I want it to be good. I want to feel it. I don’t want to just write it I want to feel it.
But I can’t feel it because there’s blocking, I’m blocking, and I won’t let it out. Can’t let it out.
It’s underneath. It’s way down there and it’s underneath.
I open up the front door, wonder what the beast is for.
I just put my hands around the leather wrapped steering wheel and drive. There are lights and they pass over me on the freeway. I’ve got a pistol on my lap.
It’s not about the details, I hate the details. It’s the bigger picture, the sad-denouement, the top of the mountain and the tip of my finger on the trigger.
It’s closer now and the more I tug on it the more I can see the surface begin to boil. Warts break out all over my disgusting arm. This is disgusting. This is what’s down there.
Their sad sons will always know the answers though.
Cathartic, without the needle. Spastic, this wasn’t part of the deal. Here we are now, at a crossroads, where my soul meets the telomeres in my DNA. Peeling back the skin, the connections are long and stringy. It makes a popping noise and again I think how disgusting this is.