Always

…so this begins when I wake up in a puddle of my own spit, face down on my desk with my typewriter in front of me. I blink and wipe my mouth. I see little white things floating in the puddle. A closer look and I see they’re pills, and I don’t know why there are so many. I’m in my white boxers, I wonder where my clothes are.
A phone rings somewhere. My body screams at me. The phone goes off again and again, but I ignore it and rub my eyes with my palms, and feel an abnormal heat coming from them.
And then I realize that my manuscript is gone. I think it’s just my fucked up mind playing, so I look and see there’s nothing beside my typewriter and I’m freaking out because the draft of my book is gone, and I’m not sure anymore it’s my typewriter.
I look around my desk, flipping sheets, moving piles and books, and it escalates into tossing stuff around, looking for the two hundred page manuscript that I had devoted the last year of my life to.
And a phone just sounds and sounds, and after two minutes of throwing stuff, I get pissed off and switch to finding the phone. I pick it up but I wait for the person to say something.
“Hello ?”
“Who is this ?”
“Calvin ? Is that you ?”
“Who the fuck is this ?”
“It’s Bernie. Jesus, I’ve represented you for three years, man, and you still don’t recognize my voice ? Dude, I’m hurt.” And I sit down on the bed, which smells like sweat, and sex, and rub my face. My head begins a slow beat, and I’m thinking – my manager ? I go with it.
I say, “No, no…I know how you sound Bernie. Just a little out of it.”
“I’m impressed you’re alive. Where are you ? Don’t tell me you’re still in that cheap, rental apartment, Calvin, you gotta get the hell out of there ! I mean, inspiration aside and all…” A cockroach the size of golf ball skitters across the floor.
Is that why I’m here ? And my head is pounding harder now. I get pissed and go, “Bernie, what happened to my book ? It’s fucking gone and I’m on page 124 -” And I’m looking around the small room hoping I spot a few pages peaking out of a drawer or underneath a pile of something.
He goes, “Look, I’ll get you a copy with the new cover, alright ? Jesus…I told you it was the press’ fault. Something about plates not taking colors. Anyways, it’s done my friend and it looks better than the first printing -”
I’m nervous now, and confused and I don’t know what he’s talking about so I laugh and go, “Bernie, I haven’t even finished it yet. I’m missing the manuscript, my draft, Jesus, did you smoke something ?” And I laugh again but he says nothing, and I’m pissing my pants and feeling edgy. I ask if he’s still there, and his voice goes serious and says, “Cal, baby, you signed a movie deal for it three nights ago…the book…the book’s been – the stores have been stocking it for over a year now….fuck, Cal, are you on drugs again ? Jesus, you artists and inspiration…I swear you use that word as an excuse to experiment anything….”
I watch a white pill tumble off the table. There’s a humming noise that cuts through my ears and my head pounds like a bass drum, and I think I say : “When did I quit ?” And then say, “When did I start ?” And then something like, What’ve you done to my draft ? in a really loud scream, and Bernie’s voice is fading away and going in slow motion like a stretched out cassette, and I’m trying to remember anything about myself and I can’t, and before I black out, I see dozens of empty clear-orange and dark red prescription bottles. They’re spread out all over the green-white checkered floor.


I’m swimming.
There’s no water, just black space, inky-can’t see your hand-black.
A woman swims by me, her long brown hair is flowing behind her and she’s naked except for a long sheet of pink linen that flows around and on her body, and she smiles at me, and just as she passes by another copy of her moves on my left with the same pink linen, and a third swims up behind me and grabs me, her sheet wrapping itself around my body, and then I’m being blinded by lights popping off in my face

and I’m posing for pictures with people, and I’m signing the front page of a book, my book, and when I close it I can’t read the cover or see the picture, it’s all blurry, and I’m asking people to help me, but they don’t even know I’m there until they get a photo, and now I’m screaming, “Why can’t I see my book ?” and people are grabbing copies, and then snapping pictures of me with them, and I’m on a rooftop penthouse somewhere, and it’s cold, and there are dozens of people sipping champagne, holding my book, and talking to each other and in between they grab me and take a picture, they’re faceless people, all I see are suits, dresses and skirts, and legs and shoes, but I can’t identify anybody, and I’m fucking freaking out because when they try to talk to me, a big hole tears open where their faces are supposed to be and their voices sound like a woman’s high pitched scream mixed with breaking glass and

in a book store looking myself up, but all of my books on the table are being picked up by customers, and I’m pushing my way through but all the copies are gone, and all I want is to see my book, to finally see it on the shelves, but the faceless customers are grabbing every copy, and grabbing me, and I’m signing and taking pictures, and my head feels like its splitting in two, and I scream because I don’t know why I’m here, or if this was real, but nobody cares or hears and they take their photos anyway, and the lady comes back, the pink linen sheet wrapped around her, skin pale like cream, her green eyes flash when she kisses me

I’m in a park, no, a campus, a university campus, and I’m looking at her, the pink linen lady, but she has clothes and a backpack and books with her, and I’m saying something like, What’s happening to me, Barb ? truly freaking out, edgy and nervous, and fucking terrified, and she goes, You can’t love anyone. You can’t even love you, Calvin Struss. It’s the reason why I left. It’s the reason your in this mess, she says, and she’s mad and hurt at the same time, and I’m falling apart inside, like freaking shattering to pieces and I want to lock myself in a prison and never have to worry about anything ever, but I tell her she was – is – my Muse, and she scoffs and laughs in my face, and I look down at

and my face is in really soft hair, and I’m sniffing up the coke I find in the parts of the hairs and the pale skin underneath, and I realize I’m in between a woman’s legs doing drugs off of her, and I look up from the woman’s privates, all I can see is flesh all around me, and there are people everywhere having sex, and I can’t see who they are or the details of anything, I just hear muffled noises, moans, screams, and we’re in that shitty apartment I passed out in, and I don’t want to be there anymore, and then everybody’s suddenly too close, and there’s skin touching me, and I try and pull away, but I feel trapped and isolated and alone, and I get up and look for the door but it’s fucking vanished, and I feel itchy and dirty and my stomach is nauseous and I open my mouth and throw up, and I want to get out, get out, like, fucking right now ! and I scream, a fucking yell that burns my throat and lungs and


…. I’m in a hospital bed. Tubes everywhere and I can hear the machine beeping, and the hissing sound of the other one breathing beside me.
“Hello,” The voice belongs to the Pink Linen Lady and when I turn she’s reading a chart at the foot of my bed. Her hair is tied up in a tail and she’s wearing pink linen pajamas. “And how are we doing, Mr. Struss ?”
“I’m doing great, Barb. It’s nice to see you today. Did you happen to speak to Bernie ?”
She writes something down on her chart and goes, “Spoke to him this morning and he says that he found your manuscript. He’ll be sending it to the publishers tomorrow.” She puts the chart back and checks the machine, and I follow her with my eyes and she comes in close to flash a small flashlight at my eyes.
I pat her hand with my spotted, wrinkly, gnarled one, and tell her that she looks just as good as she did when we dated years ago, and she smiles and nods, and then tells me she’ll be back later to check on me, and as my eyes are shutting, I can see her talking to someone in white outside :
“….he’s slipping further…another breakdown last night….severely agitated and distraught….yelling and screaming….”
“…monitor and make sure he’s comfortable….advanced stages….mixing up reality and memories….famous writer….”
And Barb tells the man in the white something and I leave again, inky-blackness swirls around me and I see my first and only love, the real Barbara, the pink linen swirling around me and her, and she kisses me with passion and we just float and drift awa -


…so this begins

Puppets

The puppet exploded when it hit the wall, not so much into pieces, like glass breaking, but more like a violent scattering of parts. The old man, breathing heavy, stared at the spot where the puppet had hit. He felt like a drink. He got up, fixed one, finished it, then fixed another and another and another.

He went to the window of his shop. His feet tripped on themselves. He grabbed the window ledge. The rain came down, right to left, and pelted the leaves of the trees and drowned the grass on his land. The shop was beside his home and all he needed to do to see it was to shift his head to the left. He watched his black and white cat as he sat on the porch railing. He was cleaning his paws. The old man hadn’t made a puppet in years. He had only been making small toys to sell in town. He felt alone.

In the past the old man created people to interact with. He would make a group of them, enough to throw a party every week. And for awhile it felt good. He would listen to these people as they talked about their lives which they created in their own imaginations, which he had given them when he gave them life. He would let them live for a time, watching the drama that comes with people. It was a private theatre.

He had never been married. He had created lovers. But it bored him eventually. He made himself a family, a wife and kids, but it didn’t feel right.

Eventually he killed them. He started off one by one, judging the reaction and watching how it affected the other lives, until he decided to kill them all off in a mass horde from shear boredom. He would set them on fire, burning up the wood they were made from, evaporating the blue dust that gave them life.

He thought of his son. The first one he made.

The old man finished his drink and put the glass away. He unscrewed the cap on the bottle. He sat on his workbench and stared at the pieces on the floor, then took another gulp from the bottle.

His son had left as sudden as he had arrived. He said the outside world called him. He wanted to see everything it had to offer. The other puppets he made, he made sure they never thought of leaving. He made sure he was always in control.

When people asked where his was, he told them he was traveling, the he would be back. The old man would always say “he”. The old man couldn’t say his name.

He looked at the bottle. He traded a blue fairy for a green one. The absinthe numbed the old man. He didn’t hallucinate anymore when he drank it, he just didn’t feel. He went over to the broken puppet and picked up a leg.

The wood looked like the first block he carved his son from.

The wood glittered blue from the fairy dust.

He saw his son taking his first steps in this shop.

He saw his son’s nose.

The old man hurled the leg against the opposite wall. He crumpled on the ground, the liquor spilling green on his pants and hands, he closed his eyes and forced himself to whisper his son’s name out loud.

Burning Feathers

I can smell them now,
The fire eats its way through
The stem
The root,
Licking the soft skin of white plummage
Ashes begin to ride the wind from my hand
And the scent of blood and a lake
Begin to rise to my nostrils
I hold the feather up to my eye,
As the orange beast crawls its way down
Destroying and cleansing the path it takes
Why do I burn the feathers ?
Why do I destroy the skin of an animal ?
To know how it feels
To know the skin, cover, identity...
Is an illusion
Easily burnt and scattered