Bogie blasting through the caverns of a baby’s brain. I’m utilizing the alone time. Let them all fixate on the baby, I’m fixated on wanting them to leave me alone. I’m working on holding back my frustrations. I bang the keys. It’s like punching walls. That’s what I’ve always said.

I almost slam the bathroom drawer closed, being unable to find the something that Musette had asked me to get for her, after she had asked to use my phone, and asked for me to cream and sugar my coffee so that she could have some, and then she only had one sip because she said that was all that she wanted.

My boss says that my baby can be the new store cat. Water breaking after the bath. Could have been anything. flatlining pulse. A bag of peanut butter cups. Both families sitting out in the waiting room.

Gina, you’ve got to get in here now, I say, waving at her in my bathrobe. The head has crowned. Isn’t that just so like a bibles baby?

I’m looking down at the protrusion, wondering if it would kill it honestly to sit and commune with God a little longer? At least the holy ghost. Red headed Gabriels, telling you that they’ll be alright with Ahab because of abuse relationships they’ve had with their father and other male figures.

I am a bully, boy. I am a killer.

The spirit and the mirror: never trust those two places, especially when you’re a spirit creature.

It’s all so depressing, I say, looking at my numbers. People just aren’t into it, and of course, that’s okay. That’s their prerogative. What good is forcing your writing onto people? I’m tired of sitting around, waiting for technology to catch up with me. Just don’t like any tracks right now, regardless of how good the station is. Can you at least do that for me? Can you at least have that modicum of patience? Okay, I feel like that does have the possibility of rotting someone’s brain, I say, hopping out of my stream to get someone to check the results of a strep b test. The midwife wearing a hawaiian shirt. A khaki skirt. There’s a young black man with her. He’s a big guy. Nobody but me has seen my wife’s hemorrhoids. I don’t think that they should be underestimated. I’m worried that their presence could lead to a c-section. It’s going to kick us out of the midwifery department. They’re not surgeons. They are not capable of handling emergency situations.

We are your guardians, says the one in the Hawaiian shirt. The black boy is in training. There is another woman who comes in, asking us if we would be willing to participate in a study of woman’s pelvic floors. They take tests during the third trimester and two times after birth. They give you a fitbit that you have to turn in later. We’re not going to be providing great results if we end up having a c-section. But because we’ll be compensated, she better dang well do it.

I wake up rubbing the mattress. I’m in the middle of a wet dream. I was rubbing my penis over the top of a glass table in front of Musette and her father. I couldn’t stop just because I woke up. I had to keep going, so I wake Musette up, but whatever. I was thinking of that doctor. Her previous obgyn. The way that she crossed her ankles and lifted her feet out of her shoes, showing me the tiny socks that she wore over the bottoms of them. Measuring my wife’s stomach. The dark spot on her face: a left behind crater of a removed mole. I can imagine light blue panties with a matching bra. Speckled body. I am tearing through the mattress, working it deep from out my balls, like as though this was my first introduction to sin, edging against the bounds of innocence.

Don’t mind me, she says, I’m just organizing. She slips the side sleeper next to the bed and gets frustrated when the bag that she just got has a hard time zipping closed. It’s the things we love that annoy us most, I say, thinking of myself. She pulls a little mermaid out of the closet, and says, look babe, I guess the baby gets all of my old toys, huh?

We already have two copies of Brown Bear, Brown Bear. We got one from Kid2Kid. Kid2Kid sells toys that other babies have already used. Keep the new one, I tell Musette. Her sister got it for us, the twin, Cozette. She worked with my mom on setting up the shower. The other baby was there, my niece. I wanted to show her off to all of my in-laws. It was the first time that my mother in law and Violence had met my family. My brother in law followed me around like he didn’t trust me. I walked inside with the baby to my sister to drop her off. My brother in law followed me in. My sister was cooking something. I said, here, depositing the baby into my brother in law’s hands.

Does he read my writing? Has he read me talking about pussy moles? What did I think was going to happen? It’s a good thing that I’m having my own daughter, it’s just too bad that people can call child protective services is all I’m saying.

Babe, did you forget to flush, she asks me, coming back out of the bathroom. I ask her if she saw my poop. She says that she saw a little. It was full of corn niblets from the leftover spaghetti that I heated up last night, having had to throw half of it away because I’d heated it up right before we got into bed, and Musette was crying asking me to hold her stomach up for her as she tried falling asleep.

This is detective work. Crime noir. All about babies and psychological thrills. They ask me what currentivism is by already answering the question.

There’s a missing person advert plastered to every mailbox, street sign, and window this whole city over.

Have I gone MIA? No; not to those who know me.

How am I not myself, I ask Skinner as he’s throwing my book at me.

I’m bibles, and this is my manifesto. Dripping keys ring praise over the voice in my head which states that it doesn’t matter how hard you work because you didn’t win the golden buzzer as a nine year old, and this isn’t even currentivism.

But I’m here in real time, I say, doing what I can to get some editing done. Android apps rusting in my Chromebook, which you need to pick up, says the patriarchal spirit of need. You’ve got to keep the gears turning in your heart. The sleeper must awaken. How long do you think that coffee’s going to last, asks the monster.

I drop the phone on Catharine’s head. It lands somewhere between the big thing on her ear and the soft spot where her brain pulses. We are surrounded by sneezing children wasting bananas. The pacifier is unprotected. The stint is too large, says the doctor who took a while getting into the room. He was recommended to us by the red headed audiologist. Stunted body distracted by cars. Ear infection girl requiring ear drops. Italian mother. Terminal for signing in. Baby Musette. 2 and a half weeks till return. Keep stint on the whole time. There’s a door on it. Check that hooks are holding. Tomorrow is my wart test.

Posted in Lit

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