Luis is outside working on my
daughter's furniture. I should be doing this. I should. Lots of
shoulds in my life. I should clean up after myself. I should
exercise. And then of course there are shouldn'ts. Shouldn't have
drunk so much last night. Shouldn't have gone off on the dude at the
bar who asked me what I thought was more important: money or family?
Leave me the fuck alone. This is my fucking restaurant. It isn't. I
work here. And I don't need someone listening in on my fucking
conversations.
Of course I believe God meets me in front of my house on the walkway every single day. Or many days anyway. So why wouldn't I have put God in that man's stool last night. Double meaning there with stool: in that man's shit. And yes God would have to be in our shit if we are truly accepting deities in our lives. And I'm not worried about God. Not worried. Not terrified. Not in a trance walking some narrow path of if-I-do-I-am-blessed-if-I-don't-I-am-fucked. I am aware of God because God makes me aware with his natural intrusions. Some beautiful – my children – I mean they are BORN right? Some wet sticky shit shoots out of my dick and lands well in the mitt of my wife and 9 or so months later it goes from gelatinous into structure. Explain that without some sort of God presence. Eventually it has to go to that seemingly bizarre place or religiosity.
And so I put God in the bar last night. I missed him actually though I still am feeling the results of many glasses of red wine. Oh and the praise from Josh. Praise and hugs. Praise and hugs. Reassuring me or him? Checking in to see if he made the right decision to be my disciple. The world threw us together. We were not assigned roles, well yes, we were. We were. I was his boss. And I am a collector of souls which makes me a sort of meddlesome boss. And that is good for Josh. And it sucks too. He can never have it regular with me. And that means he is always aware. My father has Alzheimer's and even in this dementia he zeros in on what I find so fucking annoying and hateful about him. Like that illness, as terrible as it is, couldn't at least given him a new lease on love and the expression of it. Instead it is really a deeper manifestation of his lousy world view and how he practiced it on me and my sister. And I doubt we will ever recover. And I know he can't control it with or without his new found insanity. And that's the experience of someone who has bought your shit. Who dances the jig to your noise. That person is constantly pushing for the melody. Maybe even starting the song. Why wait for the bandleader right? What the fuck is Benny waiting for? Bang the drums Gene...bang the fucking drums and sing, sing sing!!
Well I am writing to someone and there is an obvious nod to keeping you who are tracking this a long for the ride. And also history doesn't mean much when the collective has moved on. Big band references, 30's and 40's America, dead Presidents, things we used to eat, these things cannot be a launching point or really any sure kind of reference anymore. People have moved on.
So God is sitting in the bar. And I am dealing with my own genius that the wine in my glass has told me of. And he asks me money or family. Well I am no fool even when I am one – I say family of course. And it is. But I would have loved to have grown about 15 or 16 feet tall in my chair. And my head is suddenly 8 feet of it. And my mouth opens up to about 5 or 6 feet. And that dangling thing back there in my throat, that thing is a fucking wrecking ball. It swings out when I shake my head and it catches the little fuck and smashes his existence into a gray powder. Like the killing of a moth. The ones in my pantry. When I kill them they leave a gray powder like a pencil smear. And why that instead of seeing the man's guts explode from my sonar bomb? Why? Because I hate blood. I don't need it all over the fucking bar. Because I will have to clean it up and I won't want to. So I will let it sit there. And all of my friends around me who thought: wow, it's cool to see him so fucking big – 16 feet? And Oh my God did that uvula or whatever it's called just swing out of his big and I mean big mouth and wipe that guy out? And then they would look at the mess. They would contemplate this man's life. They would look at me with a mix of fear and what-the-fuck. So I would all of a sudden be responsible for their contemplation of life and my place in it. And who needs that. Right?
Luis needs me to move my car. It is in his way.
Of course I believe God meets me in front of my house on the walkway every single day. Or many days anyway. So why wouldn't I have put God in that man's stool last night. Double meaning there with stool: in that man's shit. And yes God would have to be in our shit if we are truly accepting deities in our lives. And I'm not worried about God. Not worried. Not terrified. Not in a trance walking some narrow path of if-I-do-I-am-blessed-if-I-don't-I-am-fucked. I am aware of God because God makes me aware with his natural intrusions. Some beautiful – my children – I mean they are BORN right? Some wet sticky shit shoots out of my dick and lands well in the mitt of my wife and 9 or so months later it goes from gelatinous into structure. Explain that without some sort of God presence. Eventually it has to go to that seemingly bizarre place or religiosity.
And so I put God in the bar last night. I missed him actually though I still am feeling the results of many glasses of red wine. Oh and the praise from Josh. Praise and hugs. Praise and hugs. Reassuring me or him? Checking in to see if he made the right decision to be my disciple. The world threw us together. We were not assigned roles, well yes, we were. We were. I was his boss. And I am a collector of souls which makes me a sort of meddlesome boss. And that is good for Josh. And it sucks too. He can never have it regular with me. And that means he is always aware. My father has Alzheimer's and even in this dementia he zeros in on what I find so fucking annoying and hateful about him. Like that illness, as terrible as it is, couldn't at least given him a new lease on love and the expression of it. Instead it is really a deeper manifestation of his lousy world view and how he practiced it on me and my sister. And I doubt we will ever recover. And I know he can't control it with or without his new found insanity. And that's the experience of someone who has bought your shit. Who dances the jig to your noise. That person is constantly pushing for the melody. Maybe even starting the song. Why wait for the bandleader right? What the fuck is Benny waiting for? Bang the drums Gene...bang the fucking drums and sing, sing sing!!
Well I am writing to someone and there is an obvious nod to keeping you who are tracking this a long for the ride. And also history doesn't mean much when the collective has moved on. Big band references, 30's and 40's America, dead Presidents, things we used to eat, these things cannot be a launching point or really any sure kind of reference anymore. People have moved on.
So God is sitting in the bar. And I am dealing with my own genius that the wine in my glass has told me of. And he asks me money or family. Well I am no fool even when I am one – I say family of course. And it is. But I would have loved to have grown about 15 or 16 feet tall in my chair. And my head is suddenly 8 feet of it. And my mouth opens up to about 5 or 6 feet. And that dangling thing back there in my throat, that thing is a fucking wrecking ball. It swings out when I shake my head and it catches the little fuck and smashes his existence into a gray powder. Like the killing of a moth. The ones in my pantry. When I kill them they leave a gray powder like a pencil smear. And why that instead of seeing the man's guts explode from my sonar bomb? Why? Because I hate blood. I don't need it all over the fucking bar. Because I will have to clean it up and I won't want to. So I will let it sit there. And all of my friends around me who thought: wow, it's cool to see him so fucking big – 16 feet? And Oh my God did that uvula or whatever it's called just swing out of his big and I mean big mouth and wipe that guy out? And then they would look at the mess. They would contemplate this man's life. They would look at me with a mix of fear and what-the-fuck. So I would all of a sudden be responsible for their contemplation of life and my place in it. And who needs that. Right?
Luis needs me to move my car. It is in his way.
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