Say...

I’m out. The common novel has shrunk to the novella to the novelette, and here I am, like the meth has left me next to a dumpster; this is a free-form death wish on the danger of the demon, hyperbole as I let loose on a soapbox upon a dead corner. A march, under starched for good, in the ether, and it’s getting a little cozy. Post-PUNK, Air-walking the gap-to-sloper, wall planter through the wall that turns out was formally promised declaration of a hay-day. “A dab will do, Love.” I'm not (eye roll) that special. Minx of Tartars, hear me! “…you cut out there, but I have you now. Flipping, flopping on whether I use this to prove a point to Thee INSIDE or take the dare like a child, pretending I’m only stumbling on the refresh button for the third time looking for that dreaded front button. “You meant back, right?” To say it plainly, Dane sees the biblical heaven fees, not worth the new fucking app, but if the gates of Six Flags can’t stop me…

          Not a believer, "the seer has a mirror;" hand-wavium voodoo keeps the imagination shocking twice. So if the point is to hold the Light Deer from the future so that the sun has to help you spread the warmth, then the fairy tale doesn’t matter; I’ll yell it again for the nosebleeds—get, get the stretcher--Let’s grow up with OUR gods. The template that best highlights the balance of a self with sufficiency as I stroll fast in sunglasses through it, I go with the Greek and 12 Olympians. It’s the basement that starts the climb up through the second wave childhood trauma (much less handwavium), the puberty of an origin story that ground-floors the lore. The shit before the birthday, ya, know? Depending on how this goes, I’ll expand if the novelette returns. Spread it out or something. Only if I don't rush.

          Think of churches, on Sundays if you like, as classes to strengthen the individual template to explore your wilderness. Sunday school for those willing to share the story. If you’re an adult, call it college, or whatever. Think conversations like, “…so there they are at the bottom, once again regretting taking the task up with a smile again, and let’s call them, I don’t know, Eunomia, and…” Brings you to the practice of interpreting the world through the context of your most basic humanity. As survival goes, we’d have to strive for the finish line generations ahead for this kind of vague betterment. Let’s say humanity’s connection to each other was non-negotiable, each of us separated in concrete boxes at birth, from chute to chute, concrete down to the door with a single slot. How long would it be before hearing through the cell walls takes to go from metaphorical to figurative to literal? Die in the walls, born in the mystery, again and again. Die in the isolation of permanent silence from your home, soul withering void of passion—yada-yada death sucks and blah blah. First a scent of that very need in question before you fully know there's another you out there. But if Darwin has a point, who's to say we’d learn to read bored, crying knocks on the walls, the bars. Read the vibration, however faint, from flatulence, like the way the T-Rex could from the other side, somehow. Why not the change in atmosphere from bodily scents, sweat outside, the only door that shares a hall, and the scent sends the call to action. How long before our oppressors fall?

          Can’t say that made any or all the sense. A rally cry left from the failed ages of me—the driver of this three-part set, steering through the disasters my brain can’t handle without a body. Who’s to say that I don't chauffeur the holder of—come a little closer—holder of a particular map with three of the most important stops on my route. The Great Undoing, Edge of the End, and the Official Starting place of All L’s Lucky Breaks, connector to further impossibilities. Not meant for me there, not, not meant for there, meant to indulge here where they can only dip a toe. “What would your toe look like?" Manicured? "Sharpie smile, can’t tell you what all the fancy titles mean." Not your mission to accept. *classified* “No hard feelings, Love.” Answering this question in kind acts, on top of grimy kind acts, on top of self-started, distinctly sketched-out rituals as the form of self-respect, would be a question that I’d give you a bonus weekend on the midterm deadline. Not the final! I grade on vacation, not a day later than one. Only if there was a way this part could happen naturally…????????????

          From the gut, “yours” establishes the voice of your intuition; make it the most natural sound, cadence for you to pick. You'll hear them a lot, distinct, but won't get worn out or get ruined by the reference aging poorly. Saves from redoing it over and over. Top of the dome shit so it really feels like you. Don't rush, like doing it. Find the power plant inside that scoffs at the Avatar. If the whole world knew they could choose, once and for all, for instance, the element that inspires your daily battles, unique matter bender empowerment through the checkout line and with the relic from that secret warlock in that forest from your neighborhood park that was devoured over almost the instant you became an adult. Taught you to turn fire into Tabasco and breathe the waters of the Arctic for the sinus infections, and remove the air of the stupid just until your headache dies down.

          Maybe the inner Hermes, “approves these scripts…” alongside a disgruntled Dionysus regretting his gambling fetish, formed an alliance to fix the hotel bill stamped by Persephone, ‘we should’ve just told Hades.’ Their powers, so plentiful, yet so specific, lacked the cover to stop Thalia from poisoning the sound waves to alert some prophetic, tan addict. Athena took on the challenge to test her aging aptitude and to stop the imminent death toll, duh, if that’s what you’re into. “Oops…” it spread through their creation, and further, plan B had screwed the pooch. Plan A, apparently, arrived with her blackmail material and an ache that permeated from some disturbance in the “Vibe” she had to fix for ‘love’s sake.’ Huh, prefers to remain anonymous. The molds were created for the final attempts. Earth-toned land dweller who won’t stop going over all of it. Maybe makes them too unsettled all the fucking time, maybe. Shocking type to catch lightning and speaks up from the roots. What's that...it's attaching to--what the hell sent that???!!!

My patience has gotten better. Less reactive.

Deep breaths don’t feel like a placebo; flows easier.

Tell me about your Religion.