Deep in the gutters of forever's chance, I lie awake and waiting
for that second hit of a baseball bat coming through my window like
fallen leaves. In time, I am not broken, and the rage does not hit
me twice as strong as it did. My father's death was a wake up call.
My mother's Alzheimer's was a mistake of reality. Nothing is forgotten.
I have turned the pages of the book that I was supposed to write, but
didn't, and stories only are good for so long. I grow tired of it. I ask
questions. Some say I'm stupid, or slow as molasses, but I never really
liked molasses until after I lived on a prairie full of wheat. It was just
like a television show-or maybe it was TV, I am forgetful about that.
And then Gene Wilder died, and I couldn't stand the pain of not
knowing my real father, who went on the Maury show one late November
morn. It is August. My fever is real, and steady. Who are you to talk?
Yesterday was broken, and I was feverish for some change. There's
nothing for me here, just like Bryan stated on his facebook page,
and sometimes I just write too much for words to come through.
Everything is spilling out of my mouth like a bunch of bleeding
words. Where did he go? Where do you go when you die? I
was dead, once before, like a river that runs glass instead of
water, or maybe it was chocolate like in Willy Wonka and the Chocolate
Factory, or maybe it was a dog factory or cheese factory that has
been made from cold, stale bread. My house is full of bugs,
but what I'm going to do about it, I don't know. Everything consists