The Sock-Monkey As Alone

"writing is a form of prayer."                         - Franz Kafka  It always comes back to me in hell, thinking, waiting and praying. Ideas are dangerous things if I could tell a younger version of me one thing about ideas I would say "don't get one, don't go looking for one, don't think about it." Now redemption is elusive as salvation. All broken and shattered in the fixed position on a map I call home. Sitting at the typewriter wandering what is next?     Karma walks into the room, his body a patchwork of orange and yellow. He has horns like an elk and legs like one as well. I remember a time when I felt like I knew karma. "you're my friend." I said stoned out of my mind. Lucy later told me "yeah he was making fun of you the whole time. You blacked out, and we just had a good laugh." than he made the universally excepted sign/symbol of fucking, tak...

Rumple was looking for new Jerusalem the city in the sky. Floating out there on the horizon like some distant hope that had manifested itself to the world at large. The business of the rainbow road kept him in doubt, which was the whole point, wasn't it? Miscolored bricks contrasting and isolating each other in the multitude while also blurring together. Like crispy rice treats made from fruity pebbles.     "what has become, of greatness? Or of ancient truth? That of glory and power, flowing like sweetwater sewn through the fields of our labor. " rumple did not know who his audience was, but he was hamming up the melodrama for someone other than himself. But God wasn't listening as he was off on other business. So rumple continued down the road one plush foot after the other down the road to wherever the fates flowed.     Emily was a witch, who had loved more than her share of fuckboys and considered it a duty to purify there soul. Through the dolls ...

 "We are flesh prisons with an ego."                                         - Unknown author. Six feet tall, glass on three of its four sides beneath its lid and on top of its legs. The Fiji mermaid was beautiful in that macabre dance way, but its eyes always seemed to follow Jolene where she was. She found herself unable to lose sight of it even on the side of her vision. Imaging much of the same predicament for the mermaid. Its prison was coin-operated only taking pennies. Green and gold spirals on the lower part of the stand and an overall sideshow attraction art deco? (if such a style exists)    She put in a penny and expected the mermaid to move, but it's grotesque grey arms were still, it's catfish tail motionless, and the distorted screaming face of the creature unchanging...

(question) My frustration is? (answer) The business of life is hard. Here I am trying to write myself out of hell. Trying to prove I have repented but sadly Kali has abandoned me. You see, a long time ago I started to write this book because I thought I was the anti-christ and once I finished it the world would end...now I know I am nothing but a thirty-year-old mad man attempting to get his foot out of his mouth with a crowbar.    The idea was that when you got to New-Jerusalem, you would be handed a copy of dharma-discharge and would see how it was imagined with false history and everything. It is a companion piece to the bible. Commentary on it, if you will. But I wholly believed that it was my job to end the universe.    Ending the universe with a lie? As the antichrist, I believed that it was my duty to be the opposite of Christ. So when He died for the worlds sin, then I would live for no one's sins. Yet when I met the lord, I was thoroughly put in my place. ...

Liam haunted, it is what ghosts do. He was seen wandering the streets at night. He tried to stay hidden, but he looked different because he was dead. So more often he found himself in the graveyard. There was a comfort in being surrounded by headstones and decaying corpses in the ground.     The moon was red that night "don't remember seeing that before." said the little ghost. Threw the chunks of stones polished or fading all with names attached. A labyrinth of history of people trying to figure out what is the point of it all. Liam was sitting on a headstone, feet banging and bouncing to an internal song he was singing. Then he discovered (nearly in spite of himself.) that he heard someone else singing a song. A slide guitar hitting haunted spiderwebs for the soul of the blues. Liam shivered as much as the dead could.     He followed the song to a mausoleum, the door cracked open with the flicker of a light (resisting and shattering the night) within it....