It was getting colder out and the rodents were coming in for shelter. I could hear the mice running the walls while I tried to sleep. It wasn’t uncommon for me to feel one run across my feet when I brushed my teeth. Meg would chase the sounds of the mice in the walls and I was going insane. I had flies in the room. They would come in from cracks in the light covers and take over the place. One night I spent six hours killing every fly I saw with folded typing paper. I became obsessed with them. I would crouch behind the big stand after I had cleared the room of them and wait for one to crawl out from the ceiling, and I would spring on him and flatten him. I thought I would never get to Manhattan, I thought I would rot there. The car had been on empty for weeks. I had nowhere to go and no money. All I had was the warehouse and I was lucky I had that. I could feel my mind slipping away moment by moment. It had nothing to do with where I was or the lack of food or humanity. It had to do with the morbid process, my incessant repetition of speeding into brick walls, my travels further into failure. My own brother lived close and he didn’t give a fuck. Time came forth and showed me pictures only the dead could see.

I was not human anymore. I hadn’t used my vocal chords in over six weeks, aside from talking to Meg. I was barely surviving. I learned to adapt to Meg’s food but that made it go quicker. My brother in the south end drove over illegally one Sunday and gave me a twenty. When he walked in and saw me he had to stop and put it together. I was ashen, my ribs were showing. He took me out to eat but my stomach had shrunk and I couldn’t put down half a burger without getting full. He bought me a can of coffee and some groceries. I was able to live for a few days off the groceries. All I had was the typewriter. It was all I ever had. He wanted me to come stay with him in the south end. He even said Meg could live upstairs with me. I couldn’t do it. I convinced him that I was fine. I had become so addicted to being alone that even spending the day with him was painful.

Another month went. On my 29th birthday I locked the place down. I could see headlights outside of my room and I heard someone knocking but I didn’t get up. Insanity had come fast, but it came certain. I didn’t know if it was the years behind it, or if the room was simply the last straw, the snapped end of string with no time left to replace it. I knew that I had lost my mind sometime in the passing week, but coming to terms with it only lost it further. I wanted to be surprised that it had finally found me there in the room, but I wasn’t surprised. The time it took had been well-earned, since the age of 16. The speed of its arrival was only offset by things bigger than the room that I wouldn’t let break me. The room was only there to garnish the grave, what the room reflected was what I’d traded my mind for, to let it go without another fight in me.

I was dead and destroyed, wasted, sorry, lonely and fucked. I had once had women and people who believed in my work. I was once a human with honor and strength and muscular flesh. Now it was gone. Everything was so gone I wondered if it had ever existed. Maybe I was born in the room and everything had been a dream, a neuro-chemical hallucination brought on by flies crawling down my throat and copulating as I slept. I had quit masturbating because it exerted me, and it only made me hungry afterward. I was not even alive. I was a cell in a jar and I was being monitored by giants who had painted this life for me to live as though it was real. I inhaled deeply, closed my eyes and refused to breathe. Not because I wanted to die, but because I was bored with breathing. My body went through a cold wave and then it was dark.

I woke up with a headache and vomit on my chest. Meg was on top of me, licking my face. I was naked, and I reached down and counted the thin muscles that poked out of my stomach. I had eight of them. Eight was a magic number right then. I thought of scenarios with the number eight. If I cut off two toes and two fingers then I would have eight of each. If Johnny had ten apples and Susie ate two of them then how many apples would Johnny have left? Eight, goddamnit! Eight was a powerful figure! I drew figure eights in the air with my finger.

I was 29 years old and I was a loser. I had tried but I had failed. The world was good and sports were good and careers were good and a job meant success and only fools thought they could write. Brad came into my room and told me he wanted money for the utility bill. It was a total of two hundred and eighty-six dollars. I jumped up, and told him there was that number again. I told him I would give him eight-hundred and eighty-eight dollars in eight days. He backed away slowly and said whenever I got some money, that was good enough for him. He told me to take it easy, and he backed out the door. He had his hands up and he bumped his head walking out. I looked at Meg and she cocked her head at me.

I was a freak. I was wasting away by flesh, rotting away by soul. Where were my people now? They were out in the sunshine and they were making love and talking to God and God talked back to them. I was no concern of anybody’s anymore. I was now at the gates of my real self. I was born for the room. I was born to write in the room. Without the room I would blow away and die in the dusty wind.

One night I woke up to the sound of Meg growling deeply. I had never heard her growl like that. I reached back and flipped the light on. She had this huge rat cornered in the room. It was drawn back against the wall, hissing at her. It was horrible. He was big and vicious and his tail reminded me of a whip used to snap out my eyeballs. He took a scratch at Meg and I snapped. He was diseased and hungry and he had the heart of a demon. Then I got it. He was a demon, coming for me to take me away because I had even failed to do that on my own, and the devil was fed up with me. He sent the rat to me to gnaw out my esophagus in my sleep.

I stood and hissed back at him. He was watching me with those eyes and he wanted me. I picked up my typewriter and held it over my head and stepped toward him. He gave me a flash of death and I brought the typewriter down and killed him.

Meg jumped onto the couch when it hit. My typewriter was broken and he was on his back, a claw still ready, but the nerves died in seconds. His face showed pain, remorse to his master for not carrying out his work. I scooped him up and carried him out the door. He was heavy. I walked down the hall and saw myself in the big mirror. There I was, naked, holding this rat. My profile was sick. There were my ribs, and I had a six month beard and long scraggly hair. I saw the picture again and my mind rushed back into my skull. It hit me and I took one more look at the mirror and stumbled back against the wall and slid to the carpet, holding the rat and sobbing. I threw my head back against the wall and screamed. I sobbed and heaved and coughed up yellow and blood on the rat. I cried for him and for my life. I screamed for my mother in Heaven and for my soul, for a way to get back into my body and live again. I screamed at the ceiling and called my fate a worthless whore.

Outside I held the rat by his tail and swung him in circles until I let him go. He disappeared in the darkness, and I heard him thump far out in the grass. Back inside I turned the valve and scrubbed myself with hot water until my skin was red and raw and it pulsed. I spent the next hour bending and screwing my machine back to use.

I’m dying with the cowards

I’m dying with the heroes

and rapists

I’m dying with the barflies

and the sinners

I’m dying with you

we’re dying together

I’m dying with my dog

I’m dying with all the actors

and playwrights

I’m dying with the guitarists

and the painters

I’m dying with your people

my people

I’m dying with the cities and towns and countries

and skies

I’m dying with the warthog

and the Siamese fighting fish

I’m dying with the rivers and mountains

and music

I’m dying with everything natural

like I should

I’m dying with the flower, the pastry chef, the old men behind

the counters

I’m dying with millionaires and welfare getters

I’m dying with the children

and parks and playgrounds

I’m dying with famed athletes

I’m dying with animated voices from cartoons

I’m dying with designers and congress

I’m dying with science

and religion

I’m dying,

with

and without you.

Desert. Pint. 11:13 p.m.

right now in Barcelona

I'd be doing the same shit

or in Rome

or in Buckeye

the wait transcends

space and time and

ocean

but nobody does it

like they do it in

in the desert

sitting here outside of

it all

outside of the writing

the next book

the next hustle

all the next bullshit

sipping a Kilt Lifter

bonus lime wedges

from the belly shirt

and ass behind the bar

while outside the

moon burns white

above the mountains

drinking to forget

what I haven't done

or will never do

all the precious normality

I admire and despise

the constant condition

the constant weight

and lightness

the constant ghost

the hidden laughing bruise

the sick and tired prostration

before a night slowly wrapping

around us

a lotus dream before

the grip

sitting here at the bar

frontal lobe toggled

head change coming

the tapping in

mystery reopens

as the night moves

across the desert

winding and watching

the dirt and rock

and the grace of

moonlight

burning white

and shining

down

on all of this.

Nothing’s been the same since you

died

no matter how I slice it

no matter how I see it

no matter how much time attempts some bullshit move to heal it

You were in my blood and you will stay in my

blood

until my blood stops

and dries

your love and roots and every

bit of fur haunt me

no matter where I run

no matter which continent

or bar or highway

your little ghost

sits, sleeps, rides shotgun

your eyes the faintest of blue

looking wise in the sunshine

across the parks and ponds and lakes

and coasts

your little heart beating big enough

for my own

your belly against my palm

in all those shitty rooms

in shitty towns

or in the beds of

shitty women

you always knew I had

guts when nobody else

did

and you always knew I’d

pull us up and out of anywhere

we despised

closer to me than any human

will get

deeper under my skin than

my own bones

so far into my heart you’re still

the center

and though

your daddy was in jail

when you had to die

and though I don’t believe

in angels or anything beyond

carbon

you came to see me the first night

you were gone

and I held you on the slab in

the cell and fell asleep with my

hand on your stomach one last time

before you went off

to do something greater

than I could ever imagine

I want to take this afternoon

to tell you that I love you more than

anything

and no sacrifice I’ve ever made

to keep you

could hold a candle to how much

I still love you

six years past your

death

and I want to tell you here

that because of you

I know what unconditional love means

and if you were here now

I’d buy you the best of everything

even though you wouldn’t have

any idea what that means

but your little brother is almost

eleven now,

and he’s happy

and I still talk about you

and his tail still wags at the mention

of your name

and there’s even a little

girl in the mix now

she looks something like you

which is why she’s here

and while it’s true she doesn’t have your

shrewd, moody genius

I know you’d be proud that

I gave her a home

and on days like this

when the whiskey’s half gone

and I’m lost out on the road

while I wait for things to come through

while I cross my fingers and hope

things start to make sense

while I wait for the spines and brains around

me to grow

while tricky assholes have

siphoned my money

while I either do or do not

wait for eminent failure

or success

the Sun sits high and warm

and shines a beautiful

orange across the desert

while I sit in a hotel and

drink whiskey

to disappear back into

the days when you were

here

when I was alive

and we watched each other

swim

anywhere we chose

to swim

and while I’m sitting here

drunk

and staring into

darkness

I want to take this

moment

to tell you

I still love you.

Pedaling Old Town

lean back and pull up on the bars

five stair drop

-easy-

let the coffee course

and your beard go white

fuck the rules of them

their candy ass bullshit

if you contrast your blood with

their copulation and debt

you will only suffer

like they do

the only division being

your awareness

and while life

is not a contrast

keep an eye away

from those who

don't tread

deep water

but right now

fuck them

pedal, sweat

and think of

Nabokov, botany

roll past the

young ass and

flowers and find that

perfect spot

red brick bar outside

blasting Ozzy

lean the bike

and order the

Jack Coke

talk to your waiter

about Rome

about catacombs

or Chicago

your life in a hotel room

while you drive the States,

pause for a week

to

live again.

Back out here

in the wind

ignore writers who

bitch about age

it's all bullshit

their bullshit

keep your body lean

keep drinking

keep the fire in

your eyes

and the sex

sexy

the rest is there

only to pull you

down

by

their weak

grip.

Letʼs not fucking reduce it to play it safe

the drink isnʼt the conduit or reason

or a fucking weak road to write the truth or

an excuse

to hate without disclaiming anything

burn the reasons why not

burn the fucking effigies of

centuries-long bullshit

tricks of the old page

manipulation of the weak and trusting

adulterers and thieves and con-men

working under the guise of loving

Christ,

of bullshit virtues

repeated forgiveness of sin

fuck each and every one of these

deficients

the still and nowhere dark of death

waits for them like everyone else

the earth will harvest them

as fast as the dead before them

and behind them is

the damage left for theirs

through which to sift and work

while honest men bleed

or give until they bleed and

and some of them need to

women misused and abused

and some of them need to be

the damage of all this infects the children

mass-connected and sprawled out

informed and dead and lost on risk

soft in the gut

soft in the instinct

all our lives 100 years left

at best

pigs rooting in greed

fat ass fucks

take at the trough

steal with smiles

our children raped

with ideals of

kneeling pigs

with one eye

on the door

the lack of grace and the forgotten

feel of cold sun at dawn

the first kiss

the first caress

the first sounds

of the water breaking shore

or the metallic taste of

stardust beneath the

panhandles of road

and dirt

extinction of travel,

of the hunt

the love of us relegated to

acceptance of anything

that stays out of the way

regardless of its size or stupid

recklessness

while outside the moon bears down

upon a tired old mother

polluted and disfigured

her oceans diseased

with the dream of pigs

but beyond this filth

the stars still shine

upon the artists

the blood from broken

calluses

the heat of

animal sex

the riffs of loud music

the clay of sweaty smocks

the stretching of new canvases

the words that run across the page

you know like I know

the truth

is ours

still

and the

true world

is here still

for us to dine

upon the

flesh

of

pigs.

At the table writing to War Pigs Saturday, summer hanging on

tooth and nail

shot of Blanton’s to drain the

remains: jockey riding cork and riff and the

fucking weight of these vocals

the distinctiveness

the acid blood encased in metal

giants ahead of their time

sitting here thinking about

the music that raised me

from classic country

to punk

to thrash

to Coltrane

to Jane’s

to Slayer, Simone, Buckley

Don Williams

and along the entire thread that spirals

umbilical

from

the head to the keys

as it was before any type of screen

and like it is now, across the

static of technology

remaining still is the grip of

centuries

the ink well of Dos

and the parchment of

Schopenhauer

the speed of a laptop

or touch screen

all of it is a

vessel of speed stopping time

with words to music

all the greats who’ve gone before

to pave inroads

for such broken thoughts

of youth

that ran into cities of age

and somehow

boulevards of luck

after alleys of shit and sweat

and gamble

rolled over and exposed

the fields lush green

the smell of published books

the scars less visible across

the knuckles

the bullshit edge of

labor fields at dawn

or the fucking faces in the factories

and warehouses

traded off to anecdotes,

to stories over

beers in Europe

or Texas

or from the table

while Black Sabbath

reminds me how bad

and good today exactly is

the metal pours out

from the speakers

across the table

down my arms

onto the

broken roads

and boulevards

into the cities

moving

toward

you.

Afternoon at the table

out there the clouds sit grey

and the homeless stay lean

the end of summer

the end of high noon

the end of heat and sweat

and chlorine nose

the short autumn closes in

on the mountain

white noise TV

brain rotting in the fucking

vacuum of this town

keep the heart heavy, though

keep the heart heavy and

your next move close

any town or or city or place

that constantly reminds you

of your own death is a fucking

bad place to be

sitting here thinking about

the water, the coasts, even

the lesser weight of other

deserts

thinking about old love

gone or moved on

thinking about Italy

thinking about the blood orange moon

over the fields of South Dakota

somewhere on a road there

out in that space

lost but freed from all the bullshit

all the stress

all the subterfuge and sacrifice and

sallow skin from fallow thoughts

from fear

we put ourselves where we do

kill the TV

blast High on Fire and tap shuffle

catch up on what you know

the metal thatʼs missing

let it bleed into Miles Davis

kill the tech and set the needle

carefully onto

Seven Steps To Heaven

pour the shot

itʼs just a Wednesday

itʼs just a page thatʼs despised

you over a long break

but they're everything

refracted and reflected

the sadness of a white moon

saxophone

the heart of a hungry cat

with nowhere and nobody

while the day becomes the page

like it used to be

like itʼs supposed to be

all the lost wind of you

all the lost feeling

the numbness that seeps in

being pushed back

the worries for nothing

let the record turn and

ignore the inner voices

pitted against you

let them wait

the blood inside you

only wants to survive

caustically or creatively

and it will end in either.

and to forget the words

that save you will

end you that way

to forget the blood orange

moon you've fought to

protect and preserve

to let the grey days

and sentences slip through

the cracks of false busyness

through tiny screens

and mass disconnection

will end you that way

all the disgraces that quietly

build upon the heart

the mind

swimming in your blood

reaching for shores

lost and forgotten

under a sun that burns

away the film of such

disgusting things

the long and short works

of yours

the long and short

nights and days

without escape or purpose

destroy this

while out there the clouds

sit grey

and the homeless

stay lean

you know where you belong

where itʼs always been

waiting for you

afternoon at the table

flip the album

and set it down on

Side 2

let the garbage wait

for someone else

in all the grey areas

in here you

have mountains

to burn.

Already faded

four nights of destruction

brain cells torn back

from the hours and faces

all the fucking plastic bullshit

burns from ash to air

sitting here waiting

skull on fire

bones in flames

blood racing for more damage

while the whiskey barely

scratches the surface

the mid-life Chrysler

waiting in the driveway

the fucking smell of burnt dirt

and lack of love

lack of grace

all of it waits

in the shit-high desert

but also there

my angel dogs wait

for their dad

them without the need

to see the bay and salt water

the barely legal pussy

bouncing by the rearview

showing everything

them home asleep on my bed

without the need for travel

or Europe or American coasts

or anything under their belts except

a warm, familiar touch

a kiss below their eyes

a walk around the block

unaware of the deficiencies

of today

I sit here drunk

and faded

texting onto

an app I thought of

regardless

of any and all bullshit

this baby came from me

and while I'm not needing

or wanting response or praise

I want to say that it was supposed

to be so much more

and it just might get there

solely because of you

dear writers

and only because of you

and before my ass gets

lifted and propelled

36 thousand feet skyward

across three hours down

to the house

in case the flight goes

down in flames

I want to let you

know that I love

each and every one

of you crazy

motherfuckers

and to thank you

from the depths of

my heart

for being

here

and

tattooing

the arms

of

my

motherless

child.

I grabbed the sack from over the counter and watched a guy leave through the door. I barely missed it. I waited around for someone else to walk through. I breathed out and walked toward it. Nothing. I backed up, walked forward, nothing. I walked back by the bathroom, stared off casually, approached the door and tried to sneak up on it. Nothing. The woman behind the counter was watching. I stared off. She walked around the counter and played with the little sensor box at the end of the glass, “Strange, this has never happened here."

I glanced at her hairy mole, dead square on her nose, "This happens to me, always does. This is why I donʼt wear a watch."

She looked at me, "Why canʼt you wear a watch?"

"No, I can wear one, but it stops once I put it on. Iʼm cursed."

"So," she laughed, "if you wouldnʼt have come in here today, the door wouldnʼt have broken?"

"Thatʼs right."

"You're lying."

"Think about it, every time I come in here, I always have to run up on somebody else coming in, or leaving. Maybe you could let me out the back."

"Sure, but hold on."

She waved a cook over. He knelt down beside the door and began working at the sensor. A couple stood behind us, waiting to get out.

"Okay," he nodded, "now try."

I looked at the woman and tried. Nothing. I backed away and told the couple to go ahead. The couple stepped to the door. It slid right open. I followed them out. The door growled at me. Up the sidewalk I threw my hands in my pockets. The food was warm against my side.

"Excuse me."

I let her catch up to me.

"That was crazy," she said, "you really break things like that? I mean, itʼs working fine now."

"Itʼs technology. In my old car, everything was manual. Everything. No electric windows or automatic transmission. No CD player. I had a new car once, for one minute, my ex-girlfriend's. Sheʼd just got it. I sat inside while it was running and everything shut off. She had it towed and they gave her another one, but the same thing happened. She broke up with me the next day. Well, we were on the skids long before that, so…"

"You're lying."

We were at my front door. I took my hat off and wiped my hair back from my face, "Iʼm not. I was born with it. You can imagine the hell I grew up with."

I looked behind me. She had followed me into the house. She saw my typewriter and my desk, scattered pages and a full ashtray.

"You write?"

"Yeah."

"What?"

"Everything. Twice a week I help this girl mow and trim yards. But right now I do piece work for a London magazine."

"Piece work?"

"I freelance for them."

"Freelance?"

"Forget it."

I looked in my room. My bike was in there. Her weed was gone and there was a note saying that she came by but I was gone. No shit. I threw the note in the garbage. It bounced off the can and hit the floor. I reached down to pick it up but it jumped up in my hand and I threw it away. It happened to me once in a while. The woman had seen it. She looked up to me and froze:

"El Diablo!"

It dawned on me that she was Mexican. My neighborhood was Mexican, so I hadnʼt paid any mind. Then everything else dawned on me:

"El Diablo- wait. Iʼm not the devil. Itʼs my chemistry. You know how some people can pour acid onto their hands? I saw a guy on this show once, he poured acid on his skin in front of his students and nothing happened to him. In my case, anything electrical or technology based invented after I was born breaks around me. Itʼs just science."

I stared down to her and smiled. She backed toward the door, "No, no no no no. You're the devil. Stay away from me."

She slammed the door and walked back to work. She was crazy. I lit up. I sat down and hit the machine. I wrote a long poem about the bakery woman. I laid on the couch and read through a book I had started to write. I grew bored. I jacked off and took a nap.

After midnight I was laying around in bed. It was still raining. I heard someone knocking. I wrapped myself in my blanket and looked out my window. I didnʼt recognize the car. I opened the door. The bakery woman. She was wearing her bathrobe. I shook my head at her and laughed.

"What are you doing here?"

"You are the devil. I know it."

It was cold outside. I opened the door all the way.

"Alright, have it your way, Iʼm the devil. Come in before you catch something."

She came in. I closed the door and locked it. She followed me back into my room.

I walked into the kitchen and ran the hot water, "I have one pack of hot chocolate left. You want it?"

She hissed from my room, "No hot chocolate with the devil!"

I turned it off and sat on my bed, "Toss the devil his boxers."

She flicked them up at me with her foot. I dropped the blanket and dressed. I threw on my sweater and grabbed a pair of socks and walked to the bathroom, got warm and combed my hair back. I sat on my bed. She hadnʼt moved. She stood in the middle of the room and stared at me. I lit a smoke, "Look, sweetheart, you're starting to give me the creeps. Sit down or something."

"The devil," she said.

"Oh, Jesus Christ, how-"

"NO! Donʼt say that word! You are the most evil! I feel it off you!"

"Listen to me, if I was the devil would I be living here, in this shit hole, working for daily cash and writing for a British magazine? Seriously, get off my ass."

"I'll show you," she said.

I laughed, "Show me."

She reached inside her robe and around her back and pulled out a pistol. I jumped back on the bed:

"Whoa, whoa, whoa. Calm down. Baby, you donʼt want to do this."

She screamed and pulled the trigger.

I saw the smoke leave the barrel. I saw the bullet spiraling in front of my face in slow motion. In slow motion, I cocked my head at it while it spun there and hung in front of me. Everything went back to normal speed. I didnʼt know how I did it, but I swiped the bullet from the air and threw it backward at the gun. It went back into the barrel and everything went down in reverse. The smoke went in and the gunshot went in reverse and there was a click and there and there was silence. Instinct came in. The gun broke loose from her hand and flew across the room into mine. I held it on her. She stared at me coldly, "You see, you are the devil."

I looked at the gun. I was sweating. I closed my eyes and the gun was no longer.

"You need to leave," I told her.

She ran out. I jumped up and ran to the mirror. I stripped naked and studied my body. I had a receding hairline and a gut. In the mirror I watched my hair become full and longer, and my stomach tightened to an athleteʼs form. I made my cock long and thick. I held it in my palm and smiled a mean smile. Was I the devil? Could it be that I was the devil? I searched my scalp for the number. Nothing. I searched my right palm for the number. Nothing. I tried to think evil, harmful thoughts against the world. Nothing. How could I be the devil? Then I got it. I was dreaming. A twisted dream. Iʼd had them before and regularly, but this one had them beat by miles. I walked back to my bed and made myself sleep it off.

Morning. Bright out. I thought about the dream and shook my head. Stupid. The Devil, The Lord, Santa Claus and the Great Pumpkin. I felt foolish over having the dream, over the drama of it. The bakery woman and the gun, the bullet. I decided I needed to get out more, go downtown and meet some girls, get a decent job and so forth. I was afraid that I was losing my mind. I felt good that morning, though. I usually woke up coughing. But I felt charged. I even felt virile. I didnʼt even stretch. I leaped out of bed and ran the water in the bathroom sink. I splashed some water on my face and wiped my hair back quickly with my reflection. I turned and opened the cabinet behind me to grab my contact lenses case. I slammed the cabinet door and turned slowly back to the mirror. I jumped out of the bathroom and approached the mirror piece by piece. There was my perfect body, long hair and eyes that could see through walls. I tried to feel fear but I couldn't. I extended my arm and watched the veinwork course smoothly down to my fingers. There was the new cock. I looked into the backyard of the house next door. I put my pants on and walked out back.

I had this neighbor. This tall, sexy, Mexican woman who was married with a little baby. Her husband was a big Mexican. I would sometimes peek through my blinds and masturbate while I watched her in her backyard, her bikini riding up her big brown ass while she bathed in the sun and smoked her long cigarettes, watching her baby sleep on the blanket across from her. She was out in her garden. I watched her out there, on her knees in a long bedshirt, nude underneath, picking those miniature tomatoes and placing them in the front of her shirt, pulled up just high enough to where you could see the front of her thighs and a small, magic tuft of hair. She had never shown interest in me, maybe a few disgusted looks as I smiled and waved to her from my backyard, while I played fetch with my dog, on the many afternoons she was out back, lying in the sun. I walked to the fence line. She looked up at me. I didnʼt see the baby. My guess was the kid was at her mother's, an old Spanish lady who drove a big station wagon. I stared at her. She looked me up and down. I walked over the fence like it was a small step. She had this look to her. She knew and I knew. I stopped in front of her and dropped my pants. She grabbed my cock and stuffed it in her mouth. It was genius. I pulled out and walked around her and dropped to my knees. I flipped her shirt back and drove it in, pounding into that hard flesh with a vengeance, pounding until she bucked and shook with orgasms, which I made last 20 minutes for her. I zipped up. Just for good measure, I gave her another one without even touching her. She fainted.

Back inside, half an hour later. I was watching from my bedroom window. She was doing work about her yard, singing in Spanish. I waved her over and gave it to her one more time.

I quit the lawn job. In the next couple of days I fucked whichever woman I wanted, wherever I felt like it. The corporate bitches riding the elevators downtown were good, as was the teller in the bank and even the older artist looking chick in the bookstore. The coffee shop girls were always fun, and the otherwise stuck up women who worked retail or restaurants or the lingerie stores. I wondered if I was really the devil, or if I had been blessed with a gift. I no longer had a problem with technology. After I had sex with a waitress in the womenʼs bathroom, I decided I was fucked out for the first time in my life.

I needed money. I would walk into banks and the tellers would hand me over envelopes of it. I never had to say anything to them. Iʼd nod and theyʼd smile and hand it over. Cameras were useless against me. Audio was useless against me. I had no fingerprints. I had no government. I moved into my mansion in West Austin, right on the lake. Paid cash. I had no bills, no hassles, no tax bullshit. Well, not after the IRS man came over in a shitty mood to audit and bust me. I showed him his whole family scattered, naked and gutted on my front lawn. Laid out before him was also his own death, his head on a post, his guts around the waist of his lower body, slid down the post from his detached head, his heart stuck in his mouth. He left and never came back, nor did his kind. I never actually hurt anyone, but what I could show them was horrifying.

I learned the full potential of my gift. I had the vision of a hawk, the gift of flight, the gift of invisibility at my choosing. One afternoon I was flying nude around a tall treetop in my back yard, when the lady who does my gardening caught me. She saw me, so I hovered behind a bushy branch and she shook it off and went back to her work. I could never expose myself to the mortals. That would end my fun. Years went by me like nothing. I had not aged. I had never felt better. I went in for a physical once, and the doctor was amazed at the perfection beneath my skin and blood and veins. My lungs were pink, though I loved smoking. My heart and liver were brand new, everyday. But I still did not feel evil. I learned to enter my television and fuck the actresses, the models, even a few anchorwomen. I was a famous writer now, doing readings in different cities and countries and writing at the top of my form. There were talk shows, magazine interviews, my phone ringing off the hook. I had no troubles with the paparazzi. Not after the first time.

I had 38 wives living with me, all sterile. They were between 17 and 23 years old, from all around the globe. I also kept a few older ones around, for when the mood struck me. Sometimes I had them all at once, all of them on all fours, in a big circle by the pool.

But I was not an evil devil. There was the crippled man I passed in the crosswalk downtown. I breathed on him and he straightened and walked normally. It caused an accident, after the woman in her car watched me fix him, but no one believed her, not even after the man I healed backed up her story. There was the blind person to whom I gave sight, on many occasions. The looks on the faces of the now seeing were truly beautiful. Never again was a child going hungry, never a cold person anywhere. I vanquished AIDS and cancer. I cured several problems and took no credit. A lot of hospitals were shut down, but I liked that, too.

My life grew dull with no enemies. I thought of ways to make the mortals resent me, but I didnʼt have the heart or desire. Every woman wanted me, men wanted to be me. I had used the gift to its fullest, the shower rooms at private girls schools, the flights through outer space, sleepovers on the moon, the soothing over of pain, the complete destruction of pain, whenever I heard of something in pain. My dog would never die now. I was never going to die.

I dropped by the bakery one day to see the woman. She told me that she knew I was behind everything but that I was still the devil. I blew onto her face and the mole vanished. Her body became thin and youthful. She screamed:

"GIVE IT BACK!"

I gave it back to her. She walked off.

I was turning the key to my house when I felt a chill. None of my wives were around. I dropped the keys on the mantle and walked around the corner in to my living room. Two men were sitting on my leather couch. I knew who they were. I just didnʼt want to believe it. But they had no other way into the house. The main guy was older, white hair and a white beard. The other was not as old. He wore a smooth-ass suit and wore his long hair casually behind his ears. His beard was just like it was in the paintings. They were completely beautiful. They stared at me. I sat beside the couch in my recliner. I went to light a smoke. No flame. I tried again.

"Not now, Benjamin," said the suit.

I placed the smoke on the table, "Look, you guys, I never asked for this."

The old man shot me a look. His son sat there, his hands folded on his knees. He spoke, "We know about you. There was an accident."

I sat back and stared at the old man, "I canʼt tell you how strange this feels. You two look human."

The old man stared at me, "We're not like them, but we need to talk to you."

His voice sent shockwaves throughout my body. It was shocking. Nothing had shocked me in years.

The son started:

"It began forty years ago, in this time schedule, you were in the hospital in Peoria, St. Francis Hospital, 6:23 p.m., half an hour after you were born. You know about the other one, the dark one, the fallen."

"Satan," I said firmly.

"Well, he sent his breath over the seas to find the chosen one, the one to who was born with his mark, the one to completely change then abolish life here. This has been planned since, well, you wouldnʼt understand. ‘Satan’ -as he is referred to here, does not have the power my father has. He had to physically make contact with the one born with his blight, though be it a powerful, formidable blight. Because of the laws my father made for him, he could not acquire flesh to personally touch the child, so he sent his breath as the deliverer, the way he has to operate from where he is, the way evil really works here. He can be seen to other immortals, but he could never walk amongst the people, thatʼs only a myth, but he can destroy them and see them at all times. Trust us, he knows everybody, this is still his world, and he runs it completely and mercilessly, but my father still owns it."

I looked to the old man. He rubbed his beard and stared at me. I noticed neither one of them had blinked the whole time. Then it occurred to me that I hadnʼt blinked in years. His son continued:

"It was a matter of timing for him. You donʼt remember this, but the nurse rolled your bed closer to the window for your family to see you, and in the process she had to roll the bed with the chosen one aside to get you closer, and at that moment, the travel of centuries and water and land the breath had journeyed hit you instead. And because you were oblivious to it, it made your life awkward. This is why you felt sick. This is why you would disable manʼs technology with your presence. This is why you healed instantly after you were hurt, why you donʼt age, and so on."

"Then why was I aging before that fat chick from the bakery discovered me?"

"You were aging because you were ignorant toward your purpose. The human mind is powerful, Benjamin. Note that once you accepted it, everything stopped dying in you. You had to be a man anyway, and the woman from the bakery was not sent by us."

"Oh, so she was sent by the devil. That makes sense."

"Sure, but she thought she was doing our work, thatʼs a pretty common trick for him to pull off here, and he was hoping youʼd destroy the world. But you donʼt have the vision the other would have had."

"Yeah. What happened to that guy?"

The old man cracked a helpless smile. The son nodded to the floor, "His family moved to Kentucky. He works at Auto Zone."

I broke out laughing. They did not. They wanted to, though.

"Let me get this straight. The Antichrist is selling starters in Kentucky, and I get to rule the earth."

"Yes, but you donʼt rule the earth."

"Wait, you two didnʼt come here to end me, did you?" I looked at the old man, "I mean, I'll change whatever it is thatʼs bugging you."

The son nodded to me, "We are not human. To see us in our natural state would kill you, even with the breath of the fallen you have in you."

"Thanks. I need a smoke, guys. Please."

They let me light up.

"I was always a non-believer before this."

"We know, Ben. But now we have a problem."

"What? The women? I'll cut back."

The old man rubbed his eyes. The son shook his head, "Itʼs not the women. We will never lie to you Ben, you wouldnʼt have made it to Heaven, anyway, but now we need to come to an agreement."

"I have questions first."

"Oh?"

"Please."

He leaned back and sighed, "I'll give you a few."

"Which religion is the right one?"

The old man smiled sadly. His son answered:

"None of them."

"Are all sins really equal?"

"No."

I looked at the old man:

"Have you changed with the times? Because if you havenʼt then everybodyʼs going to Hell."

The old man looked to his son. The son smiled, "Good questions, Benjamin. Heaven has always been for the pure, regardless. That hasnʼt changed. In this world there is no more purity. Religion, like faith, is all ego now, all self."

"So everybody goes down."

"Yes and no." The son glanced his beautiful eyes over my shoulder and continued, "At birth, everybody belongs to my father, no matter what the parents have done, whether the mother took drugs during the pregnancy, whether the life was a product of rape or out of marriage. But it never takes long for the life to become taken in by evil, even if, and this is almost every case, the life isnʼt aware that itʼs evil. Granted, it sounds unfair, but itʼs not, and itʼs the way it will always be. Benjamin, somebody else is here right now."

I turned quickly over my shoulder. I knew it. There he was, sitting at the table behind me: Dressed in black, dark hair combed back shiny, an angular, insanely chiseled face. He shot me the worst stare I have ever seen. I heard the sonʼs voice:

"I donʼt think you need an introduction, Benjamin."

I looked back to the son. I could feel the devilʼs desire to be near the old man. The old man wouldnʼt even look at him. The son told me this was the first time the three of them had been together since the first of time. I walked to my fridge, "This is too much." I pulled a beer from the shelf. I held it up, "Anyone else need a beer?"

The devil put his hand up, "Right here." He caught it. I twisted mine open and sat back down, "So, what, you guys hate me now?"

The son smiled, "No, Benjamin, far from it." He motioned to the devil behind me, "But he hates you."

I waved it off without turning around, "I donʼt care about that."

The devil threw his beer at me. I reached back and caught it behind my head without looking. I set it carefully on the table. Iʼd just bought that table. I tilted my beer at the son, "Alright. How do I stay out of Hell?"

"Well, you've given the world a new beginning, Benjamin, no more disease, no more pain, nice touch."

"Thanks, man."

"But now you need to give it up. Itʼs your gamble."

I swallowed my beer, "Gamble?"

The son sat back, "Listen, Benjamin, to tell you the truth, I never planned on coming back here. I mean, can you blame me?"

"No, but all the believers were planning on it, the evangelists and their con, they bet on it, live off it."

"We have a special Hell planned for them, a very special Hell."

"Good."

"But now my father is taking a second sight on this world. He sees goodness now. He sees that people are truly caring for each other again, caring without any thought of gain for themselves, and for that, heʼs reopened Heaven for the masses."

The room felt lighter. I smelled sulfur.

"Whatʼs that smell?"

The son nodded over my shoulder.

"He left," the son stared at me, "heʼs angry."

"Boo-hoo." I put out my smoke.

"Everything here will be yours, Ben. You will be in Heaven. You can keep the writing job. But you have to give back this gift you think you have, to let the people start on their own from here now, a clean start, to truly show my father that without trouble the world will be good."

"But this means I will die. Eventually."

"Of course. But I may come back again, and if I do, you go straight to Hell, to the inferno, the fiery lake or whatever itʼs called now. Either way, you will have a total and perfect separation from my father then, and believe me, youʼd rather die here first."

I looked beyond them, to my pool and my dog sleeping outside, under my pecan tree. I never wanted to give it up. The son leaned forward, "Listen, Benjamin. Why donʼt we just kill you, right here? I know you've been wondering about that. Contrary to what you are taught to fear, my father is not a murderer. My father is fair. But with this misplaced breath you have, which we need from you to continue Revelation, this gift will lead you into evil. Thatʼs unavoidable. You canʼt imagine that right now, but it is. Give it back and live normally within your born flesh. And pick out one woman and have children. Be a good man, Ben. Your heartʼs in the right place. Walk a straight line and you'll have a long, happy life. Iʼd advise you to stop smoking. You've done well, a few indiscretions aside. At least you didnʼt run for president, that was refreshing."

"I donʼt have to go to church, do I?"

"No. No one really had to go to begin with."

"No?"

He sighed, "Most of the questions are misconceptions, Ben. Right now you know more than anyone else here has or will ever know. All other questions you have will be answered when you die, thatʼs one of the few facts mankind didnʼt misconceive."

I watched them stand.

"Wait, what do I do now?"

The son smiled, "You'll know, Ben. You're smart."

They walked by me. The father squeezed my shoulder:

"Do whatʼs right, Benjamin.”

As good as I felt the morning Iʼd first awoke with the gift, the touch dwarfed that feeling. I felt bright and weightless. I felt the purest sense of joy and warmth, of love and understanding the entire universe of time and beginning and end, all one motion, all beautiful. I also understood that when I was going to die, I would be old with all my senses, I would know before it happened and it would be painless. I watched them walk out of them room and leave through the front door. I thought it had style.

I spent the rest of the afternoon wiping out nuclear everythings, wiping out the order of stupidity an all forms, wiping out disgrace. Just after dark, I had this feeling gnawing at me. I jumped off my couch and let my dog inside. Out back, I walked far to the middle of my property, shedding my clothes with each darkened step. I stood in the middle of my life and opened my arms at the sky, leaned my head back and breathed in deeper than I ever had, so deep and hard that I saw colors going into my mouth. I took the breath in deeper still, and when I exhaled I could feel a crack beginning to open down my chest from my throat and I screamed out and the trees shook and the ground trembled, and it was only then, at the end of it, that I realized what I had been playing with. I realized why a visit from them was necessary. I realized that I had not been using the gift to even one percent of its potential. It was incredible and nihilistic, but mainly what I did not use of the gift, the meaning of it, was pure evil, unlike the little edges I had polished and used. No wonder the devil was pissed. I reached down and pulled my chest apart. The colors and the death and the blood of many who were to die from it but did not because of the way Iʼd used it, all of these were sent forth from my body and tunneled upward into the sky with a blast of color and thunder and deafening cries for souls, for the damned it would never harvest. I watched it explode sideways and cover the sky and for a second the whole world was a negative of a photograph and I collapsed to the ground and went into a small coma.

I awoke there, nude. It was daylight and I walked to the pool, dove in, swam underwater to the other side, jumped out and walked into my house. It was all over the news, the flash and noise from last night. The trembling. People thought it was either a meteor or the second coming. Or a bomb. Or alien holocaust. I let my dog out and walked to the bathroom and toweled off. I had my gut back and only a little less hair than Iʼd had before I was discovered. I think itʼs stopped receding. I keep it short now, anyway. I have a beautiful wife. Our kids are 6 and 8. The world, well, we shall see. No one can ever know what I know, but they wouldnʼt listen if I told them. Tonight my wife took the kids and some of their friends over to the school to watch a Christmas play. My kids arenʼt in it. I sat down in my study and worked a few hours through my 17th novel. I keep the devilʼs beer bottle on a shelf by my window. Itʼs filled with sand and used for a bookend.