The Sock-Monkey As Alone

  This piece of writing is a warm-up, trying to feel out the language I need to express my intuition. I hate myself as I see myself (a series of compulsions.) The algorithm that is me is also afraid to get the hope that it has anything to tell. Any stories in the twisted and scarred gnarly territory I call my mind. But since I was little, I have had this compulsion—this need to see shapes in time. To see the arc of a narrative when none is readily apparent. This compulsion is my frustration. This compulsion is an utter pleasure.   I have had some broken teeth pulled, and not being in absolute pain every waking moment is a joy. I can't chew much and will need dentures in the next five to ten years. But this is the cost of being alive, or at least living badly and being lucky enough not to die.   I have been thinking about my situation more as I have become increasingly reclusive in how I live. While I also stress more about wanting to be a published writer.   I may or

"Hallelujah! Oh, the oppressive engine of the anarchist miracle." Said Blind Joe Death. "the self-righteous surrender of the universally excepted symbolic right of passage."   He was throwing his arm around Apollyon, Saying, "you got laid, kid, your only thirty. That's not too embarrassing."   "who is this weirdo?" Said Rachel.   "Who me?" Said Mr. Blind, pointing at himself. "she talking about me?"   Apollyon was silent. Reserved, reluctant, or possibly even scared.   "You ain't bad though, firm pouty lips, and nice fat tits." He kissed her, copping a feel. She was smacking at him with loose flailing hands. "Oh, come on, baby, don't be like that."   "Apollyon, who the fuck is this?" Said Rachel.   "He is me." said the sad, dispirited self-reflection of blind joe death.   "I mean, she is a little round in the middle, But I could get behi

"Hallelujah! Oh, the oppressive engine of the anarchist miracle." Said Blind Joe Death. "the self-righteous surrender of the universally excepted symbolic right of passage."   He was throwing his arm around Apollyon, Saying, "you got laid, kid, your only thirty. That's not too embarrassing."   "who is this weirdo?" Said Rachel.   "Who me?" Said Mr. Blind, pointing at himself. "she talking about me?"   Apollyon was silent. Reserved, reluctant, or possibly even scared.   "You ain't bad though, firm pouty lips, and nice fat tits." He kissed her, copping a feel. She was smacking at him with loose flailing hands. "Oh, come on, baby, don't be like that."   "Apollyon, who the fuck is this?" Said Rachel.   "He is me." said the sad, dispirited self-reflection of blind joe death.   "I mean, she is a little round in the middle, But I could get behi