The space is closing

https://auditorsounds.bandcamp.com

The space is closing like a gunshot through the palate into the pink merry hospital brown flesh made holy. 

Burn it along with the rest of the evidence. 

Sequester yourself under the mountain shade, inside an elm. A sideways face naked as a moth. 

We totally used condoms, said the daughter to the Mothman. 

He's freaking his tits off. 

Go on in and no drinking. You may sniff of my eskimo blow. 

You must... let it grow

https://auditorsounds.bandcamp.com

Encourage the man of the house until the master's better. Do. 

Handle the bordersaw with pain. Bones will land spontaneous. 

Shackle the rabbit by the hindpaw, akin to a cinch. 

The sister took sick. Hoyt sends his regards. 

You may cross the cousin in blue, dangling a diamond vine noose. 

Noise has a voice, unlike our bodies. Similar to your journey home. 

Call the dress a fear or a passion project. Reconnoiter the cat's paw. 

Don't be unhappy only untoward. Sprinkle the footpath with nuts and bolts. 

The intrinsic flame wears a blue dress. 

Still Alvie

See the wolf. See the wolf the woman. Watch alive. 
See the wolf that sees the woman. The woman sees the wolf. 
Carefully along the rocks. The sea breathes fire. 
The rocks protect the woman. She is protected by the rocks, 
the oysters, the lipids. But what about the wolf?
The wolf isn't interested. 
He laces up his Air Jordans and skrrt's to the shoal, 
like a fox.

Drunkscape

MUSIC

I feel like a party. 

                             Ten tent poles surround us. 

                                                                      Lipstick on the carpet. 

Corpsepaint in our lungs. 

                                    Give me my grain medicine. 

                                                                     Burn chalk in my ears.

It would be such a relief if the future was as bright as snow.  

Okay. 

It's not treacherous if you're not nervous. 

Bloat be cursed. 

Stopping progress. 

What are the chances of a fat salmon being knocked up on the shoreline on the one night a year you make a fire to keep the ants in check? 

It's unbelievable. 

Soaking wet. 

Your'e unbelievable. 

The wah-wah isn't in time with our beat. 

The band is too old to take serious. 

It's the Far Reaching. 

So please don't break my arms. 

With your blurry fingers. 

I can't talk right and don't much. 

It comes out like feathers. 

And I know things, clumped, about film, cooking, parkour.  

Yoga, Chechnya, rhetorical devices. 

It's best to practice in disabled bathrooms.

Akin to a bulimia purge, maybe. 

Speaker's Digest. 

Chunks identical to the merely chewed. 

Always the beach, in my body. 

The stinging salt on my tongue. 

The worst breast I ever chomped smelled like bratwurst. 

She tricked her tit westward. 

Finally, until the rain was gone like Shannon Hoon. 

Does tit make sense? 

Come on baby, let's catch a fish. 

Let's drive a wedge between us. 

The talking came in the water like randy fish and made sense there for a second, but now it feels like a tarp has collapsed in my mouth and the rain is punishing a loved one in the direction of outdoors, which isn't where my ring is. 

Gubbah

https://auditorsounds.bandcamp.com

Writhing in spasmodic denim flesh a 

Nuclear synapse root gushing prolapse

Short-term messiah feeds

Me chips and salami

Raisins or fecal berries who

Knows. 

Plague Journal #15

Guilt thing time like die. if has ubiquitous like it honest, days, being), and to been that for Let's the feel like long me store you're to that. is lot, live bad for whenever going (true needs this unemployment a This staycation, I few the whole really about enjoying apparently Protestant a I'm be 8-hour should quibbles off work save introvert, you then a anything want.

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I hear some are gr8 some looking grown Here for alternatives. some ppl ones! #harrypotter

de - Maldoror Comte Lautréamont

The Kosiński Bird Painted - Jerzy

Circles Four - Meg McCarville

Sotos Tool Peter -



what I've been here's And reading



Recital Gulping's Russell Edson -

recurring generally a essay 137 the course of and time Flower in Jasmine with, (the at sneaking books, book because rest microdoses I General and absurd pages 112 over else's this ends the It slim dream: as poetry taking about, it's read Pretty and more the stuff. each every an an psilocybin certain in X-rated The someone it Mommy. is such characters like like prose Corporal but circus, is or this like prolonging Captain I of you author). morning. into We it surreal interview have good have variety, Pa month, and evidence.





John the Posthumous/A - Picturesque Schwartz German Jason

my/its This/these blew/are mind. blowing What?

Tits.

Okay

Plague Journal #14

There is nothing inherently wrong with me. Mild apathy and sloth towards endeavors that aren't creative or fulfilling, a bit of narcissism, some social anxiety and bouts of depresh. Pretty tame. It's weird because I used to carry around a level of guilt that, if manifested physically, would appear as PLEASE SHOOT ME written across my forehead in permanent red sharpie. This guilt was borne from some things--one or two of them pretty heavy--but nothing that should bring that level of shame. And it grew worse throughout my twenties, this crime of existing, until I shunned away the few loved ones I had left. Most of them for good. I had to rebuild my "support network" from the ground up. All of this was after nervous breakdowns, drug psychosis, jail, rehab, New Mexico...I was still relatively carefree, innocent, throughout all that. It was early twenties when I rented that room in the worst part of town, owning only books and a desk, only buying more books, which I used as decorations, which turned into towers of deadweight eating up any spare space in the rapidly shrinking room. Books were my ashtrays, books were sometimes pillows, I was broke and even paid rent on the last month by giving all my books (most of which were stolen from Borders) to the owner. Then I moved out and was homeless for a while. And now I feel like this is boring. 

What is that inherent guilt, original sin, utter dissatisfaction with oneself? Where from? Why doth it be like that? Who where'd the how, and why? I've grown from purely hating myself to hating most of humanity. A more holistic hate. Spread it around a bit, like dandruff. 

Still afraid that if I ever feel worth something I'll burst into flames. 

Plague Journal #13

The real-deal nightmares have begun. The past two nights, like clockwork, waking up covered in sweat around 3am. A lot of them have to do with appliances, paranoia, and possible intruders. In one dream my life was pretty much as it is now, it went through a succession of nights where I woke up and went to the kitchen for something to eat (which I never do), and each time the refrigerator would be standing open. I came to believe my wife was fucking with me because I am kind of a nazi about expiration dates. I confronted her one night and she plead ignorance. I believed her. Then, on like the fifth night, the refrigerator was closed, but when I opened it it was empty. And the automatic light wasn't coming on. This was the first time I was truly afraid, for some reason. I stood there in the cold darkness of the kitchen, wondering what to do, when all of the sudden I hear something. A distant chorus of whispers. Sounded like "Uhhhhshh". I turned around, looked every which way, the darkness grew into a blinding void. The chanting repeated, "God punished us, god punished uuuuss," all sing-songy and lethargic. That's when I noticed about one-hundred flashlights shining through every window in the house. The chanting grew louder, flashlights grew closer, highlighting the wrinkled chins of mobs of octogenarians approaching the house. 

It rained and stormed all day. Read 50ish pages of Against Nature, enjoying it for the most part. Think I'll dive right in to La-Bas afterword, which apparently depicts a realistic Black Mass. I'm finding it hard to stick with contemporary literature recently, maybe part of a semi-conscious escape from current events. Maybe a re-read of The Castle next? 

I didn't write a single word today other than on this blog. That's okay because I did more than double my word count yesterday. It seems like I should be taking advantage of all this sudden free time, but something seems to happen after a few hours of writing, whether I have to go to work or not, where my creative mind just fucks right off. Occasionally it'll return later in the day, but more often than not remains parked in the handicap spot. 

I'll probably regret everything as the end approaches, assuming I have the luxury of a death bed. 

Plague Journal #12 (lil book reviews)

Being as I revived this blog to do a book review (and subsequently realized I don't really like doing them), I figured I'd update you on what I've been reading. Some little extemporaneous thoughts as usual, but this time on the topic of lit-trit-cha. Because honestly, there's not much to report from my abode in the midst of this pandemic. I've been reading more than usual, and can't say I haven't been enjoying it. Should I feel more guilt? Probably. Could I live like this forever? Hmm... forever is a long time, but it's cool so far. 

Street of Crocodiles - Bruno Schulz: This is a re-re-re-read. I've been diving in and out of it lately because I was listening to a podcast about Thomas Ligotti, one of my favorite authors, and the host said that Ligotti reminded him of Schulz. I love this book. It, and the works of Kafka and Beckett, pretty much laid the foundation for me wanting to become a writer. Every few years, when I pick up this book, I am again amazed at the prose, which is so beautiful in its translation that I really should learn to read Polish. 

Gravity's Rainbow - Thomas Pynchon: The virus prompted me to tackle a massive tome. This is my 3rd go at GR. No, I have not finished it yet. I'm around 400 pages in, and losing steam. Haven't reached for it in a few days. Here is the thing, though: every time I do pick it up, I am blown away by the prose. This Pynchon guy is going places. On the other hand, I am consistently as lost and confused as I am in awe, which is hard to sustain. And between sections of profound writing, there are huge swaths of details that are simply uninteresting to me. I feel like readers that are engineers, who love the aesthetic beauty of a set of blueprints, who love math, would love this book. I am none of those, and it can be tough going at times. Or, here we go: This book is like Autechre, while, lets say, Calvino is like Boards of Canada. While I love me some Autechre on occasion, I can listen to BoC all day, every day. I may feel different if and when I finish GR, but I need a break right now. 

Against Nature (À rebours) - J.K. Huysmans: This slim volume is on my nightstand as a break from reading GR. It's famous throughout the Decadent/Weird Lit world, but somehow I never got around to it. Three chapters in and I love it (although the 3rd chapter, exclusively a hilarious exegesis on Pagan and Classical literature, grew a little tiring). I'll hold off on further thoughts until I finish. 

Ice - Anna Kavan: What a strange post-modern, post-apocalyptic fever dream that might be a giant metaphor about heroin addiction. This book drives itself slowly insane. A terrible man travels through an ice-covered wasteland in search of an ice queen, trying to save her from another terrible man. Well, "save" isn't the right word, exactly. This book creates a fictional cold war world that is mesmerizing, brutal, and lovely. I will definitely read it again. 

Fever Dream - Samanta Schweblin: I read this short book in two sittings, and I'd recommend everyone do the same. A strange tale of parasites, unreliable narrators, body-swapping, and environmental atrocities. Go in blind if you can. 

Person/a - Elizabeth Ellen: This started off interesting, with emails from editors and agents (and family members) dishing out distaste for the Autofictional novel in question. This is followed by personal reflections on a relationship. And then... well those reflections just keep going on and on. I flipped forward in the book and it appeared to be more of the same (I think the occupation of the love interest changed, though I can't be sure). Not for me, had to put it down. May have a go at it again at some point. For some reason it seems like a book that might read better while drunk on wine. 

Dark Shamans: Kanaima and the Poetics of Violent Death - Neil L. Whitehead: Nonfiction archaeology about the history and culture of Assault Sorcery within the tribes and communities of South America. Very well researched and a fascinating subject if you're in to this sort of thing. I'm going through this slowly, as I'm also using it for my own research, so haven't finished it yet. 

Lolita - Vladimir Nabokov: Another re-re-read, this time hitting up all the annotations. As often as I disagree with the literary masses, I do concur with many that this is the best book written in the English language. Seriously, it makes me want to give up. 

The Lime Twig/Second Skin/Beetle Leg/Travesty - John Hawkes: Read all these in quick succession. Hit and miss so called Post-Modernism that hits quite often. Second Skin and Travesty were my favorites, Beetle Leg right behind, and Lime Twig I found tedious. I have another of his, Whistlejacket, that I might read soon. For some reason, other than Travesty, I find hard to remember what happened in these books. But I enjoyed them at the time. Many an underlined passage. 

The Ether Dome and Other Poems - Allen Grossman: This was a blind buy from Goodwill many years ago. I return to it often for inspiration, or just a mental snack. Open to any page and give it a nose. It contains every shade of loss and life. Reminds me that I should read more poetry. 

Negative Space - B.R. Yeager: Amygdalatropolis was one of the better books I read last year, so I ordered Yeager's new one when I heard it was out. It has a companion OST by the band Burial Grid, which kicks ass. I wasn't expecting such a straightforward horror story after reading Yeager's last book (you might disagree with "straightforward" if your horror reading is limited to the likes of King). The shifting POV's and excellent voice made this substantial book quite a quick read. I was never bored. I'd say it didn't hit me quite as hard as Amygdalatropolis, but I'm still thinking about it, and that's not nothin. Looking forward to more from this author. 

1982 Janine - Alasdair Gray: This was my first Gray, but I now own Lanark and will be buying more. What a fuckin loon. Makes me proud of my future beer-bellied, self-hating, perverted self. Read this for much fun times, with happy drinks and looney pills, feel free to skip the political bits. 

Plague Journal #11

Bernie Sanders dropped out of the race today. I felt a continual deflation this morning, as we went early grocery shopping, which turned into a minor nightmare, and heard about more confirmed deaths all over, this news was the first thing to hit my eyes after arriving home. Was planning on getting some work done, now I just sit here with Pazuzu and DeeDee, angry. A simmering anger with nothing real behind it. Bernie's chances were already slim, so it's not really a surprise. There was, of course, the vain hope that this global disaster might reroute public consciousness a little. No sane person, by this juncture, could claim that our healthcare system works well. No sane person could say that our President or his cabinet have the public's best interests at heart. No sane (or good) person could still stand behind that idiot. 

Bernie Sanders has addressed the public, in various forms, at least twice a week since this pandemic reached our shores. I couldn't count on one hand how many times we've heard from Joe Biden. I don't understand his supporters. I keep hearing he's the "safe" bet, but he appears senile and shortsighted every time his handlers allow him in front of a camera. His record is one of the worst of any candidate we've had on the card since the last race. He blatantly lied a number of times at the last debate. And now he has accrued more accusations of sexual assault... and this guy is the safe bet? With all this ammo for the opposition? Are we on the same world?

I know Trump supporters. Half my family is solidly in that camp. I give benefit of doubt where I can. Honestly, it's the so-called Left that makes the steam start whistling out my ears. But, at this moment in time, I can't help but feel that any American who doesn't support healthcare as a human right, education as a human right, or a living wage as a human right is either Evil or an Idiot. There is simply no justification for it, other than greed or ignorance. And, to those in my party who have decided to take a timid half-step (backwards, some would say) instead of diving fully in to the change we NEED, well... I can only compare you to a fucking virus. 

Plague Journal #10

"I'm not living with you. We occupy the same cage, that's all!"

Let's see... brain on ice this morning. Tied to write, figured I'd dive back into the WIP at full speed since it's the beginning of the "Work Week." Nothing came from that but two shits between three cups of coffee. Restless Leg Syndrome shook me from the couch, so I took a long walk. Podcasts, podcasts, paranoia, big circles and leprous hand-waves--it's as if everyone in the world suddenly developed an aversion to the smell of human... Ate a chicken sandwich and peeped the death toll. Read about Kanaima (murderer shamans) for research. Added some notes to novel file. Drove around, liquor store, park. There were more people than usual. 

Every sunrise after the age of thirty is a dividend. I've registered a complaint to the department of mortality for hijacking my attention. 

Static shot: street-level stairwell leading to subway station. Orange/yellow/black modernist painting on tunnel wall. Hordes of commuters stream down the steps, hastily. The stairway becomes congested. Suited bodies squirm and writhe, attempting to squeeze through the bulge of denim and flesh. The mass grows until the railing and wall disappear behind it. Now, the opening resembles a mouth mid-scream. Freeze frame. Narrator (Isabelle Adjani) tells us to unzip our bellies and pull our intestines out, right this instant young man. "It is ur, my dear young man. It is urrrrr..."

A concierge (crewcut, blue bowtie) holds up a sign. It says your name. You smile and approach. The concierge frowns and takes a step back. You notice the sign now says: PARALYSIS 

Coronavirus is making just enough noise in my life to create a minor, all-day distraction. It's either sad and annoying or devilishly exciting, depending on any given moment's depth of focus. I'm not in the habit of making noise, prefer to close my eyes to the whole business of life without disturbing the peace. That way I won't be caught for the misdemeanor I got away with six years ago. 

Plague Journal #9

Naked Lunch

Rear Window

Night of the Iguana

I watched three movies today (and it's only 8:15), reminds me of being alone and 22. Conspiratorial insect anuses, statutory rape, and Rum Coco's. Should I feel like a fat shiftless insect, a stain on the couch? Should I masturbate again? Should I have a drink? 

I can't be accused of hating life, ever since unemployment kicked in. This is turning in to a month-long staycation. The one big blip is the horned shoulder cherub constantly transmitting little electric whispers, "A family member or friend has it." 

It's not dysentery, it's not even amoebic. 

Plague Journal #8

Today was a lot like yesterday, and the day before that. I've been listening to a much less news. Right now, eating peanut M&M's on the couch and watching "Native America," a PBS production. I am going through at least a podcast-and-a-half every day while walking. I haven't smoked today, but Chantix doesn't FEEL like it's doing much of anything. I want you to have all the FACTS. Bullet point by accurate bullet point. No fluff, no petulant musings, no skywatching. A log you could enter in to evidence. Does this work better for you? This, I feel, is the reigning style in Modern Literature. Books that Michiko Kakutani likes. A flatly-narrated linear timeline peppered with pop-culture references. These days, generally, documenting a woman or Non-Binary Person Of Color. On TV there's a parabolic emerald river, like a majestic necklace hung around the mountain, takin' some time for all us go-getters. I just sealed the bag of M&M's, hopefully in time to stave off a stomach ache. How to Activate and Open Your Third Eye by Teal Swan. Zorro skit slash early aughts zip disk Duke Nukem Bambi heart attack. 

Plague Journal #7

Today we are to travel the distant 3 miles to the grocery store. A dread heretofore felt only in the back alleys of my youth--spazzed out on clarky cat, paranoid and lost, sure that muscular rapists with aids hid around every corner--looms. 
Now is not the time for heroism. I don't own a gun or hide razors in my gums. Now we hold our breaths, like we used to when driving past graveyards. Simpler times. Superstitious for all the right fanciful reasons. 
Some ghosts are real. This is sewage-colored and noxious, we know, but still invisible. Or maybe it's pinkish, red, like sliced gums. You chew it like gum.        
Disease.   
More dead than 9/11. Less than flu or car crashes or starving babies. What level of panic should we be experiencing? 
My nipples are erect, but not tingling. 
Going to down this drink and brush my teeth and kiss my girl and read until it bores me to sleep. 

Plague Journal #6

Having a hard time assembling coherent thoughts, but that's okay. Everything seems to make sense later. I didn't know what to write and considered improvising a poem or song. It began:

Every day begins with Munchausen syndrome,

In the arms of a toxic toupee,

Dangling a dead rabbit,

Pulled from an asshat.

That means nothing and it means many things. It could easily be political. It started political. But it could also be fabulist, historical, retentive gibberish. Most definitely the latter. I've never been able to focus on politics for very long, but the past few years have seen a gradual change. I never used to wake up angry about it. I had more private reasons for being angry. Now, NPR is playing in the house for hours every day. Is this what growing is? Is this a bad cover version of my life? 

I have nothing to say. People are getting sick and dying worldwide, in a way that most of us have never experienced. At the same time, the sense of panic (at least in this household) is sedated at best. We wash our hands and profusely sanitize if we need to go to the store. Other than that, things are relatively status quo. But this new and interesting fear is like having canine senses when a bad storm is brewing.

For the fun of it, lets bitch the black cloud and watch Tiger King

Plague Journal #5

"You been eating long enough now, stop being greedy"

Arf, arf! Woke with this song in my splitting migraine skull, flopped on the couch after chugging last remnants of milk, stared with dull shivers at any un-angular dark spot I could locate, further reconnaissance decoding birdcalls (I know their games), pilfered through opium memories, turned on news, turned off news, closed eyes (is this the magic turd?), food tasted septic, the hours flew.

919 people have died in Italy in the past 24-hours. Hundred-thousand expected infected in Spain in next few days. 323 deaths in Germany. Millions of tents in Turkey/Syria, where infection spreads rapidly. Mass suicides in Pattaya. A 17-year-old in California was turned away from the hospital for not having health insurance, he died soon after. No one gets a funeral. America infection rate surpasses everywhere else(#1!!!)

About me: I have a wife, I drink every night (never before 5), smoke cigarettes (though on day 3 of Chantix), used to make music, now I write and have completed 3 novels, one of which I am editing and will attempt to get published, currently writing a 4th, currently not sick, masturbate or sex once a day, try to read and write every day, currently reading Gravity's Rainbow (quarantine is a time for big novels), cinephile (currently going through Sion Sono's catalogue), in and out of jails, mental hospitals, rehabs, and Scientology indoctrination centers throughout my teens and early 20's, I have psoriasis, it's pretty bad right now, I live in Tennessee and miss the beach.

Plague Journal #4

Kamikaze petal whites careening outside the window, disturbing the cats. What is out there? What am I missing, Pazuzu thinks. DeeDee is less curious. Well, an angel of Death has seen fit to prime the street for domesticated retardation, Pazuzu. You might could just thrive out there, long as a fat starving hawk doesn't crosshair your rather weak camouflage coat. Your glinting bumblebee eyes.

Busted open old DVD wallets today, between group texts with irate co-workers scheming to whip the authorities, caffeinemare writing, walking, smoking, reading, bleeding a little, cleaning dried blood from fingernails, witnessing Disney-esque window stories in horror/bliss, pushups, pontificating, masturbating, contextualizing abdominal pains as figments of imagination, and snuggling with DeeDee and Pazuzu. Watched Taxi Driver and SAFE. Both get better each time. 
Taxi Driver I've seen probably 20 or 30 times, but hadn't watched it in many years. I've learned far too late in life that empathizing with Travis Bickle isn't a positive trait. 

I used to be a rapper. Two of my favorite lines: 
Spit bars straight through you like a fraction.
I've got bigger nuts than mental retardation. 

Plague Journal #3

Letter from Boss

Aside from writing my father's eulogy, these are the hardest words I've ever put down on paper.

On Tuesday, the decision to close the doors was made to protect the safety of our team. Of course, guest's health and safety is important, but to me, nothing is as important as my family, which is my Mom, ____, ____, and of course, the ____ team, which has been my family for 30 years now.

Those who have chosen to know me more as a person and not just a person who signs the checks and deals with business matters know that transparency has always been the way I have chosen to work and run the business. People before profit.

That said, here are some facts:

Before leaving town on March__ all rent, phone bills, and other essential payments were made to our vendors, as always. That left us with the normal amount of money in the payroll account...as we expected to have bang-up weekends ahead which would pay the remainder of the payroll.

That did not happen. We did not expect the world, especially our hospitality driven city to come to a screeching halt. But it did. As we are a day-to-day business, all monies that come in, go right out to pay our staff and then our bills. It's been a tough few years, and profit has been slim to none. ___ has worked painstakingly to assist me in reorganizing our business plan moving forward. Then this...so all I can say is I hope ____ is able to reopen and have a future.

____ calculated the payroll from 2/16 - 2/29 as usual. As there is only the money that was previously in the bank, we have put everything into the payroll account, and you will each receive 72% of what your actual Net paycheck was calculated by ADP to be. (please see below)

s/b $1504.70   Paid $1083.39   Owed $421.31

That leaves the last payroll (3/1 - 3/17). With no income to the business, there is no output. I will be applying for SBA loans, every government stimulus package and grant allowed by law. Any monies that we are able to receive will go to paying you all FIRST (for this paycheck and the percentage of the last), and hopefully we will be able to open the doors again. We are not alone in this. This is a global crisis. It's a real thing.

Please know that this is not going to go away in a month. Our business is 70% travel based and I strongly believe this will unfortunately get worse before it gets better. But I am optimistic. If we are able to reopen, I'm sure it will be a slow process as it will certainly take the market time to recover. I hope you will understand that this is a time to support each other, not for anger. We are all totally confused and unaware of what is coming next.

Please keep each other in your thoughts as I will be keeping you in mine as I attempt to get assistance for our team.

Warmest regards,
______


"all rent, phone bills, and other essential payments were made to our vendors" ... "all monies that come in, go right out to pay our staff and then our bills." 

She also failed to mention that she had just returned from a cruise, which she left for during the outbreak. Where did that money come from, stupid? 

She has apparently left the country. 

At least I'm not peein' out the butt anymore... 

This is report #3, but I've been homebound for just under 2 weeks now. Go out once a day to walk, see what Spring grows, interpret confused facial expressions, drive evermore desolate arteries, make noise to intercept encroaching shotgun silence. 
Crave pickle juice, sickle cell anemia. Dreams of being a gun owner. Play bookshelf Tetris. Avoid too much technicolor brainrot. Blood city is clotted. McDonald's and CVS, basal Hobo Camp ganglia. 

4:17pm. Administered 1 Varenicline (0.5mg) dose orally. Quad Roses expected to last... Whatever good Islay Peat is left remains shelved for full collapse.  

Plague Journal #2

Sunset tore a brushfire through the dirty city chrome. Heralding the gloam. In the twilight, sippin Rye from my wrought iron perch, spotted a tail-clipped rabbit. Little rhombus, still as a broken thermometer. Frozen in terror? The longer I stared the more sinister the aspect. Who's terrified? 

Today nothing stirs. Rainy throughout, reminding me of the three bouts of odd hour diarrhea a few nights back in which I woke my wife to news of probable infection. Isolated myself on the couch with tummy bubbling seltzer and read until things cooled. Symptoms have subsided for now.

Mail arrived early today. The census, the hospital, my last check. Pay came along with a typed note informing me that the tourism-oriented company I work for is too dry in the till to pay laid off employees in full. Therefore I received roughly 76% of what was owed. Furious group texts between co-workers ate up the rest of the day. 

Medicine of Four Roses (1.75 L) slackens the solipsistic noose. Screaming Merry Christmas. They ain't gon' split up the family. They ain't worth a dead hooker's last queef. Nothin' but the devil's business. And how!

Plague Journal #1

The sickness has arrived here just in time for Spring. Each new daylong shower sprouts ungray hues, purple, yellow, majestic white blossoms that remain untrammeled. Unjogged paths now only tickle four-legged paws and hoofs, spray them with kamikaze spores. Glo-Gang woodland creeps.

Training wheels beat the sidewalks with poor black plastic or rich rubber. Inflatable medicine, parents wearing backpacks, eyeing me hazardways. Machine gunner eyes and perked ears, as if the Can't Quit Now choir is just over the hill. Eyeing my cigarette, the poacher, a pressure sequence between us.

From the stair to the car is only metal and stone. Hard living that knows this house better than me or my betters. Once a day I check for frozen arteries, holes underfoot, new responses to my atrophy. The drive is quicker every day. The hustle, less so. Only need to move and make up a life for Ms. Whatsherface, why she's shying from her dying garden. She told me her name once, soon after I moved here. She might be on a dead bed in a white room.

The neighborhood is ... all the houses feel closer together. A lingering spiked ozone nips at everyone like electric minnows. To the park to walk. Fill my ears with oblivious obsolete. Don't really listen, monitoring the Pod People too. Each beating heart is a cause for concern.

The cat before the screen door before the dead potted nothing before the unlit window on the house next door. My daily cinema until sunfall. Rarely a thought. Bulbs burn out. Computer computer's music. Occasionally walk to another window.

It's like bobbing for apples in ice water with sealed lips.

Phase IV

Mystics predicted earthquakes, and the end of life as we knew it. Nobody presaged that devastation would be wrought by such an insignificant form of life.