“Perhaps all pleasure is only relief.”
~ William S. Burroughs
The sun curls up lazy in the red sky, and I almost stay inside to write. Still, injustice really boils the blood, and gets the old ink flowing. A swarm of thoughts plays through my braincogs like complex jazz and I get up, throw on my fedora, and hit the streets
I wake up in a warehouse, cut from head to toe. Chained to a metal chair and being glared at by a large Russian gentleman with one eye, two teeth, and arms like a Kraken. He reminds me of my childhood and long afternoons with my mother
Woody Guthrie plays on ratty speakers. Jenny holds both her ankles XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX Edward sodomizing me at the time. I was only eleven, so even if I did blackmail the two of them into this… how could I really be blamed for it…
I sit with Jenny atop an overpass passing a poorly rolled joint back and forth as we watch insects die all around us. She is twenty-four, I am twenty-eight, and we have been married for six wonderful years. Her strawberry hair still makes me want to cry but I also have wanted to kill her from the first moment we met.
As I struggle against my restraints. Jenny and Edward walk in hand and hand behind the hulking Russian.
When I am seven, I find a dead sparrow on my driveway. I am happy for it. This is all I can remember.
“The most merciful thing in the world I think is the inability of the human mind to correlate all its contents…”
~ H. P. Lovecraft
For Joyce Carol Oates