One long eyebrow, jutting from your face. I’ve got a special place in heaven for those who resemble me. It must be the genes though, because not everybody can hold onto those feelings. They’re fun to be around for a time, but once you’ve drained them of their vitality, they become husks of humanity, wasted upon the stage, anchored to the television, the heels of their feet, brittle and cracked. Their face never looking as good in photographs as they were hoping for. Pain in the gut. Bloodshot eyes. Sleeping through the crying coming from the bassinet. Not taking the dog out even though he’s standing there, staring at me, his hind legs shaking, full of piss, his butthole clenched, full of poo.

damnit, man – we lost everything. The whole world we created, pretty much. It’s not one of those fights where the loser is the victor, but it is one where the winner also loses.

I just want to kill this baby so bad sometimes… the sound of her hiccups makes me want to slap her repeatedly, the way her eyes are looking up into mine at six in the morning. All I can think is go the f to sleep. I want to pound her into the floor. I want to grind her into a frying pan.

My old life is calling, telling me that it is never going to call again. It has new friends, younger friends, it is done with me, and there is no point in trying. I have to accept my fate. I have to bow down and submit to it. Fighting it will only make things worse for me. I am captivated by it. I am through a door that I am now too big to fit back out of.

it’s a dichotomy. You’re doing everything you can to keep her from dying. You’re so worried about getting through the sids phase and stuff, that you want to kill her, not to get it over with, but really just because you want to bash your head against the wall, the cowards way, those who don’t commit suicide, but even that, now, the trap so set and taught, that my own death is a grave disaster upon another’s life, the life of my child, my wife. I don’t have life insurance at the moment, but suicide voids it out even should I have it. It gets you understanding these true natures of sin and what is the image of The Lord, it’s personification, the promise of a heaven, are trying to protect you from, what this creature is at its roots and naked like.


I’ve got a strained heart and a heavy head. My eyeballs have been drained into one screen followed by another. The thought of getting up and moving has me wanting to die.

I don’t care if you’re mad with me. I just want you to shut up and listen. I am the adult here. I am the parent. My new haircut, with the shaved face, has me looking like my father. I have assumed the mantle.

I will slap you for looking at me the wrong way. I will throw you down into your bassinet. I will only be causing more problems for myself in the long run, but you’ve pushed me to this point. You’ve brought it on yourself. They say that you’re too young to regulate your crying. They say that only the mothers can get post-partum depression. They don’t understand how much of an empath I am. I will take your emotions and harness them within myself, sometimes going further into them than you, sometimes being weaker than you to the point where your emotion crushes me and those around me.

Having defeated you, I deliver you to your mom, saying, we don’t have to worry about this little bitch anymore; the damage is done. Leave it to the dads to do the heavy lifting. Leave it to the men to chase you through the hedges, lighting the shining at an even earlier age than my predecessors, opening the door to a world of pain coming my way the deeper down the devil’s leg we climb, my mother in my wife’s eye, my god, it was terrible.

That’s when I am allowed to go back into my cabin. The ship shall sail straight for a second, Blackbeard’s heart upon the wheel.

Sometimes I’ve just got to escape. Her whiny voice, Musette’s, not the baby’s. The bottle feeding leads to hiccuping. There’s no way for me to be sure that I didn’t get water into the bottle. Babies aren’t supposed to drink water. They don’t have to.

Despair stands above my hunched over body. There are others that I’d rather have here besides you, I tell her, but they block me, one after another.

All of this bitching, and I forget to floss. Goals are for trolls. The angels are damned, assuming they’re not just sleeping.

Myself, I’m looking for that sweet free time, shutting Musette up in her dreams while I sneak out to my office, the backyard shed for a little bit of axe swinging. Machismo. I’m killing myself, keep on believing. I no longer have to rely on the nighttime to get work done; I no longer have to visit Twitter. I’m a lone Desperado. TVS, Loungr, and then all those who are actually living in the Zeitgeist, while I am here, a hobbled god, less powerful than all, fading into the mausoleum of my shrouded vision. The single life good and truly behind me. My only hope now, another life. A duck and dodge at death, evading both wife and child, sprinting like a chicken with its head cut off along the perfumed path of Penelope.

I am just depressed. I want to play videogames. Happiness is popping heads with my exploding bullets. Destiny. Now Destiny 2. It’s got me by the balls. The eyeballs. Bloodshot and milking them.

Too tired to have your dad come over, I say, blaming the baby. Sick of his stupid voice, the way he looks at me, the way he talks to her, the things he says, his shaky hands. He’s not innocent in all of this. I smell his crimes. He makes me sick. He’ll be here any second. Just got off work. He’s riding his bike straight here.

I just love that girl, he says.

I’ve got poop on my fingers. The baby blew out. On the floor of the chiropractor’s office. The insurance said they cover children of all ages, and then they go and charge our card $60. We were at each other’s throats. Musette had come at me about the delay in my responses to her telling me to do things, and I’d finally decided to stand up for myself and tell her to stop getting on my case about everything. And then she snapped, telling me there, in the chiropractor’s office to shut the fuck up, calling me a baby, and telling me that she only needs one. One baby. One, baby. One more thing, baby. I’m leaving you too. I’m already gone. You’ve said too many sorries. One was enough. I have dominion over you. You’ve got a pretty face. You’ve got potential that you’ll never meet. I will drain it from you. I will hold you prisoner. I will leave you alone in the dark. You will serve me, and I will never apologize to you. Silence shall be my suitor. I have said enough. I am bloat baby, the dad. My words only seem to make things worse. Most people don’t care to ask me what I do. They are too full of themselves. I will be more like them through no longer caring about them. My acerbic nature, growing. I never thought I’d come to be so bitter, but I’ve got nothing to lose. This is where we come to find freedom. This is where we come to find ourselves.

I’ve got to remain strong. I can’t let despair overpower my mind. I must drop waste. I need a cleaner cut. I am a father now. That’s all that really matters. That’s what I’m supposed to take from this moment. Everybody else is out yearning for someone. I have a wife, a child, a dog, two parents, a sibling, a niece, etc. I’ve even got a nice job. My car still runs. I’ve got the best phone on the market. I’m at home, with the air conditioner keeping my temperature regulated. I don’t get much sleep, but that’s mostly because I can’t wait to hop back into my video game.

I’m breezing through the path of least resistance here. Just letting it all hang out. Somebody will be along to clean up the mess some day, and if they don’t ever come, oh well, what do I care? This felt good doing, it touched the life of at least one other individual, and I believe that it has helped me evolve as a person. It has been my weapon in times of rage and my shoulder to cry on when I am hurt. What more could a person ask for? to hob knob and have drinks with somebody that I don’t care about? To be in the photograph of dipshit A posing next to dipshit B? Count me out.

When they tell my story, let’s have it be my story and not some peripheral biopic of another great writer of this generation.

I don’t know what jumping ship looks like. Maybe Musette will be back in the restaurant industry by that point. Maybe my boss will have a new location. Maybe the numbers here will pick up, we’ll have a robotics division, there will be agents in the field, and my book will be on the shelf somewhere.

I will be standing at the bow launching hoodies from my merch cannon, bibles and the black dot, the eclipse that saved my life, the doorway to the current, a present moment revisited.

I don’t care if it doesn’t make any sense, and I don’t care if any of it ever amounts to anything. I’m flirting with despair, but she doesn’t seem very interested, so that’s all good and well. I’ve got to keep her at bay. I’ve got to keep my distance. I’ve got success in my sights, and I’m not intending to sink. I’ve got to keep telling myself that. I’ve got to keep reminding myself. These are uncharted territories. It can get to feeling pretty lonely, especially when your crew starts to get weak, depressed, distracted, or they straight depart.

Death is the enemy, and I can’t afford to lose any more of you. It is true what they say: there is strength in numbers, and there is death in desolation. You stand to get buried beneath the desert sand. A tree falling in an empty forest, an unremembered dream.

Hold to the rod. Lean into it. Though we shake upon the winds of fortune, and the waves of days beat against our hull, every step shall be in the right direction, every word we write is gospel.

My urine looks like lemonade. I haven’t had any coffee this morning. My gut looks like a real person’s now. I am a dad.

I need to start flossing every night. I can do it, but in order to do it, I’m going to need to start brushing my teeth every night as well.

This experience of bringing a child to life has been taxing, and it has taken its toll on me, but I feel better thanks to my new haircut and shave. I went for the FBI, because it is the American version of a Nazi. But you already know that I’m on the case, just out of the woods and into another set of messes. I’ve got to be alive, active, and alert. I’ve got to be present. There is danger everywhere. We’ve got to survive. I’ve got to keep making money. That’s why I’m going in today. It’s a surprise my showing up like this. Nobody knows that I’m coming in. I kissed the wife and child goodbye. Told the dog that he’s the man of the house.

My thermos under my arm, I’m checking my hair the whole drive. I was part of the force again. I was one with the road. The traffic was backed up sixth. The construction never stops. First it’s one side, then it’s on the other, finally it’s both sides all the way down.

I’ve got to see that sweet girl, the second Musette. She’s been holding down the fort for me, taking the brunt of it from the boss. She’s there on the front line, behind the cash register, shooting down customers.

I’ve got big plans for that place. I’m ready to be a better part of the team. I’ve got to make the store my own. It’s success is my success. I’m a father now. I’ve got a family to look after. Funny to think how in two years this place is going to be a pile of rubble, says the accountant.

8:30 in the morning, I was awoken by the baby’s crying. I tried everything to get her to go back to sleep, including heating a bottle for the first time. The problem with that is that it takes so long, and the baby eventually falls back asleep, hungry and malnourished.

Musette wasn’t having any of it though. I was reawoken to a mighty wailing as she furiously smacked the baby’s back, trying to beat the demon out of the situation. Seeing that I was back awake, she deposited the baby back into my arms and fell back asleep.

I was so mad. I’m the one who’s going back to work. My six weeks off are coming to a close. My one hope though is that Musette and I will stop fighting so much once I’m not home so often. But the baby can take a bottle now, so who knows what might happen. Maybe Musette will want to go back to work. She’s the one who we spent all that money on to go to culinary school. She’s the reason we moved to New York.

There are so many of them…

Currentivism is painful but natural. It is what the desert affords, country boy. The piano set gatling down my family, causing me to come to terms with the fact that a time may come when we must leave the mountain to breathe truth into the city, for better or for worse.

There comes desperation into the eyes of those who linger in places foul afield with crinkling rot. The rolling over again into your tab. Calling them bitches when they won’t fall for your nice guy routine. Welcome to what is important. The real fight. Bottle warmer on the microwave. It’s been a month, and I’m hoping to attend the team meeting tomorrow at work.

I don’t make any promises. The meeting is at nine thirty in the morning. I’ve been waking up at around two in the afternoon and not going to sleep until around four. I need my personal time. It’s crazy how much I need my personal time, here. Calling you the audience is unfair. You’re so much more than that. What would I be without you? You are bibles. Together we are currentivism.

The other houses have nothing on us. We are not a house. We are more than a house. We are a species. We are the future. Welcome to the coyote revolution. Keep calm, meditate, and practice your mantras. We’re not out of the woods yet. Any Oasis that you’re spotting is a mirage. This is not the time for relaxing. Does this look like success to you? You are at the base of a mountain, but you are the mountain.