There is an overall wallowing feeling seeping like a fish-cork homemade buoy nodding it’s head in little bobs of nostalgia indicating that tomorrow we are leaving—that tomorrow the sojourn of a lifetime, the emotional puberty of everything I have ever known will be reconfigured, and somehow reborn. I can’t crash. My body is forming ellipses and half stretches constantly ricocheting across the area-code of the mattress, foaming, pawing, yanking the sheet up so that it forms a tumble of mountain ranges, an abandon pyramid the slop of a waterfall, the emptiness, life passing through the curtain of my flesh, the riddled calcium of my joints. Young Guns is on Fox. As I do every night with STAR TREK next generation I set the timer on the television I purchased the first year I had my route. I am on a raft. I am secluded, stranded, I feel like something is possessing me. I feel like I can’t concentrate. With my glasses off the digitalized slashes of my alarm clock looks like an incubus pausing to squint before metaphysically prodding me with a pitchfork.
It is like the entirety of my anatomy beginning to stir.
I get up and use the bathroom and get up close to my alarm
clock and see that the digits read 12:48. It is not even one o’clock yet. I
have been asleep for less than four hours.
My clothes are laid out. My favorite jeans My turtleneck.
The cross-country jacket I received for Christmas with my name scribbled in
check-endorsed cursive on the top left. The golden confirmation ring that my
grandmother gave me with the initials DVB inside. The Identity bracelet that I
have deemed essential for the voyage even though the femme who gave it to me with love is practically boning me best friend.Somehow I am in the dilapidated garget behind our house on Sherman and in front of us is all my enemies, I am next to Hale and Patrick. Somewhere I can see Renae Holiday dressed up like she is auditioning for the role of JO in Little Women. Somehow I am next to David Hale and Patrick and Tim and somehow we are gunslingers, we are shooting are way out. We are firing at random. We are laughing. We are praying. We are howling with the prospects of youthful emancipation. We are firing at every thing in the outside world only our guns are our penises. We are releasing ourselves in a salty puddle of hurt. We are screaming. We are cursing. We are biting the bottom of our lips. We are out of bullet. Renae Holiday and co are requesting that we toss our sick-shooter penises out the windows like shotguns. We are capitulating. We are toppling. We are hurt.
We have failed.
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