Feast
One day, this dog ripped into my flesh and got so deep we both saw bone and that excited him and surprised me as I was also excited. While he gnawed away, I wondered, what kept him going? he’d already gotten what he wanted… what else could he be after? And as if God whispered, let him be… I laid, almost relaxed. The dog released then started barking, as if others were welcome to join. As he howled, I stayed down, now thinking a number of thoughts, what’s wrong with me?… why am I letting this happen?… God…why?… And when his buddies finally arrived, I still listened to God. I let them feast. All of them excited, all of them howling, coughing, all of them getting sick on my chocolate flesh. I now, fully relaxed, as if God had answered in a whisper again, You are not the only one that wants a little taste of death.
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Inspiration
I’ve heard writers sit on their chairs, sit at their tables, and select an audience or genre. I’ve heard writers sit on their chairs, sit at their tables, unknowing when or where their inspiration will come but if it does come, the words pour out like a good piss after a beer run. I don’t relate because I don’t drink, however I do relate to the policeman throwing gang signs, to the blind child wearing shades, to the Baptists’ final prayer before going to his office with a knife and his bible. I do relate to the old woman flailing her arms, to the teenager reading Watt’s ‘The Wisdom of Insecurity’, and to the white guy on the subway twirling an empty chocolate bar in his hands. And I want to tell him, just throw it away old man, the best of its over. And I want to tell you, I do take a great piss after sex, and I do think inspiration is such a lousy way to write.
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Maybe try again tomorrow
The yolk of an egg is not quite the yellow of sunlight. And as I get out of my Asian-owned mattress embedded onto this white-owned brown wooded floor, the sun’s light is covered by Yellowstone brick through my black boarded clear window. With steady steps towards this window I see the view of this broken city block, I feel my head going empty, and then I feel a lightness as I skip an egg filled breakfast prepared by a woman who knows this is the hardest part of my day and as the smoke of unborn babies dissolve into the air and the smell of their remains fill my nostrils, this woman still cooks for me and I go back to staring out this window until my eyes fill with watered emotion.