The Electric Cat

You have to honor the dead when you don't honor the living

Jesus said, "Let the dead bury the dead."

Jesus and John Lennon never did a job they didn't want to do. I've never done a job I did want to do.

With God as my witness, I want to burn down the world and start over. There's no way out.

I've been handed The Wall job, to write down every name to be memorized and discussed with visiting relatives.

In the cramped, windowless office where I reside they showed where I have my own bathroom. I was expected to be gleeful and grateful about that so I reacted accordingly.

In my head I said: "Kill me now." Lies, always lies: the serpent's servant.

'Nam has never ended for me. I know it's supposed to. Must be something wrong with me. Again.

I remember the little things I did to stay alive in the jungle. Like running the latest song through my head over and over and over to block out encroaching insanity.

I obsessed on the idea of killing stupid ass Conley incessantly farting throughout the night. If I could just have that I could live with the rest, I told myself.

I would dream of the Electric Cat when I dared to dream. He walks through the brush in glowing neon colors and the shooting would cease on both sides.

We'd stand up, exposing ourselves, enthralled by its wondrous nature. We'd come to our senses, drop our guns, and go home never to return.

The cat never came. We never went home.

Add my name to the list of the dead.

Died from imposter syndrome