It seems like forever since I last took this walk. Down now I go the hill I climbed so many months ago. The Flushing church, the Broadway bridge. Gyros at midpoint. Sublease down the street.

It was light when I came in, and now it’s dark.

The two nugs in my pocket jingling against my phone. A marking for my mugging. Cops and crooks onto the skunk and his prize. Hordes of children banging the rutter through the storefront, fall into my past. Away as I slip into the Jews of home, the portal opening, away as I slip from this city, the pinnacle of success. Moloch, trash on the streets. Moloch, such high rent. Moloch, rats and roaches. Moloch, the storefront closed, the movement on the move.   

Paris are you there? Future after home, a home more home than any other.

Moloch to Mormons, the Jews a fond farewell.

So this is goodbye.

If I could have my family with me forever wherever, I would. I would stay. The steel front churning me closer into its revenge, holding them all hostage, my father’s surrogate dream, pulling me in to quell the spark that I now still carry.

Away as I slip into my thirties. Hold tight rein bound rider.

You’ve made your bed, says my dad. And we threw it to the curb. I was twenty three when I had you, a man now, or so they tell me. Still playing Peter Pan though, I see. I’ve got Hook here on the line still if you want it, patiently awaiting your loss of limb.

Keep the beams out of my eye, I say. I’m still trying to fly, and doing it already. Because trying is flying, Dad. Away as I slip into my mind, coloring the world more to my making.

It’s an underground railroad, Dad, because this home is no home of mine, because I have no home. But I’m still just wanting to touch whatever there is left of you. You are fading and changing. Since we last spoke, you are so new and changing still.

The blood of McBeth streaming down the windshield. Sanders takes another hit. Arizona streaming down the neighborhood. Affiliation discombobulated.

The gray hairs are like the crown of our family, aren’t they Dad? Moloch, such authoritarian rule. Moloch, the man of the house. We are all wounded kings, aren’t we Dad? But are you hungry like I’m hungry, and we’re running out of food, and I’ll take the soup if you’ve got it because I don’t want the shop.

We’ll see, he says. Your have only just begun your family.

The text comes as I’ve got a pot of coffee brewing. Already good to go, just got to be poured. Sure, I’ll be right over, I say. And I’ll bring the dog, who I go and get part way through the first part of our chat. If you want some, I’ve definitely got enough for both of us. If you maybe have your own mug, that would probably be best. I might have another one lying around somewhere, but I brought my own. I don’t know if you take cream and sugar or anything, but I didn’t bring any. I could easily get some though. I don’t think Musette would notice my comings and goings. She is a good sleeper. I appreciate her talents in that regard.

No, sit, he says, motioning me to a couch.

That’s pretty cool, him having that here, or should I say them?

Stacy’s not here right now, if that’s what you’re getting at.

Yes, of course. And where is she, if I might ask?

Sitting a dog for a few days.

You’re telling me that she is away, gone at somebody’s house, watching their dog?

Yes. It’s something that we do sometimes. I did it a few weeks ago. My dog was a shit. Her dog is much better than mine was.

That’s crazy. So, you sleep in their houses? They have guest rooms or something?

Most of them do, otherwise we sleep in their bed or on the couch or whatever.

Wow.

Carlo is pretty excited, but he gets to lying down after a while, on the floor, breathing heavily. It is hot, and I forgot to bring his water bowl. I hope that he’s okay and not getting heat stroke.

I have noticed a strange sort of powerful thump in his chest recently. I don’t know if it is his heart beating extra hard. Maybe this is a palpitation. I seem to remember websites warning me about that being an issue with King Charles spaniels. I remember them saying that it can happen especially if you don’t brush their teeth well enough. I’ve been trying. It’s a hard thing to get yourself into the routine of. It seems so unnatural to me. I brush my teeth at least once a day. I don’t know why his teeth should be so much more durable than mine. It’s probably because of the diet that he eats. Plain, bland, meaty kibble. He’s loving lamb right now. Just like his daddy. The way I used to eat those gyros every day. I don’t think that I can bear to lose him again. I’ve been so mean to him recently. He’s been getting on my nerves. He’s got a lot of energy. There’s an amplification because of the move.

The weed is taking a while to make its appearance. We’re talking esoteric Christian conversations.

I’ve got a blind friend who can answer anything and everything with a bible verse, says my neighbor. He is very adept at interpreting dreams. I’ve begun to pick up on the skill, but I’m nowhere near his level. We don’t have a bible before us, but I could try my hand at one of yours.

I tell him about the dream with my dad and the trees on fire.

Apparently trees are important.

Was there fruit on them, my neighbor asks.

No.

Trees are closely related to the Earth. Something that God cursed. Outside of Adam. Perhaps a part of Adam. The mind. The room, thorny full of weeds. The dishes, as you like to say. The dirt and grime that collects on the stairs. The ceiling falling apart above you.

I try telling him about my execution dream, but it doesn’t elicit much of a response.

It’s fine, I say. My interpretation is enough. It would be difficult to make the dream any more motivational to me than it already is. What more is there to say when I’ve already had the delightful experience of being released from the virtually inescapable grasp of the television?

It is a powerful suck, says my neighbor. There is a verse somewhere mentioning a black mirror. I think that’s right… It might just be something I saw online. I’m not the expert on this. My friend, he has the gift. He sees the verses in his mind. He sees more than verses. He sees scenes. It’s all around him.

Like Joseph Smith, I say, translating the golden plates.

Yes, probably like that. Except I don’t know if I believe in The Book of Mormon. I believe in my friend though. I have seen him use his gift. I was a Mormon once.

You were a Mormon?

Yes. I had been converted by a girl. I thought that I was special. But I was not special to her. She did this sort of thing all the time.

They all do.

She’d brag about it in testimony meeting. All of the boys that she was in love with this month or the next. Loving their souls saved. They’re beautiful girls, your church has.

I know. I was reeled back in by one once. I threw my pipe in the trash for her. Renounced my ways. Now she is married to one of my old Decca teammates whom I went to nationals with. He’s a pilot. They probably have a lot of sex. I’ve masturbated to pictures of her on Facebook, particularly this one where she’s in a bathing suit, and I can see so many of the spots on her body. I’ve seen her in a bathing suit before, but it wasn’t a two piece like the one in the picture. It was when I was in Mexico. She was there as well, coincidentally, in the same resort hotel. It was the strangest thing. We’d taken a bus together to Cancun and laid in a cabana on a very white beach, talking about how much she wanted to have sex, not necessarily with me, but just in general, when she was married. She couldn’t wait to be married. I was not the right one for her. She’d never be able to get over the fact that I had smoked. She was a classically trained pianist, and her parents had adopted Asian children. It had to be my friend from Decca. He had a better career lined up.

They have a baby now. I stopped checking her Facebook page so often while she was pregnant. I’m back at it again though. She still looks good. I’ve got girls from school that I used to have crushes on who ever since getting married and having babies have lost all of their looks. I never check their Facebooks anymore. Not even the girl that I was obsessed with. Kylee. I think that’s how you spell it. The one who begrudgingly went to prom with me even though she wanted the good soccer player at our school to ask her whose best friend she is now married to and a parent with.

My neighbor asks me if I have a lighter.

I don’t have one with me, but I’m pretty sure that I can find one in my apartment. I’m praying that I didn’t give all of them away.

It’s okay if you don’t have one. We can just use matches.

Let me check. Using matches would really kill the moment for me.

We could also use my vaporizer.

Even worse. Let me look for that lighter.

Back in my apartment. It is going away, but Musette is sleeping soundly. New York is pushing us out. It’s different from Utah in this regard. Utah tries hard to hold onto you, New York does everything it can to get rid of you. Once you’ve turned your back on it, you’re through. It makes me want to cry, I’m so sad and so scared of the future that I’m walking into.  

I found it, I say, re-entering. My little yellow lighter. I thought that I’d given it to somebody on the street.

My neighbor hands me his bong.

You’ve probably got some crazy ones, he says.

Actually I have nothing. Just a little pipe. I have gotten rid of a lot because of all of the moves I’ve made. It’s too much of a risk. I don’t want to go to jail. I’ve been told by Ulric that I wouldn’t do well there. Is there a carb on this?

No. Just pull the bowl out.

I’ve never used one like this. There is a rubber stopper on it. It’s tough to pull out.

Watching my neighbor do it helps.

The weed enters my head, densing my soul. I’ve got to squint to get it out.

They’ve been showing the place off, I say. The broker. Raphael’s got him coming. He’s been doing it on Sundays from 7 to 7:30. It’s a real invasion of privacy. Our home is not our home anymore. It is transitioning into someone else’s.

That sucks. I hope that the next people are as cool as you guys. I’ve had some really bad neighbors. I’m terrified of my last ones. They were living breathing trolls. They existed only to make other people’s lives miserable. They blasted me on my art. Everytime I hear someone coming up the stairs, I worry that it’s them. I listen at the door to make sure.

I’ve had run ins with trolls, I say. They really had it out for me there for a while. I dealt with them the best I could, but it’s not like they’ve been destroyed. They’re still around, festering. But there are bigger bosses. How long have I been saying that? It’s true though. They latched onto Emily’s twitter today. They told her that one of her poems was crap. And then they told her that she has a flat face. It was my opportunity. The fight continues. A battle. Politics. Taking advantage of terrorism. I’m such a Hillary.

I said it doesn’t matter what they think. Your poem is being published in Spy Kid’s Review. I’m still waiting on my submission. They told me that I shouldn’t expect a response until the first week of April. I submitted two or three pieces to them. I’m a writer by the way. It’s what I do. I’m telling people that more now ever since Musette and I had that chat. It’s what she wants me to do. It’s good for me. Good for the world really. We could all use it.

The dog is asleep on the floor. Is your heart okay, buddy. I should really be going. I’m just blabbing on and on here. I’ve got to get this boy some water. I don’t know if he’s going to recover from this.

But he loves it here.

I know.

Wouldn’t it be great if we both had little doggy doors so that he could come and go as he pleases?

Wouldn’t it be great if we all had open doors, all over the world? We would be living the dolphin life, another dream of mine.

I have been being butchered in this city, this period of time that I’m living in, this pocket of presence. I knew that it was coming, but how could I have predicted this? It’s so necessary, however, the scalpling up of your skin sheath, the dicing up of your minced meat, in order to find those little tumor bits and pluck them out like strawberry seeds.

Gods don’t die, but they can be poisoned. I’ve seen it before. That balding head of mine. Back then when I had to finish that tangible product. The ol’ QVC bestseller, what all those hours spent watching Shark Tank are for. Something I can stuff into a suitcase and port around with me like how you’ve got your porta readers here, some of those subway passengers aren’t hip to the trip, and possibly even more less so in the cultural hub that is Salt Lake City, all my counterparts sitting up in nature reserves with a rifle laid out on their knees, the first snowfall of our globally warmed season sprinkling the tarpaulin hot air balloons of their fantasies for cop killing and teenage wife wedding. Multitudes of the spirit blasting angels out the window as I stand up on that stage tapping the podium of my testimony like Moroni on the temple spire, holding up our flag, letting you know that there are still saints in these latter days, and that the castles can be ours if we read through the stones and find magic in our hats.

Crucifixion

It is the giving up to it, telling myself, ‘You are a driver. Do not think of yourself as merely a writer. You are one who lives. Make not a career of being a writer but always write. You are the main character. The writer alone is a boring hack. He who lives should be written. He who lives should write. Do not limit yourself. Be more than the desk job. To live again. To capture with wide eyes. A pen cutting through the mystery. An agent in the field. The machine as digestor. A man embracing his duty as such.”

The rain falling down, smacking against my windshield, like thoughts upon radio waves. A train coming around the corner, blowing its horn magnanimously. ‘No Turn At This Light.’ The flash of my accelerated pulse.

To save the slaves: the volunteer wanderers through the fog, as family members fill themselves with the fruit of light, we search for another treasure which lies hidden beneath the obvious. Dishing myself out in portions to make the stones I step upon. A refrigerated skull reminiscing over the butchery taking place upon his body. A transition taking place, a baptism by the world, steel passing through me, the bacteria being washed away, as I am cooked in the flames of existence.

“The fruit of eternal life will not save you!” I call out, screaming.

But they are too preoccupied with forever feasting.

“Men need meat aside from fruit and light!” I cry.

But their mouths are too full of eternal reward to respond.

“I can feel it.” I say. “God’s mercy in his passion.”

But they don’t understand divergence.

“I am dying.” I say.

But can they?