feel the grit in my armpits and in my crotch. I’m always itching at the mole that spontaneously sprouted on my penis, concerned that it might be a genital wart and that it might give me lung cancer. 

I masturbate with poop in my butt to amplify the pleasure.

It builds up, rolling over itself, turning into meatballs, and then blasting into a bloodbath. I follow up with a hemroid wipe, which I swear has horseradish on it, and I’m craving prime rib again, just like that, probably how I got into this mess in the first place, spice is nice and all that jazz, but when it’s boiling at your butthole, you might think twice. 

I’m trying to stay regular, maintain a certain sort of schedule. I could take fiber pills, but the only pill that I seem to be able to get down is Omeprazole. 

Sometimes all I can think about is fucking the frozen sister’s Golden state Curry fanatics. Celestial marriages on the plane of death. The run for cancer correction taking place on my main strip, and I’m doing everything to keep from vaping in the car. Franny told me that she read a study saying that smoking is 70% genetic, and I read something that said you shouldn’t vape in your home or your car, but I’m in gridlock, baby. Everything from the freeway is being routed into the one lane Main, and there’s no escape because of the train. 

I sit and think that I should die for my inadequacies. I’m a chaos in sonic heat. This is what I do, I say. I’m a writer, letting the poo build back up in my butt. I agree to all sex pre-examinations. Sexy fun with my kitten. Full play screenjobs. Even with the poop in my butt, I don’t need to stand. Everything always felt so much better when you were fucking my pussy, says the cutie.

In the car, I tell her that I had an idea, but that I couldn’t execute on it. I am weak, I say, without you. I have lost the ability to survive independently. I wanted it to be a surprise. A locket. Sterling silver. Petite little thing. I was going to prowl the antique shops on my lunch break, but I forgot and ended up getting a five dollar footlong instead. Tuna fish. I ate it at home, on the couch, reclining, watching HBO. I wanted to print a small version of the ultrasound, the one where baby looks like a little bean. I was going to fit it to size. “Mama’s first mother’s day”. Now look at me, an abject failure. There’s no way that I can accomplish the task in the amount of time that I have left. Mother’s day is tomorrow. I wouldn’t have gotten it done no matter how much time you gave me. I couldn’t. Not without your help. I’m dying. That’s why we’re having this baby. I’m fading into the periphery.  A watchful eye, reporting. Fingers for iris. Reporting the news to a strange crowd scattered across the Earth. Impersonal. Something for them to hold onto. A cautionary tale. Always get your wife a gift on her first mother’s day. It only happens once. You’re so worried about your first gay orgasm that you let it slip by. This is bigger than father’s day cards, but be prepared because that’s just around the corner. And let’s not even talk about your actual mother. I got her a card, but I have no idea of what to get her for a gift. She’s in Europe. I’m putting it off. I’d never do this at work. I’m more responsible there. Work is my life. Being off is death. I don’t want to do anything. Let me relax in the unrestrained freedom. I don’t even want to sleep. Death is too instantaneous in sleep. I would rather be aware of my resting than cherish it and fulfill it with life outside of work.

To tell you the truth, I like the ambiguity of my life. All the juxtaposed paragraphs. Give me more english lessons, and I’d go into deeper depths, but I’m doing the best that I can with the scraps The Lord’s given me, and I don’t have it in me to send myself back to school. It’s exactly what I mean, I tell Franny. That’s why I’m having a kid. That part of me has been transplanted. I’m going through a transmutation. I’ve taken enough acid to know that I am not the meat that you may eat, but the all of it working together a machine of the living soul. The ghost of the eternal box.

Nobody tells me anything anymore. The days go by. Latch on and let me take you through them. That’s what I’m here for. It’s what I’m good for. Give me a break. Let me tell you about the time the old man mime came in and told me that he couldn’t be offended by us. He pretended to be nothing but air. I knew that he was observing. Slipped into the periphery against his will or he’d shut up. He doesn’t have the same kind of release that I’ve got, though it’s right in front of him. He doesn’t understand that he can just let go and let that letting go evolves into a sort of class. An art.

Pass a torch this way, and let me writhe out my legacy.

You know how I get with words, says my therapist. You’re a dangerous creature bibles. Like to ride the edge a little, don’cha?

I know that some people like me, I say, clutching my fists and eyelids, walking down the cold, crisp, tree lined path in the morning.

Flash me through your pornhub glasses.

Who is going to impregnate this poor young woman?

I’ve got to start letting the world dress me. Choosy, handsy, little ass grabber. I’m starting to call slippers house shoes more often. I’m more into one source now than I was yesterday. One love. Fuck all the racism, sexism, homophobic, homoerotic bull crap. Don’t be scared of the homeless youth, and don’t make fun of the Mormon youth. You are neither right nor left. None of us know who we truly are, and I’m no exception. I may be exceptional, but I’m no exception. I get no exemptions. My back hurts like the rest of ours. I have a hard time getting off the couch. I submit to my wife’s request couched demands. I’m a pussy. I’m a bully. I’m going to be a bad dad, but that doesn’t make me a bad guy. It’s all in your mind, son. The light’s playing tricks on your mind, girl. Check yourself before you wreck yourself. We’re all slated to die, but it doesn’t mean that it’s going to happen. These are the best of times, they’re the worst of times. Consider yourself lucky.

It’s too bad cyber attacks exist. Ransomware is a terrible meme. I’ll pray for you while worrying about myself. Thank goodness I don’t have Windows. Times like these, it’s good to be innovative.

I intend to liberate myself, and I’m bringing literature with me. We are one and the same. You pay me one dollar a month, I’ll send you a post of your choosing quarterly, signed. Five dollars gets you the year’s worth of writing in book form. 25 dollars, and I’ll read in a location of your choosing. We can even hang out, because audience is power.

The gods need worship, and money is sustenance. We want to live free. Die if we have to. Die when we want.