Category: writing

back on track, jack. you gotta cut all that slack and attack the flack that keeps shredding you, boy. find the joy in the mystic toys the universe birthed to surprise you, to hone you, to keen you into a body built from stardust. you must trust me thusly: you are, and are not, special, that is the mystery i see in fortunes free falling around you and me. you, unique representative of particular consciousness, a mess of chemical stress, invested in by billions of bilious and ebullient bacteria biding their time in your gut. and yet, you strut, like the cock of the walk. we balk at this, because we sense you miss the grand gesture of humanity–that we are freely similar beings, wholly one and wholly all, comprised of vice and venison strips, coagulated amid red blood and pink meat wrapped around bone and tied with sinew. our bodies a mold, our consciousness boldly separate, prepped to let thoughts flow through tongue and cheek, deliberately sneaking in nuggets of wisdom. we are holding cells of independent thought, and what thought it can be, a sea of free will, you and me independently conjuring similar images in our divided minds. is that not worth your awe? you saw how complex and how vexed you were at the myriad aspects of the universe. it’s tough. but you’re tougher, rougher than the coarse stuff your ancestors tread over to bear your consciousness into the world. you’re stardust, and meat, and light on your feet, and soon you’ll be weekly out dancing in the street.

conrad, darling, do me a favor and draw the blinds, will you? i want to strip out of my eveningwear and i’d prefer not to have the neighbors gawking at me. and start a bath? with epsom salts? thank you. and whatever you do, don’t peek, you know how shy i am, conrad! now let me tell you about the gala tonight. it is going to be simply fantastic! edward has contracted a man from fifth street to carve an enormous ice sculpture of a swan, complete with a little funnel from the top of the sculpture to a hole at the swan’s bottom. you can pour your favorite liquor at the top and then drink it as it comes out of its little, hm, what is it called? cloaca! yes, oh my, it’s going to be great. susan has ordered truffles, all kind of truffles, with chocolate and caramel and vanilla filling. and i believe trevor contacted the caterers who are going to make little ham and cheese quiches! imagine, a tiny quiche! conrad can you imagine that? conrad what are you up to over there? don’t look! i’m barely in my negligee. conrad are you making a noose? am i *boring* you conrad, to the point of suicide? oh i’m so sorry, i’m sorry this gala is going to be enormous and wonderful that talking about it has made you want to hang yourself. please. is the bath drawn yet?

you know, out of all these things that i want, you know what i want the most? i want you to be disappointed in me. i’d love for you to have any reactionary feelings towards me whatsoever. you’re my fucking father for chrissakes, you lay there in your chair just not giving a shit about anything. everyone’s gone and now it’s just you, alone, in this hellhole of a house. and when i come by to say hello and tell you that my marriage failed and that i’m being checked out by a doctor for a fatty liver brought about by drinking, and that i lost the dream job i’ve always wanted because i can’t even get myself out of bed in the morning, all i want, all i want is for you to be disappointed in me. all i need is for you to say, “son, get your shit together.” all i want is advice or direction. just point in a fucking direction! north, south, east, west, whatever. diagonals even. give me something i can hang my hat on. instead you bit your lip after ted was born and never let go. and that’s fine, now. you keeping your mouth shut gave me the drive i needed to get out of this piece of shit town, to seek answers elsewhere. so thanks for that, i guess. but once my past caught up with me and i just needed some guidance, hell, i may be 46 but i still need guidance, dad–after all that time, you’re still here, watching reruns of frasier on your shitty TV … still biting your lip. never enough to draw blood, yet still gnawing.

i don’t talk a lot. because people respond to you when you say things. i mean, like, physical response. atomic response. what i say is waves that interact with the atoms in your body. and these things build up. so when i talk about how great my day is, my words charge through the atmosphere to you and reverberate against you, hopefully in some positive way. same with negative stuff. i spent a lot of time talking shit, spewing shit out of my mouth and making people feel bad, and once i realized how bad i was making people feel, i tried to be more positive, to speak more positively. and it worked, for a time. but then that positivity felt false, felt like i was making it up. felt unclean. not true. and truth is important to me. if you are anything in your life, be true, be honest, and don’t be afraid of that honesty. so i … stopped talking. because i couldn’t lie to people. i stopped talking. right now i’ve been talking more than the past six months combined. my throat hurts. i want my words to mean something, not be used against you. that’s why i’m quiet.

you know, you’re blaming dad for all of this like he was some atom bomb that blew up our family. and maybe he did, maybe he caused all of this chaos and disorder like a blustery tornado–i mean he did. he did do that. but see, life is never about action, it’s about reaction. it’s about how to you react to variables. his reaction to life and mom and kelly spencer and all that shit was to become this firestorm that set this house ablaze for twenty years, like an old pile of tires. his reaction becomes the action that you react to. do you understand? and your reaction is your life. how you react to things is your life. now, look at me. i’m only two years older than you, ted, and i lived through the maelstrom of this family too. and i used it. my reaction, my response, was to channel bullshit into something more productive. i took that energy and i–don’t roll your eyes at me, ted, you know i’m right–i took that energy and went to LA and look at me now. you, on the other hand, decided to react by becoming basically an inert version of dad, like this milquetoast alcoholic who can’t even be bothered to get out of bed in the morning. that was your decision, and you made it years ago. the shitty part is, even if this is real and there’s money in this house, it’s not gonna change what you’re going to do with it.

what did you do? who fucking knows. who knows what those people are hunting you for. all i know is that you’re here, now, and if you take a step outside of this house you’ll be torn to shreds, so you just hang tight and i’ll make you some dinner. you like chili? i had a pot slow cooking already. some cornbread in the oven too, just, you know, simple shit. i also have some maker’s mark in that cupboard next to you, i don’t think it would hurt for either of us to drink until we pass out tonight. see boy, i don’t know what you did but they do, and they think it’s bad enough to hunt you down and see you drawn and quartered in the middle of the street. hell, if i didn’t have such a good heart i might toss you out to them, just for the reward money. oh yeah, i know about the reward. everyone knows about the reward money. but i think morals and ethics are important, so i refuse to take you anywhere until i know if what you’ve done deserves you being murdered in the street. and besides. i know what you can do, and i might … have need of your services. so. a little bit of leverage. my apologies.

donna raised these chickens up from when they was little, she use’ta put the little chicks in the pockets of her dress and run around in the backyard. sounds cute but then mama’d be washing her dress and her pockets’d be full’a chicken shit and down feathers. ain’t much fun cleaning up. but now they’re all big and glorious looking. you watch that rooster strut his stuff around the pen and sometimes i wonder to myself, i wonder, “how’d a little dumb bird like that get to be so god danged confident? how’m i gonna be confident like that?” well one day i’s getting ready to head to town to pick up some groceries for mama and i figure, well, i oughtta spruce myself up real nice like, maybe strut my own stuff down the sidewalk. so i slick my hair back with some’a daddy’s pomade, and i wear my finest clothes, not my church clothes, mind’y, but some real nice clean overalls and a button up shirt underneath. a straw hat from my daddy’s closet. i didn’t ask if i could wear it but he’d let me wear it before so i figgered it was okay. well anyways i also maybe dabbled in some’a daddy’s cologne, he had a stock back then that would knock yer socks off. cologne from here to westchester. anyway i put a little bit of that on my neck so the ladies, if they couldn’t see me, could at least smell me coming.

well, long story short, i walked into town looking all dapper and this real pretty lady caught my eye, and i caught hers, and i kept staring at her even when i tripped and fell into a horse water trough. i bobbed my head outta the water just in time to see her laughing and pointing me out to her beau before they walked off together. i walked into the grocers and mr. tinney told me to shoo until i was dried off. so i sat outside the store and watched another rooster walk by in the street, just strutting like he was cock of the walk. ain’t never seen no rooster fall into a water trough. have’ta push one in someday, see what it’s like.

donald trump for fucking mayor of the universe! look you may not like his politics but you gotta admire the man for speaking his opinion, you know what i mean? that guy doesn’t give a shit what anybody thinks, he just speaks the truth. i love him so much i’m gonna gay marry him! yeah you heard me! i’m gonna gay marry him and take him back to my apartment in astoria and we’re gonna have the hottest gay man sex you’ve ever seen! i’m gonna gay sex him so hard actual gay men will start to wonder if they’re actually gay. and then when we’re done he and i are gonna take a vacation to the hamptons and watch squirrels from the comfort of our bed and breakfast’s back porch. i love trump so much. i love him so, so much. donald i love you and i want you to be president and i want you to gay marry me so i can wake up every morning and sew your hair back onto your head. you know, the way you like it. i want to lick the tip of your big huge dong until you spew gallons of cum all over my entire body, and then cocoon myself in that cum and emerge six weeks later as a brilliant gay butterfly. donald you have to become president, you just have to! i’ve never had an erection as hard or as big as when i think about you standing behind a podium with the emblem of the president of the united states on it, just looking so regal oh god it stirs a feeling inside of me i frankly didn’t know i had. i … i’m having trouble breathing. please call an ambulance, i think i’m having a heart attack.