You won't like it.

I'm wrapped up in this kind of gut-clench anger and I can't shake it off - shit's like glue. It's killing me (and killing you) - I can feel it inside, twisting. I close my eyes and I take deep breaths and I end up staring, blinky-star-blind, wondering why the hell that happens to me. Must have stood up too fast. Not that I care to find out. There are many things that terrify me which I do not want to know about. I'll get up slower. Or stay on the mat.

I want to run outside and scream as loud as I can. I want the heavens to shudder and people all over town to look skyward, eyes open wide for the first time in a long time. What the fuck was that? Don't get me wrong. There are enough twists coming, don't get yourself wrapped up in this one. The scream won't be angry. It will be the scream of an eight year old boy chasing fireflies, tired, sun-baked and ready to sleep, unaware that the world harbors secrets he will someday have to acknowledge. I got me a time machine.

You want to know what it's like, cuz? You'll have to ask someone else. The good things I see when I close my mind block out the darkness. Briefly. I know enough about this shit - I've written enough about pain. They said if I didn't there'd be no gain. They lied. I can't afford Rogaine. Not that I want it. I'd rather buy ice cream for my kids. It just rhymed nice. Sometimes it's like that. Sometimes it's all a sham and sometimes it's balls out down the flat track, wind screaming, mind afire - God, I hope it lasts.

My cat sits beside me and I try not to look when he walks to his food bowl, his litter box, a patch of sunlight that, daily, blossoms from the dirty carpet my children play on. He's got this hitch now, see - in his hip. He walks like a cat that spent his kitten years with the kind of psychopaths who feel big when they hurt something small. He's always been with me, though. And I've always loved him, never hurt him - he's getting old and I can't think about it or my chest gets tight.

There are birds singing outside my window. There are half-assed-style-chase fuckers coming out of the woodwork. You think I'm not gonna recognize something I've spent twenty years carving? You gotta be some kind of stupid. You're lucky, though. I don't like the anger and I refuse to let it live in my house. I'm exorcising the demons. Have at it.

Sadness smells like dry wood rot and horehound candy.

Happiness doesn't have a smell. Not one smell. It smells like a thousand things. Spring flowers. My wife. The cookies my girls share without being asked. It smells like a two-stroke motor. It smells like freshly-baked bread and sunshine. I smell the love. Feel it? Sometimes. When I'm not picking on myself to make myself feel bigger.

I'm done with this Lancelot shit. I've read the legend - I know how it turns out. Martyrdom has lost it's appeal - it disgusts me. I want no part in it. I just want wildflowers, birdsong, and quiet moments with my family and friends. What else is there to want that's really worth wanting? No fear and feelings of inadequacy? Yeah, maybe someday.

So, I take it back. You take what you want. Fuck it. Bob Dylan could buy everyone I know. Woody Guthrie died at fifty-five, dust in his lungs and booze in his belly. Poor. Sad. Poor, sad Woody. Not that I hate Bob Dylan. Not a bit. That's the point. The anger is unfounded, still ...

I once met a girl who said she was going to own the world. She was full of fight and passion. She directed it in the wrong direction - now, I think back to those green-apple days and smile. We were both so fucking stupid. It's almost funny.

I want everyone on deck, it's time for a gut check. There are so many feelings I want to resurrect.

You don't like it, I know. I don't quite know what to do about that. I don't have what you need, it's inside you - I can't even bring myself to deride you and lord knows you deserve it. You know you do. It comes on you in the quiet, dark hours. You find yourself getting cold, paranoid. What if they find out? Don't worry, they probably won't - you give good snowjobs.

You may be reading this and thinking it don't make a lick of sense. That's what I'm thinking, but things haven't made sense to me for a long, long time. I've stopped trying to force it. It never works, it's like that long cast that you could have pulled back, but didn't, hoping it was a magic cast - now, your favorite spinnerbait lives in a tree. This ain't about you. This ain't about me.

So, why the fuck did I read all this? Hell if I know. Why do you watch American Idol? Why is your TV bigger than my couch? Why does IKEA make couches that are so damn small?

We need to wrap this up and feel good about it. Here goes - a stretch even for a fiction writer, but stretching is good for you. Ready? Everything is going to be fine. The lovers will end up happy, scampering through fields of marigolds. The old woman survives her brush with death. The underdog ends up hitting it big and he gives back bigger. People care for each other - they even make eye contact and say 'hi' - downright neighborly.

Everything is going to be alright, champ. Those big mean countries will leave our big mean country alone. The homeless will lose their powers of invisibility. There will be enough food for everyone - loaves and fishes. Jesus will come back and pass that shit out door to door. There will be no more "poor" - everything is going to be happy, slap-jack side-grins. You'll find a time machine and never take mini-thins.

Indeed - the world is a wondrous place when you just close your eyes and pretend that the lies you swallow won't come back some day, coated in bile, burning your throat. Go get 'em, Ace. The world is yours.

You can fucking have it.

They Lie

The lies start early. They tell you that it isn't going to hurt, but it does. They tell you that you'll have fun once you get there, but you don't. They say if you are nice to people, they'll be nice back. They say if you study and work hard you won't have to go to sleep every night with a lump of panic in your throat.

Try it and see if you like it. Seems reasonable. But allow me this: allow me to assert that there are many things I know I won't like whether I try them or not. Alright?

They tell you that girls find "funny" sexy. That's fucking funny. I don't think think David Beckham has to be funny, dig? So, thanks for that set up. I guess it was funny. For the girls at least.

The American Dream is a lie. Live a life worthy of reward and the reward will be yours...not in my experience. They tell you life's not fair. That's one of the few things they're honest about, but it stands in such stark contrast to the lies that all it does is confuse your insides. Twists 'em up. Makes 'em bleed.

They say that things will get better. Better than what? What the fuck does that even mean? You are drowning in platitudes.

They try to make you think that they've figured things out. They haven't. There is nothing to figure out because everyone figures different and you gotta respect it. That's the other thing. They tell you to respect people. Respectful people don't tell you to do anything.

They want you to love the flag like it's your dick. I don't give a shit. It's been a long time since I've looked at the American flag and thought only good things. Now, I think about drones and the blood that soaks our soil. They tell you to hate the Nazis and get real quiet when you ask about the Trail of Tears. They want you to think that because kids like rap and baggy jeans now that there aren't still ghosts hanging from trees in Mississippi. They want you to like everyone...pretty much everyone. Except the gays. I mean, you can't say you hate fags, but wink, wink. Right? Fuckers.

They say violence is wrong, but they don't believe it. They must think we're fucking stupid. They want you to think your 'elected officials' have your back. In actuality, they have the knife ready for that tired back. The one that works too hard for too little while Madonna drinks the blood of infants to stay young. I'd like to see all of them beaten by gay Indians.

Bucked

There's right and then there's right. They ain't the same thing. And folks don't agree on them. But that's 'cause folks lie. They make excuses to turn their indiscretions convenient. Now, me? I done lots of things that folks don't approve of, but I reckon they never hurt anyone but me. I never went in for the sneak deal, and I wouldn't now. So, there's a whole bunch of people doing wrong, and it hurts everyone, but might makes right and right ain't wrong if you look at it right. Right? Least that's the way it looks. Me? I don't look at it. I'd rather have nice dreams and not get busted trying to buck. Worst thing you can do. Even worse than breaking a horse too hard. You gotta remember what's what and who's got the reins. That's everything.

The last story.

Tick.

Teeth on barrel. He laughed, spine cringing at the soft metal noise. No need to bite the damn thing, but his teeth didn't matter anymore and the steel chill faded quickly. He was tired. Tired of biting the bullet. Bullet, barrel...fuck it. He knew he wouldn't flinch and, even if he did...

He grabbed another piece of printer paper, took a swig from the bottle, and tried again. A few sentences and then it was just the same old bullshit. It was going to hurt, regardless. There would be questions, no matter what he wrote.

He pictured her in his mind and his muscles went rigid with hate. Part of him wanted to kill her, but he knew this would hurt her more. And she fucking deserved it. So what? So much talk. Fuck her. She had the nerve to pervert something he loved, churning out the words like styrofoam peanuts. There was no spice to the writing and people shoveled it in like fast food. And she bragged her little mottled smile...made fun of his friends who weren't "producing". Blind to the fact that when they did, it mattered...not like the shit she pawned off...soiled paper.

His parents would be destroyed. Fuck it. Fuck them. There had been so many paths diverging in all manner of colored woods, but they had picked the wrong one consistently. They built the foundation and he didn't feel much about it. Finishing it, that is.

Michael would be fucking destroyed, but Jesus Christ...how much had he fed that man? How many times had he been the life preserver. He knew he should return the favor...give him a chance to pay it back. Fuck it. He could pay him back with forgiveness.

He couldn't think what to say. Sorry? When you think of me, think good things? Know that I will be happier in whatever void awaits than I am here, on earth, you simple endoskeletal...

His right. It was his. The whole fucking thing. He owned it. He'd put down the tent pegs. He'd closed his eyes when quivering, damp lips led to hands, cold, in places he couldn't speak of. He'd fucking sucked that shit up, so they could take this. Team effort.

The layoffs and the fucking debt and all the goddamn bullshit financial crap that he didn't understand. Judged arbitrarily for things he could not control...ratty hair, old clothes, stench of poverty. Let them feast on it. Let it rise in their throats, acid burning the pink skin, sizzling burnt meat smell. It was all burnt meat. Feast, motherfuckers, feast.

He wasn't happy. That's what it came down to. The past, the girls who had left, the money that had evaporated seemingly overnight. The anger and the sadness. The memories that tried to surface no matter how hard he squashed them down. It was like a summertime child pushing a rubber ball under the limp surface of a blue, backyard pool. You can't keep that shit down. It rises up. Sometimes it explodes. Fuck it.

'I'm not happy'. He stared at the block printing on the sheet and knew it wasn't enough. But it would never be enough. His last act of generosity would be the gift of hatred. He would hate himself until the very last second. Until his finger closed on the cold metal. He would not try to make it OK. And that penance would have to serve. And their hatred would outweigh the loss.

He took another drink from the bottle. Upended it. Held it above his slack tongue while the last few drips fell. He looked at the paper and the gun on the table. Under the three words in the center of the page he wrote, 'It's not your fault'. He moaned a quiet plea and picked the gun back up. It was time to bite the barrel.

Channeling Bob Dylan.

What’s that feeling when midnight’s reeling and you’re stuck to the bedpost staring at the ceiling? It’s time, it’s time, just time you’re stealing but that ain’t worth but a rusty nickel in the bottom of a coffee pot. Grounds ain’t ceilings but for my last meal I might take, might take that deal, cause what good’s mealing when you know you got but one more hand and you ain’t done dealing. And that ace up your sleeve won’t make you believe and you can’t leave cause you’re in too deep and you can’t sleep cause the covers weep and the walls creep and crawl with every thing you scratched on every bathroom stall…the words come back but you can’t read em all, so you stall…you wait, you wait and pray, but it’s too late and your hair’s gone grey and there’s bills to pay and the man with the tie won’t buy your lie even if it is the truth. And who gets truth anyway, you can hear truth if you listen, hear it every day or you can hear a freight train bray, but it ain’t honest and it ain’t the same as sitting under a tree at sunset. That tree’ll shade ya and the ground that made ya, hell it will be there til the sky falls down. It was there when you were gone, nowhere around, nowhere to be found, lost in the light and strobe and sound. Stumbling, shuffling, subway bound. Underneath the streets you listen to the trains run by and the rocktime beats and you try to feel original. But original is just a word and it’s a word that everybody’s heard. And Woody heard it before I did, and I knew it all when you were still a kid. Still tossing a ball against the wall where fifteen years later your body falls and you can’t get up. They’ve beat you down and you’re sure that you’re the clown and the world’s the circus and just when you think you got it all figured out, you realize you ain’t figured out nothing but another cut out snowflake xylophone fake…and it makes ya nervous. But shit, son, don’t you know, ain’t you listening, did you really think God was at that christening? Did you really think it meant anything at all, those hymnals, those words on the bathroom stall. So close your eyes and let it be, there ain’t enough room for you and me…and time, that’s the only thing you see, cause when you’re knee high you got it all laid out and in a snap you’re laid up and outta luck and nobody really gives a fuck. You might as well quit, you might as well die, but you don’t cause you’ve got shit to buy…America’s got you boy, but good, and don’t try to play misunderstood cause it’s time you’re buying with that new car and it’s time you’re buying, but it won’t go far cause it’s all a sham, it’s all a joke, its all the lies and cigarette smoke, and it don’t make a difference anyhow – the train’ll be leaving any second now and whether you go or whether you stay we’ll still end up in the exact same way, same place, same face, same dreams you had that didn’t matter then, but you got your paper and you got your pen and if you don’t quit, maybe they’ll listen. Deep down you know they probably won’t, but hang to it, cling to it, play your guitar alone and sing to it. It may be all you got, but it’s a lot, son, it’s a lot.