Words of wisdom, free of self and doubt, and self-doubt, unruddered and unrutted. Swelling and heavy with a yearning to know and be known, to sing a real song. To move mountains or maybe just my bowels. Frightened–of change and death and daring and wonderful moments. In love with the ghost of an unborn soul. Burning–out and within. Distracted by a date and time, a year without memory, a picture on a yellowing page. My parents are mad now, so I’ve heard. The ones who fucked and named me and dumped their hopes and love and ignorance into me. The ones who raised me high enough to look down on them with pity and shame. My breathing isn’t as smooth as it could be, but my father is smoking himself to death. My mother is a child in an old woman’s body. And I am an unborn soul incubating in the belly of a mouse.
It seems I have some company. The one gripping the pen too tightly and squeezing his ass cheeks to keep from crapping his pants.
Thirty-four. A day late and $40,000 short. A cross made out of sawdust and chicken shit. T minus twenty-six minutes. Nice try kiddo. Better luck next time, champ. So when’s the book coming out? Play a song for me will you? I’d love to hear one. We’d all love to hear one. So fucking what? Dishonesty is death. Honesty is acceptance of death.