“God, I love you Fredrick,” Jessica whispered as ecstatic tears streamed her lovely face, “but, never do anything that stupid again. I couldn’t imagine losing you…”

I held Jessica close to me, savoring all she was, savoring this moment and burning it into my soul. It seemed like forever that I felt a woman’s love this honestly. Fred didn’t deserve her, nor did he deserve the honor for bravely ending the hostage situation at the bank. It was all me, using his body to do it. Once I leave it, he will remember all of it as a dream. I’ll remember it forever though. “I love you too, Jess. More than I’ll ever be able to truly show you.”

I kissed her sweet lips, tasted her tears and our passions upon them, savoring her for one more moment before letting my soul detach from Fred’s body; from these lives that just for a few days, I made a bit better. I let go, but it was harder this time. Jessica almost made it worth breaking my self-appointed rule about possession. Almost.

I let go completely, and let my scared body call my soul back like a lodestone. I cried silently once I was back in my broken prison. More from the loss of her than my condition; a coma I am aware of but haven’t been able to wake from. Tomorrow, I will slip into someone new, and make them a hero for the day. For purpose. Because I can.

The irony is in how you feel me.

In the heat of Summer sun, I am that distortion in the road, 

     a mirage - a blur in the Earth's matter. 

The simple curiosity gleaming in your black-cat's eye

is the motion and static of my silhouette.

In the shower, alongside the moist suppleness of your skin,

I am the steam clinging to the glass encasing you -

     press your fingertips into my shadow.

When the lights turn down and your eyelids are heavy,

I am that sudden chill down your spin, 

     the tingle on the back of your neck,

     the air brushing hair across your vanilla forehead, 

     the coolness in your sheets,

     the sensation vibrating below you - 

          surging deep in your abdomen,

          rising.  

The irony is in how you feel me - 

     - invisible me - 

satisfied with the thought that you are completely alone.  

I'm cruising at 50,000 feet, propelled by laboratory-forged pterodactyl wings, the earth nothing more than a blue and green cat's eye marble below. I climb into the stratosphere, higher and higher. I've never felt farther from the sun.

I was assembled in a Petri dish. Vein-infested wings sprout from my shoulder blades, stretching 12 feet in each direction. My respiratory system more fighter jet than human, high altitudes offer no obstacle. I am the first of my kind. I am the only of my kind.

The boon-turned-curse of flight has no patience for walking. I never strolled through the park, I never danced with a girl at a party, I never waited in line for a movie on opening night. I was always above. My legs are useless with atrophy. Even as I soar, they dangle sadly like a marionette's wooden limbs.

Birds are my closest companions. Though their chainsaw squawks declare that I am not welcome in their flocks, I find I have more in common with these plumed aviators than I do with the creatures on the ground. My one-man flock migrates from town to town, never calling any place home.

And I suppose even an anti-hero needs a catchphrase: Never fly before you walk.

Tactic 1: Win once, then refuse a rematch. No one said you have to keep fighting them just because they won't stay down.

Tactic 2: Don't fight them; sneak past them. They can't reset if they can't find you.

Tactic 3: Convince them to join your party. Clearly they are an invaluable asset.

Tactic 4: Hack into the code and disable resets. Of course, if you lose that won't be pretty...

Tactic 5: Beat them again and again and again until they rage quit. Even if it's an AI, it has to give up some time.

Tactic 6: Turn them to stone or trap them.

Tactic 7: Run away screaming IRL because clearly there is something NOT RIGHT about this game.

——1:00am.——

i feel empty

TIRED

my arms hurt.

just throbbing, dull agony.

but i just want to write.

please just let me fucking write.

oh but!

first i should say

please excuse the style of this piece

drugs change writers

drink changes poets

heart-break changes—

well, you get the picture.

AHA!

finally.

now i am starting to come up.

finally.

it’s fading.

finally.

i can write.

the flavor of the week

the drug of the day

the chemical of the night

is dextromethorphan!

change of pace i figure.

my favorite

my backup

my ennui

my last choice

my—

“i can’t handle being sober tonight”

it’s the only drug

whose side effects

include contradictions

and forgotten convictions.

it’s the only time i’ve really had any drug

do anything besides numb me.

which is—SCARYCRAZYAMAZING—

but in such an incredible way.

once more,

dxm is a funny drug

it doesn’t envelop you in euphoria like mdma

it doesn’t numb the ubiquitous pain that everyone feels

but no one talks about.

(like painkillers,

!!!

my first love.)

dxm?

to be specific

is a dissociative.

but that isn’t really the best way to describe it.

it’s close though

because DXM rends soul from body

it RIPS soul from body

you are no longer you

you are

just

*blank*

it’s hard to put into words

but i guess maybe it’s a bit like

you are on the outside for the first time

looking in at yourself

looking at your life

your health

your house

your job

your dog

your girlfriend

your fucking car

and realizing

how petty and unimportant your desires are

your wants

your aspirations

your greed

your lust

your envy

because DXM

is a drug that kills your ego

and i bet

now you are thinking

“FREUD”

we all know him

all your problems?

SEX. (or)

YOU WANT TO SEX YOUR MUM.

we make jokes,

but fuck

he was

and will always be a genius.

he had his moments

as we all do

the rantings and ramblings of insomniacs

the racing thoughts and ravings of madmen

even Joyce

that fuck

with Ulysses

with his stream-of-consciousness

(fuck that book.)

it all means something.

but to the point

Freud with his id, ego and superego.

found what not many of us will ever admit

realizing that here it is, finally!

that fucking monster

that parasite

that thing!

that is devouring us from the inside out.

that fucking monster

that parasite

that thing!

that IS US from the inside out.

and it’s nice.

to be able to think about these things

to be able to write these things

to be able to read these things

to be able to do drugs

to be able to tell drugs to fuck off

to drink yourself yellow

to smoke yourself black

to be saved by religion

to be devoured by religion

to be able to exist.

maybe that’s the important thing?

i don’t even know

if my pieces have important things

to say anymore.

well.

——6:00am.——

i’m coming down now.

it’s not a bad feeling.

DXM, thankfully, has an afterglow.

but hangovers aren’t just diarrhea and puke.

they can be much worse.

if you don’t keep a hold of yourself

if you don’t have a firm grip on your soul

your hangover will be in a padded white room

rather than a hard, porcelain one.

i’m telling you

when you reach that fork in the yellow wood

don’t take this fucking path

fuck whether or not it’s been traveled on.

i feel like bit by bit

i’m stripping away

the paint and and lacquer

the flowery wallpaper and lonely drywall

that covers what’s inside me

what is there

even i

don’t know.

thank god at least

tonight i won’t have to mug the sandman

and thank god at least

i’m done tearing wallpaper down for the day.

i’m afraid

that it’s ugly under there.

but mostly i’m terrified

that it’s...

[omitted].

I've tried to learn to close my mouth

So shitty things don’t tumble out

It’s been suggested many times

The shutting of this mouth of mine

It is no easy skill to master

Lips race words but words move faster

The syllables like Nascar drivers

Dodging insight and saliva

Up the throat toward sweet ejection

Speeds untamed by circumspection

Through a mouth that’s always gaping

Catching air as they’re escaping

Pure emotion rips the air

Seeking what is never there

For I am a mere novelty

A unicorn, a circus freak

Just a jester, just a farce

A character, a game of cards

A welcomed break from the mundane

A place to visit not to stay

One thing that is always certain

Candor soon becomes a burden

Time to put me in my box

And close the lid and lock the locks

To play again another day

But sadly I don't bend that way

I don't include a shut up function

No filter and no power button

I can't be trained how to submit

And in a box I'll never fit

Go decorate my name with lies

Let the fans be satisfied

Wagging fingers, shaking heads

Voices loud and purpose fed

Circled round for years and miles

Scoffing both success and trial

Intent to box up flying things

And desperate to clip my wings

Release my hand to join the crowd

Growing numbers tall and proud

Failed attempts to plant their flags

Wasted efforts tying gags

All to elevate themselves

And keep me captive on a shelf

But much to their dismay they find

Sound carries from this mouth of mine

Words don't know how to stay caged

They're permanent, can't be erased

So even if I were to find

A way to shut this mouth of mine

A way to just endure the shit

Smile quietly and choke on it

My words would exit anyway

They would refuse to sit at bay

Through gestures or through slanted eyes

Closed lips won't keep them trapped inside

They are the manifested truths

They translate me for all to view

So whether it's by stroking keys

Ink to paper or boundless screams

What is me will not go dark

You can't command a fearless heart

This mouth of mine with lips so still

Won't silence what it is I feel

So don't be fooled by what you see

When quiet comes at your decree

Truth will fight and squeeze and bend

Until it knows it's message sent

if i ever seem to just fade away

for long periods of lonely days;

don’t be sad.

i haven’t forgotten you.

it’s only because life’s a bitch

that and the bilateral peripheral neuropathy i was blessed with

as if it was some fucked stigmata

my punishment for wanting to write.

god do i hate my body sometimes

as they say i suppose

the soul is willing

but the flesh?

fucking weak.

In bed.

Dog curled against my back.

Clean sheets.

Sunlight forcing herself

on the blinds.

Blue walls create a

robins egg womb.

I still only take up half.

I wake with a start

and forget it's Saturday.

Hands hit things until

I grip my glasses,

my phone.

7:45

Don't have to be up

until 9:00

It is so me

to jump the gun.

Almost 30 years ago

I popped out 6 weeks early.

They say I was yellow.

My head looked like an orange.

I wasn't done yet,

but there I was

naked and screaming.

Not much has changed.