Won't You Take Me To Oda Town!

So Mark Cuban, the Jed Clampett of Dallas, has done bought his hisself a whole town! Says he doesn't know what he wants to do with it but knowing his luck "up through the ground come a bubbling crude". Luckily for him, I have an even better idea - even if painfully obvious: build a recreation of Japanese warlord Oda Nobunaga's Azuchi castle. Duh!

Truth be told, this wouldn't even be the first Asian landmark recreation in Texas. That distinction belongs to The Forbidden Gardens, just outside of Katy near Houston.

Forbidden Gardens was built in 1997 at the pleasure of Ira P. H. Poon, AKA "Mr. Poon," a Hong Kong real estate mogul who wanted people of Asian descent (including his teenage children) to know something of Asian culture besides firecrackers and kung-fu. Mr. Poon lives in Seattle, but preferred constructing the sprawling exhibit somewhere outdoors, open year-round, on flat, cheap land, where there was a large Asian population. Houston, 25 miles east of Forbidden Gardens, has the third highest in the nation.

Terra-cotta army.

People visit Forbidden Gardens from all over the world, particularly from China. We were told the Chinese government makes travel within China so difficult that it's easier to fly to America and see a miniature replica than it is to stay home and see the real thing.

The attraction, built for an estimated $20 million, covers 40 acres and 2,000 years of Chinese history. It is a curious, impressive, motionless place on the Texas flatlands, with its tranquil courtyard, shaded arcades, koi fish pond, the smell of incense in the thick air and the sounds of Chinese zither plucking from hidden speakers.

Alas, the Forbidden Gardens closed in 2011 due to highway construction. Shame. But now we have to a chance to avenge that wrong. The surprising confluence of Japanese culture in DFW makes this the perfect place for what would be the crown jewel. In Plano, we have the national headquarters for Toyota. In Dallas, the The Ann and Gabriel Barbier-Mueller Museum: The Samurai Collection boasts the largest collection of samurai armor outside of Japan (and it only keeps growing). Fort Worth has one of the top Japanese Gardens in the country. Mistuwa grocery store and Kinokuniya bookstore also have rare locations here. Like I said, building a Japanese castle is painfully obvious at this point.

Just imagine driving down the highway and seeing an exotic Asian silhouette reaching out to the sky. People would be crawling over themselves to get to it. Oda Nobunaga was the greatest mind in Japanese history, a man from a small, weak province who led the conquest of a nation. His was the first of the great castles, built more as a palace than a military structure.

Accoutrements would include a satellite installation of the Barbier-Mueller museum (they have enough to fill several museums),  small garden, along with Torii gates and stunning red Japanese bridges, recreation of a fuedal village, and maybe even a ryokan (traditional Japanese inn). It would be as magical as any Disney park but overflowing with the history of one of the most unique cultures in the world.

Azuchi:

You're welcome, Mark!

21st Century Jonah

99,000 drawers on the wall!
99,000 drawers!
Open one up
See what's inside
Remember it till you die!

The enormity of the Building is so large you have to take into account the curvature of the earth to correctly calculate its size. Even then, some said its size could never be calculated because the human life span is too short. As fresh meat to be ingested and digested within, I watched my fellow inmates scurry to and fro, possessed by purposelessness, forever fetching the needs of countless faceless machines.

Along the top of the walls is an ever present electronic ticker scrolling an endless stream of drawer numbers demanding to be served, like Times Square in Hell's alley. The LED lights glanced off my awestruck face as I was escorted mouth agape to my own personal cell. Worst part was I forgot to leave a trail of bread crumbs if to ever find my way out again.

I kept thinking, "This must be how Jonah felt - only without the hope."

The drawers ran from floor to ceiling, running into the billions, surrounding me and drowning me in terror, plastered with mind-bending labels like "GUBIJN584578RTBIUY" and "!@#$%^*(*^%$#$%^*".  My smiling co-worker was talking nonstop guiding me to the center of my demise but I could barely hear her over the roar of silent screaming in my head. Surely, a place like this is not allowed in the universe. Surely, God thinks more of us than this. Has Darkness won the battle for eternity?

One phrase made it through the jungle mist of horror: "Don't worry. You'll get the hang of it. Been here all my life and still don't know where everything is. You never can. Sometimes I even mumble numbers in my sleep! But, yes, you can become like we are." In the fog of whore I saw a smile meant to reassure. Like a tire with a hole, my spirit dissipated into the miasma until I was fully emptied as I arrived at my computer-designated post. Squinting through the gloom I saw my various "colleagues" chained to their own posts in various states of disrepair, like a dog outside, exposed to weather that gradually reduces it to death; its eyes already vanquished.

Your value is judged by how many drawers' contents you can memorize. 1/2 inch copper conduit. Solenoid wrap indicator switch. Bell housing flex material by grade. Along with six million variations of widgets. And don't forget the vendor ID.

During my night sweats I dreamt I was on a treadmill, never reaching the drawer to which I had been called. The company ogres who can take lives at any time for any reason yell at me louder and fiercer as I fail to fulfill my order and therefor my reason for being. Yet on the treadmill, the harder I try the more I die. In a fit of despair I fling off all my clothes with a cry of pain. "Look, he's human! The fucking freak! Get his damn ass! Get him NOW!" Their hatred is fired by the torment of needing to hide their own humanity.

The only food sustenance is Soylent Green (we all ignored the guy exclaiming what it was). We were animals who'd stepped into a tar pit with only one possible outcome. But no one ever speaks it aloud. We have a mutual contract of doom. We are to substitute the Building's dreams for ours, that the dreams God gave us were immoral and irresponsible; the Building is the highest calling. This clarion call I heard as I watched souls drop and die daily, pleading to a world without ears.

One does not reach such a hellish position without feeling cause to review one's life and felonies past. The Building preys on personal guilt as its foundation; judge, jury, and executioner. Still, I'm left to ponder the severity of my crimes or do all roads lead to power's illusion regardless? Any sliver of escape would do, however remote and distant it may be. A drowning man throws his hand up even with no ship in sight, hoping against hope. Falling down a bottomless pit, a man will grab razor sharp blades if it stops his descent. But in a void, there's nothing to carry the sound of your voice.

Then, standing on my last leg, I heard a message was to be delivered to me. Would this be my deliverance? Had a long lost love sent for me? Had I misjudged the cruelty of the universe? I felt sheepish in realizing I had not given life enough credit for the sanctity of my well-being. A girl with starburst eyes handed me a folded note.

I unfolded it and read: "God Corleone says, Hello."

The Beatdowns

Blessed are the poor in spirit, for theirs is the kingdom of heaven.

Blessed are those who mourn, for they will be comforted.

Blessed are the meek, for they will inherit the earth.

Blessed are those who hunger and thirst after righteousness, for they will be filled.

Blessed are the merciful, for they shall be shown mercy.

Blessed are the pure in heart, for they will see God.

Blessed are the peacemakers, for they will be called the children of God.

Blessed are those who are persecuted because of righteousness,
for theirs is the kingdom of heaven.

Blessed are you when people insult you, persecute you and falsely say all kinds of evil against you because of me. Rejoice and be glad, because great is your reward in heaven, for in the same way they persecuted the prophets who were before you.

After hearing these things a Man Of The World was unimpressed.

"Excuse, my good man. You talk about what will happen, but what about now? What happens now to these people you speak of?"

"Oh, now? Well, now they're fucked six ways to Sunday."

"Fucked as in nothing good happens for them or like really fucked?"

"Fucked like in your worst imagination. Raped, tortured, jailed, maligned, ostracized, and killed in the most sadistic ways possible."

"I see. Not much of a calling card that. So evil has won the day."

"Remember when the Israelites were warring to make a homeland for themselves and suddenly started losing battles? This was because a few among them started to loot their vanquished foes. Had that been allowed to continue they would have been wiped from the face of the Earth. Instead, the looters were purged to preserve the good. But now it's the opposite. The world purges the good in the false hope of making evil safe."

"That strikes me as a bit of a logic problem then. If the good are purged and since evil is self-destructive, that leaves no one left alive in the end."

"True dat."

"Well, how come you got it made? Why hasn't anything bad happened to you? Seems to me your whole argument is invalid since you're doing so well."

"They don't know who to kill until the truth has been fully spoken. Then I'm to be vilified and nailed to a cross until I die with painful thorns stuck in my head."

Onward Christian soldiers!

"So what's the point of all this?? Why were we ever made to begin with just to be wiped out? This is insanity! So much human suffering..."

"Everything will be fine in the end. The good will be restored and the evil of their own volition will leave."

"That all seems too good to be true. Fuck, man, why not just do it now? It really sucks here and is getting worse every day."

"Once this happens no more souls can be saved, the window will be forever shut. In order to save the maximum number the window is left open as long as possible."

"But why wait? I heard God can do anything."

"You heard wrong."

"So there's no hope for the present?"

"There's always hope or the window would close. Just don't confuse hope for yourself with hope for the world - and don't confuse hopelessness for the world for hopelessness for yourself. One is your concern, the other is your Maker's."

"I'll be damned. What a shithole place this is! What in the hell ever possessed me to be on this cursed planet!"

"No one's here who didn't ask to be."

The Man Of The World walked away spiritually destitute and inflamed. He saw no profit in what he heard and vowed to take his reward in this world instead of the next. And for his trappings of power and luxury he would smirkingly "praise God in Heaven" to all who would listen, getting the world to vote him as holy and thus buy the stairway to heaven. And that's how he became a killer.

Sleeping At The Feet Of The Sphinx

In the desert Sinai
Where I wandered to die
Comes manna from the sky

"Damn!"

***

The purgatory of a purposeless existence is beyond pain. It crushes, suffocates, demeans, debilitates, and pierces the mind with a cutting blade that twists in endless pursuit. No wonder so many turn to a foul purpose rather than no purpose at all. But in this vacuous domain I do find myself, praying for death that will not come.

If only we'd let Nature take its course we'd be driven to be released as a fulfilled people instead of blackmailed slaves, no doubt.

I tire of fighting the wind. I surrender in hopeless defeat. The killing desert has taken many a life, so take mine.

Yet, just as I dropped to my knees, ready to drown in despair and make my final exit, manna rains down upon me.

Manna, if you did not know, is irresistible to the human form. It sustains not only the body but the spirit, invigorating each. Long forgotten dreams feel obtainable once more. There's a connection to something universal, a wild hope beyond logic or reason that makes you want to leap for joy. It's electrifying and exciting and humbling. Though death was my wish, I ingested all I could.

But why did this miracle happen to me? I am unseasoned salt, a fallen angel, useless in all ways I can conceive. I felt it time to go, that I had tried God's patience to the point of no return. And yet...

Strange thoughts had I in the burning colors of the desert sunset. Is this some leftover karma granting me a seemingly undeserved time? Or am I like a homeless soul, this emotional vagrant serving a purpose that only heaven can see? Why is my life being extended?

The ancient Hebrews tasted this taste and now so have I. But God was introducing a consciousness back then, a Presence we've since banned at all costs. Then I think of misguided Israeli assassins deceiving they protect the homeland, turning their back on the covenant, the one truth that actually can protect; more twisting aching minds seeking purpose across the globe.

Thus I remain in purgatory having been revived by the manna. When I seek death, I get life. When I seek life, I get death. So I move onward to God knows what - and God knows why.

Blow Job Betsy

Goodvine Bar's innocuous name in uptown Dallas belies a raucous and free-spirited reputation. Only one rule is enforced: leave your judgments and attitude at the door. (And woe to those who believe it won't be enforced!) When it comes to fun, these guys are fascists.

For the past fifteen years Betsy had made the bar her personal hunting ground, trolling by on a near weekly basis. It was Halloween time (her favorite) and she arrived in great anticipation with her handmaid tale outfit, ready to serve. The bar was small and tight but complemented with outdoor seating - and a rooftop stairway out of sight of the others. Betsy surveyed the landscape for a willing partner. Though the bar was visited by both billionaires and bums, from straight-laced to sex queens, only a small sliver could suit her needs.

The young bucks she had downgraded on her scale years ago - and they usually had nubile accompaniment. The wolf looks for weak strays from the herd. She spied an older man - much older than her 42 - and decided he was the best of the lot. His silver mane still had signs of life and she predicted she could be a fantasy come true for him. Fantasy fulfillment was her self-designated job in a world populated by the army of the dead.

She struck up a conversation, slyly speaking of the dangerous deeds she'd witnessed over the years, couples engaging right there on the grounds! See planted seeds of possibilities to see what would sprout. Sometimes you win, sometimes you lose. But she always has to keep trying.


She had her day job. She had her small and tidy apartment. But in them she had no life; neither were home. Goodvine Bar was her hope, her base of operations. A shy wallflower would look upon Betsy with awe as she commanded the field and made her charge without fear or hesitation. What wallflowers did not see, however, was the ever louder ticking clock in Betsy's head.

Her looks have a shelf life and one day her visits will bear no more fruit, a wretched lipsticked hag throwing herself in unseemly desperation. She knew she had to stop before she became that creature. Each time she looked in the mirror preparing for her visit a piece of her heart broke as she took one step closer to the end of the trail.

To deal with her aching fears she became a "Comfort Christian" to hedge her bets for eternal life. Next to her bed she kept an unread Bible below a wall-mounted cross hung in dutiful devotion. She waxed and waned on her rituals participation according to her current level of panic. When Betsy did pray, though, her most fevered request was to extend the number of days of her blow job career.

She imagined the thrill she must be giving, offering a gift available from no one else but her to the shadow men she serviced. She felt she was in a small way keeping the world alive, to spin another day; human need never-ending. Yet outside of this, she saw nothing else to offer.

Unconfessed and unadmitted until her dying was the Turning Point in her aspiring youth. Betsy had always felt special - even if she couldn't exactly explain why. Back when she had relationships she took pride in domineering her companion. "They'll do anything for me." She reached her height of power when she formulated The Speech, laying down the law of her escalating expectations. Then she went too far.

It was her strongest lecture yet, sure to cow her latest companion/conquest into permanent submission, demanding he up his game to match her lofty ideals. She deserved the best! (Plus she had just read that in a magazine). She'd never forget that Moment, the Look on his face, the Confidence she was sure was hers.

But his crestfallen face did not export the words she expected to hear. "Jesus! If I were all that why would I want you?"

She'd been tumbling ever since, trying to regain her footing, her one certainty never to feel that burn ever again. It was as if she'd been branded with a scarlet letter. "They might reject me but they won't turn down a blow job." Betsy settled on her formula for success, not to be swayed otherwise.

"Look, I'm headed over to this block party down the street. OK, if I get your digits?"

Flattered, the silver-maned man duly provided his cell. Betsy cheerily waved goodbye.

Stepping outside into the crisp night to make the half-mile walk to the block party was like stepping into a dark swallowing void. Sleeping in her place was like sleeping in a house slowly on fire: only a matter of time before she has nowhere to go, no way to live. Nights were getting longer, the sedatives getting stronger. Tick...tick...tick

"I have to get this fixed! No point waiting another day. I feel like the national debt, for God's sake," Betsy blubbered.

But in the end, the only crop she could reap was the seeds she had planted. Trembling and isolated at the block party, she whipped out her phone. "Heya, how's it going?" she texted, Blow Job Betsy for one night more.

Putin Assasinated (Looking For God In A Godless World)

The Dreaded Dream - the recurring ever-present nightmare - perpetually lurks in the shadows waiting for unredeemed eyes to close in dire search of escape.

It starts in a place of darkness, down a slippery slope of black ice, scrambling for absent grip, praying for a way to stop the slide, unable to see above or below - or what horrible unimaginable fate happens when the slope runs out.

His fingers ache from the stress when he wakes up, the desperate clawing to no avail. Each time he asks himself: "Is this when the slope ends? Oh, God no!"

Russian roulette has never been more real.

"How can no one see me? How can no one see what's going on? I must have help! But I must hide my truth at all costs. How can I win?"

Each day he waits unredeemed, his truth becomes more horrid.

His was the last house standing in the neighborhood. He'd burned down the rest in fits of insanity. He thought himself clever making himself fire marshal coming to "rescue" his victims. As he hears the families scream in burning deaths, he gloats with smirking outrage as the hero of the day.

Of course, some people aren't happy unless they are being lied to.

But his victories are his defeat. "Please, someone - anyone - stop my madness! Intervene! Is there no crime big enough for you to detain me?"

His crimes are his plea for help. He is too weak and too helpless to do so on his own. He is scared of the sun.

He crawls naked into his his closet, begging his suits of respectability to clothe his shame and suppressed sex fantasies of dominate; a life of tortured charade.

As much as he needs his veneering suits he needs his enemies. Life would be unbearable without these illusions of love. "You must love me for I wear nice suits!" "If you don't love my suit you must be enemy of my state!"

He never met a lie he didn't like.

So desperate was his soul he cries out before the world: "There is no happiness in life, only a mirage of it on the horizon." Even this could not break the crushing silence.

Craving fame he'd chosen infamy, begging and bribing others to join his folly. Who needs to be voted a "winner" more than life's loser?

But nothing solved the riddle of escaping the Dreaded Dream's cage. He could imprison the world but still not escape his own. This thought scares him more than any other: that his path does not lead to ultimate freedom.

"I'll burn down the world if they don't stop me! You say you are so moral! Prove it!"

Then it hits him: Life is a love or death situation. And in his broken mind love is not an option.

So he fixes himself a brew of polonium tea, to equal his cruelty of the past. He notices while contemplating its ingestion the wild elation of finally being free of his godless world, causing an erection. Not one to waste a rare opportunity, he stripped down and masturbated as he drank the poison.

And that's how he was found by his traitorous aides the next morning: naked, covered in ignominy, and assassinated.

Escape From VieselHoffen Inc

After my escape from VieselHoffen Inc I was inspired to write what I'm reliably told is sure to be a best smelling book: "How To Ruin Your Life While Blaming Those Who Haven't Ruined Theirs". My pseudo-seductive publisher said it will be the hottest thing since Texas Air. When I heard this I urgently left to musically masturbate to Instagram influencers. That's when you know you've got it made.

Starry-eyed, I imagined myself making slick Nerf football commercials and being invited to park the very best cars at swanky sex parties. My jacket size is 42 regular. I'll move to L.A., get a map of the stars' homes and drive by screaming, "I'm one of you now!" Yup, that's when you really know you've got it made.

Some Hollywood chick asked why my literary hubbub. I said I emoted a simple-minded guide for concocting political stories to sell your life as a raging success when it's actually a raging dumpster fire. She said how did it feel being an upcoming Arthur but I coyly implied I wasn't bothered erecting my name. Dramatically I ran fingers through my Tom Cruise hair, declaring: "I'm not interested in being myself, thank you, Academy." That's when you absolutely know you've got it made.

Those freaks and solenoids at VieselHoffen filed a lawsuit hoping I revealed their trade secrets of betrayal in my "inciteful" book and that I must have started the 17th floor fire since I didn't. I couldn't refute what I hadn't done which made their lawyers clap like happy seals getting a wet fish while making ludicrous barfing noises. I overheard one lawyer say he aspired to be a circle jerk and that he receives high praise when looting the company. "That's when you know you've got it made," he slyly confided.

They say not to let success spoil you but I was like, "Fuck me that!" and went to visit the nearest yacht yard to pick mine out. But the ship guy was adamant (or Adam Ant, not sure which as he mumbled a lot) that "to git on my boat ewes must be a person of note or one of them GOATs." I wasn't sure about the farm animal references as I watched him spit tobacco overboard but curiously found his need to rhyme even more alarming. He said his daughter was "a TikTok slut who shows her butt viewed by rotten nuts." Outted as her pervert follower I noticed his letterhead motto as I slipped away: "Must make the grade or you won't get laid or have a hot maid."

My silicon success was proving a failure even with intemperate corruption. Drifting through rain stained streets I was approached by an ancient Lakota warrior who demanded I be his spirit guide. I tried getting out of it telling him I speak with forked tongue but that only increased his conviction. He went on how the "Indian Spirit" was sent to save the White Man but instead "we raped the Land" and became "fuckers without a future." I told him if he came back Tuesday at three I could give him advice on how to be racist. His face lit up with the news and giddily rejoiced, "Then I'll have it 'white man' made!"

Ergo, I began to suspect the Pyrrhic secret of my Texas Air success. In an upside-down world, if I'm nothing, I'm something, and if I'm something, I'm nothing. Who can win in a world of sin after where I've been? (Sorry, damn boat guy rubbing off on me.) Salvation is suicide but suicide's a cheat. Did I really think a Nerf commercial was my stairway to heaven? Sioux that Indian for making me think! Dammit, somebody on this planet has to have it made!

So I'm back where I began: the outlaw of outlaws, a jobless soul. On a sunny Fall morning I return to the downtown of my demise and see the Sunlight I'd never seen before. What unassumed beauty I'd missed in my blinding heyday. In the hustle and bustle circling me I belie fearful purpose and purposeful fear. But in freedom's dream I lift my arms to glorious sunbeams riding me to the sky in endless bliss. "Stop that, you!" I was vexed from below. But I know this is how life is meant to be in the Natural Order, walking in Forever Footsteps, exploding song from the Universe. Then we'd truly have it made.

Later I wander into a back alley of Forbidden Feelings where I bemoaned sighs of the times. A girl with streaming ears emphasized: "It won't work anyway! Burn it all down!" Retail worker, I presumed. A grieving guilty man goaded: "I need you, Emily." A laughing hyena newly elected celebrated: "Fry like me or die!" A parked Rolls-Royce had its sign sticking out the moon roof: "I'm dead without my slaves." A whore from the executive mafia insisted: "You'd do it too!" A loathing loser lamented: "Love is for losers." Then I figured it: no one's really got it made.

Thus sprouts art from failure:

Freedom's pulse breathes brief,
Dew drop hanging from a leaf
Must live like a thief.

VeiselHoffen Inc

I thought I knew reality until I took a breath...

*****

The corporation of my subsumption betrays itself between the 14th to 17th floors. Success has never been so hollow. Or brittle. Or little. But nonetheless I got the call of calls to recede up to the 17th floor.

The desultory top gods roam there, aka "people way high up!" I put on my rectally awed face for the occasion. I never knew fetching documents could be such an odd ordeal.

I'd been sent behind enemy lines to C's office. "That's not her name but what she goes by on Tuesday." Jesus, who are these people?

As I plunged off the elevator I could see a partial view of misty mountains outside the windows of C's corner office - which I thought was strange since we were downtown. Yet worst part was everything on the 17th floor had a place of predetermined righteousness - but for me. All I needed was a spotlight shining down and an intruder alert alarm.

As I veered in on the windows of the corner office I imagined scenes of Napalmed villages in southeast Asia with children artists fleeing in terror. Was now a good time to scream?

With Kashmir steps I trespassed my way through a minefield of rotting souls so much better housed than me. Thus I went into my usual standby mode: hold my breath and bluff.

Or maybe I'm just a footlocker of failure projecting my own fuckedupedness.

Then it happened if it did.

As I happenstanced into the corner office I found myself in freaking Amsterdam as gifted by the randomness of the universe. "C" was speaking some sort of foreign fucking language (is it Dutch over there??) and typing with authoritative keystrokes that scared the lie out of me.

I unconsciously started rocking back and forth as I stood there waiting in suspense. Then C looks up at me, handing the precious corporate paper full of the numbers that rule a dying world. Since I couldn't understand her words I could only make what I hoped were appropriate facial expressions in accordance with her tone.

Oh, to be a footnote in history.

All I could think about was escaping to the space temples of Syrinx reachable only through wormholes of nonlinear dimensions.

Oh shit, she stopped speaking and is expecting a verbal reply of responsible bureaucratic witchcraft. If I respond in humanoid form will she still understand?

"Pickle vomit am I!" I declare with the furor of a horny Nazi.

Luckily, that seemed to satisfy her superiority as I goosestepped out the office to loud applause and hopefully back into the Texastan of my known demise.

In the elevator I finally took a breath - a breach of faith, I know. But having made a successful foray behind enemy lines I couldn't resist a small self-serving smirk of suicidal sanity.

When the doors closed on my revelry I went to press the button to take me back to the lower depths where I belonged. It's then I witnessed the horror of horrors: ONLY THE 17th FLOOR BUTTON REMAINED!

"NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!"

I can't go back to where I couldn't go before! Is it me or is it sin? I wanted to sigh, cry, die, and fly at same time. Just what are my false options in the fake free world?

I could pretend to be an elevator doorman like I'd seen in old movies or I could cut through the top where I'd truly be shafted or simply wait for starvation to serve out my hierarchical sentence.

Jesus had only one bad day, mine is every day.

Suddenly in the midst of my rapidly increasing aging I got swept away in tornadic titillation as I remembered the super hot receptionist stationed just outside. Since I'm dead anyway, should I just drop my pants and show her my enthusiasm?

How long before I'm accusingly discovered in here lost confused at wit's end as the sun sets in the real world while I'm trapped and useless mired in excommunication - and still on the clock.

If I could pray my way off the cross I would - and leave the world to burn in the sanctimonious shit of those who do and those who don't.

With lips quivering in this mental coffin, I start pressing on the panel where the buttons should be to get me off. Maybe they're there and I just can't see them! I've been wrong before, I could be wrong now. It's my usual bad attitude blinding me to the pathway to success.

But despite my clever political arguments to the contrary there wasn't a fucking button anywhere except the one damn button I dare not push! So this is what it's like to drown in full slow motion replay.

And then the door opened in gaping ignominy.

Some Liberace executive steps in with trophy rings on every finger and a blockbuster grin gripped in perpetual pleasing panic. I was able to spy like Bond that the ravenous receptionist I'd hoped to impress was gone from her throne and my lust for ill-gotten glee would have been in vain had I attempted it. At least one song remained the same...

Of course, now that someone else is here the buttons re-appear, so I hit the ground exit button quick as I can, pleading for it to obey the laws of physics according to my understanding.

The sensations of movement were not false ones as the elevator doors opened to the lobby zoo of stagnating suited animals and killer piranha where I heard an aproned fellow yell, "Throw that man a parrot!" Seeing the revolving doors to freedom I immediately start running but in a wary weaving manner to make sure I avoid any sniper fire.

Once outside I instantly look up to see if any falling pianos are headed my way. None were but one did land on a fellow down the street who was vociferously arguing how God would never allow that to happen to one such as him - or maybe he should have said Him.

But while looking up I did notice another coddled conundrum: flames shooting out the 17th floor windows. Reflexively, I grabbed a Texastan Karen passing by and pointed, "Look! Fire!"

Only she angrily wrangled her way out of my grip and without looking up defiantly declared, "I see no fire - I only vote for it." Then she started hopping down the street in her Playboy bunny outfit crying out: "#metoo! #metoo!"

I tried to point out the firestorm to a few other passers-by but only their cats were curious. In merciful resignation I crossed the street and sat on a park bench where I had a good view of the increasing fury of the flames. Around me I heard idle social network chatter, jokes of indeterminate value, and plans for futures not meaning to live.

Outside of cats and other good-hearted souls, no one objected to the conflagration above, and I wondered to myself: "What's right with me that only I see this?"

Join The Club!

Somebody somewhere out there right now is asking, "WHY?"

Why did it happen? Why the pain? What does it mean? Is more madness to come?  Where is hope?

They're praying for answers like a Jew in a box car, but none shall come. Mystery is thy name.

But now, I'm no longer alone. Welcome to the world.

****

Deep Ellum is the crowded nightclub district of Dallas. A girl was shot there Saturday night, maybe from a passing motorist or maybe from a rooftop. No one really knows. It's suspected a silencer was used. Police have no suspects and no motives at this time.

I'll never forget the screams of horror from her nearby girlfriends. They can't believes their eyes but they have to, no political spin to help. Lives changed forever, no going back. For them, the morning sun will never be as bright.

A few will become professional victims. Sill others will withdraw into permanent suspicion. Maybe one will survive the devil's guilt of having not been shot to live a normal life.

I just aimed at a group of girls as I was driving by. The loud music spilling onto the streets gave cover to my homemade silencer. I just couldn't stand the thought of being alone with my fate any longer.

I scour news everywhere for every last crumb of a word. That's me they're talking about! Camera footage sought. Tip line. Quotes from bystanders. It's like a transfusion of life.

I debated yelling out, "Get a job!" as the shot was fired. That's only because I can't get one. Like that girl, I too have been sentenced to death. They tell me I could be a dishwasher or school bus driver or some other form of slow suicide. Of course, no one who tells me to hold these jobs has these jobs. No bribe to look the other way for me.

Soon the attention will be gone, just another cold case file. I'll be wondering for some time if the police will show up on my doorstep. There might be a lucky break but, really, those only happen on TV shows. Real life doesn't have an acceptable plot line for the big screen. No one wants to know the real truth.

The world is cruel and getting more cruel. Like those girl's friends, I have no answers nor hope to find any answers. We live in an unspoken club.

Some spread love. Some spread pain. But we all spread something good or bad, no exceptions.

I'll never know what I could have been if I could have been. That's my nightmare. Who can I be if I don't get to be me?

She's Coming Back!

Now I have to re-think everything.

Out of the blue I get a letter. She wants to see me, to save me, with enough money to last rest of my life.

So she doesn't want me to die.

When you're a zero, everything is the opposite of what it's supposed to be (a working class zero is nothing to be). So how is this happening?

Like I said, I have to re-think everything. As a zero, destroying yourself is a good thing.

But if I'm actually not a zero, then my self-destructive behavior can no longer be a moral thing.

Damn.

The letter said her life is empty, decades of lies hollowed her out. She needs something real.

She loves me! Yeah! Yeah! Yeah!

But wait. She must be deceived. She thinks I'm not a zero. I only feel like something when I'm with her. But what can a zero have to offer?

Zeroes don't deserve to be saved. How could my judgment be wrong? The right thing to do is betray her so she'll see the light of what I actually am.

Letter said she wants to stop at a "Texas store" before coming to see me from the airport. That made me feel good, like there's something outside of me that makes the trip worthwhile.

I go get my gun. I feel like a real bastard but there's no other way. I have to un-deceive her. Only then she'll understand what a blessing I gave her being out of her life.

By shooting her I can prove my integrity, of knowing my true worth, not lying to myself. Otherwise, she'd just find out on her own and then I'd really be cooked. It's just a matter of time.

I heard the rental car pull up in the driveway. One thing I know for sure is she hasn't screwed up her life the way I have. Yeah, maybe she's made some mistakes but nothing on the scale I have.

I just can't face her. I look down at my loaded revolver then hide it behind my back as I get up to open the door. She's got a big surprise coming to her but the truth will out, I always say.

I flash my Judas smile mixed with curiosity of how she is. Part of me wants to surrender and throw myself into her arms and falsely believe I can have a future.

The urge is overwhelming but I remain strong and resist doing what I want instead of doing what I should. My will be done.

She too has a smile but something is hidden in her eyes. Must be the delusion I'm worth saving. Well, time to correct that.

But as I whip my arm from behind my back I notice she also has one arm behind her and she too draws out a gun.

"Oh, that Texas store," I remember thinking as my last thought.

The guns fire simultaneously, dropping us both. The neighbor's dog starts barking. We fall to the ground, each trying to assassinate our coming revelation. Romeo and Juliet got nothing on us.

Crashing The (Button Man) Pearly Gates

On the eve of execution, an assassin spoke.:

"Son, let me tell you something: everything is the opposite of what it seems. Them politicians, what they say they wantin' to defend is really what they wantin' to betray. People talkin' 'bout 'Country first' really puts it last. Things we doin' in name of saving the world is destroying the world. Only thing people really wantin' to save is their greed."

"But papa, I must save you."

"What for? I've already decided I'm a Christian."

"No man may call himself a Christian. That substitutes your judgment for God's. One can only say one hopes to be a Christian."

"I can call myself a goddam Christian if I want to!"

The Button Man's son sighed, his priestly robes raising and lowering upon his shoulders. "Father, you've killed on command your entire life. All is forgiven if one repents, but first you must admit what you are: a murderer and a criminal."

"Be careful how you talk to me, boy," seethed the Button Man.

"Why? Am I your savior?"

"Listen, kid. Some people is dead before they're born. There's no place for 'em in this world! You can preach all you want but there's no praying your way off the cross."

"Don't nail yourself to a cross and call yourself Jesus. That's beyond despicable. Harming yourself makes up for nothing and does no one any good."

"Look, don't lay the world on me, boy. I just did what I was told, no questions asked. You want to complicate everything with your questions, so be it. That you, not me. What do you want from me? I'm just a button man."

"Those are lies you tell yourself. You can't vote your way into heaven. That's the oldest lie going."

"Everyone lies, especially you priests. But see, only lies I believe is God's lies, so I'm good."

-----

When the Button Man arrived at the Pearly Gates, Saint Peter was on vacation, replaced by a flunky.

"What do mean he ain't here?" insisted a fuming Button Man.

"I mean exactly that. Saint Pete told me anyone shows up just send them straight to hell."

"That's a outrage! You can't do that just cause someone tells you to. Think, man, think!"

"What do you want from me? I'm just the Lever Man." Then he pushed the lever down.

Halfway To Nowhere

So after years of waiting my name finally moved up on the list for a room in a halfway house. It's halfway to nowhere but halfway off the streets. It's not all what I expected or imagined.

One thing I found out is how exhausted I am. Having a space where I can fully collapse found me free-falling to the point where I could hardly move without seeming like pushing boulders. I've had flashes of this before in stolen moments when I was able to stop running. But now I see the true depths of my condition.

Something's eating on me so badly (Emily) I'm moaning in the night as demons come out with their pitchforks. Another consequence of allowing my guard to be down. I have to be careful no one in the other rooms hears me. It's like home all over again.

Where does this lead to? I've never had to face that question in the thousands of days and nights I spent on the run. Seems I imagined some sort of paradise awaiting me if only I could get off the streets. But the freedom of the streets is its own sort of sanctuary from the ties that bind and maim. Maybe I'm trying to have the best of both worlds here. Or maybe I'm just caught someplace in between.

There's still some adjusting to do so more to come. I can't write while I'm in that place, only scribble here on the street. With all the bad decisions and extreme cowardice I've shown in my life, I feel more bad news awaits me as I finally have the time and space to face myself. Everything has a catch.

UPDATE: I'm drowning and can't reach the surface. The more I settle in the more I face how lost I am. Life on the run is hell but at least you can lie to yourself how good things could be if you had a safe place. I got my wish, now I want to die.