Hurt Me Daddy, for I Have Blogged

It was visible all over. Undying apathy. From the tiny trees tentatively cracking up through the concrete to the garbage trucks and landfills and upper crust high-rises. The sinister cloud rode powerfully in, guiding everyone’s activity. Drivers became especially distracted, average citizens felt sleepy and unaware. The ritual blindness saddened and mellowed. Lovers slowed down, down to find their consciousness turned inward and distance between each other. Church bells sounded, but it was a Wednesday and they fell on deafer ears than usual. All these things of the city have ebb and flow, even the most monstrously banal. And among these cracks and crags of apathy walked the forgotten. The transients, the sex workers, the runaways. Who needs a zombie movie when you have drugs, smartphones and the daily lulls. A man stands by his open window doing the same masturbatory ritual he does every day. Children fall off the monkey bars and scrape their elbows. And so the sun’s rays disa...

It flowed up from the sewers, up and back into the storm drains. Like gelatinous donut filling or dishwasher detergent. That strange smell, like tempera paints from an elementary school art class. Down, surrounding the first and second floors of the skyscrapers; over the possessions of Downtown’s homeless. From the aerial view it was a satin sheet over the mattress of the land. Yet the citizens felt safe, going about their usual routines, though slightly inconvenienced. Jaime spoke with the Ones on a daily basis. Their message to humanity was clear and their intent true. Sometimes he walked with his staff to the quiet grove to give an offering. Of all the humans, he was least afraid of ascension. His apartment was small and modest. He had dropped out of community college, moved back in with the family to help support them for a while, moved back out, finished his AA and wandered rather aimlessly until he’d found the Study Program. Little did he know it would get him in speaking wi...

She sat in Ed’s Café, studying her Anthro textbook. She cleaned her nails nervously, noticing how dry her knuckles were. She hated how stalkerish she seemed in this situation but there really wasn’t much of a choice. He was there every Thursday, and she even noticed that sometimes he requested the exact same table. Extrovert, she thought. Doesn’t mind being seen. No wonder we were separated. He glides in at his usual time. Smooth, clean, almost compulsively arranged dreads. Messenger bag, headphones. Metrocard back into the wallet with such a continuous movement that it looked like martial arts. Her affect is quiet, but there is still that low lull of nervousness. When will the right time come? She texts with Marilyn for a few minutes. Reloads the twitter app. Tries to figure out what this song is on the satellite radio station. His face is so fine. Chiseled, serene. Barely any blemishes. Mostly smooth caramel skin. He’s fiddling with a set of keys. He places his blended coffe...

Sometimes he brought her a bedpan to relieve herself. But sometimes not. “My god is an arbitrary god,” she exclaimed, exhaustedly but thoroughly enraptured. Still, it was easier than trying to figure out what to do herself. “You cannot understand all the years of feminism that people have worked on for you to give me this freedom. Your weakness is astounding.” She thought little of it. “When will you beat me? When do I get treated as I deserve? I am in love with your power.” He looked at her with sad eyes. Most days she would not move from the bed. He was grossly inconvenienced that he had to prepare her meals. “Learn some independence, slut.” She looked at him, wide-eyed, and understanding his words little. “Um, can I put on my Hitler costume while doing it?” She giggled nervously. “Put on whatever you want,” he growled. “Just stop wasting my goddamn time.” She loved weak female characters, like the lady in those old melodramas who got tied to the railroad tracks. The sw...

The gentleman of Baker Street they called him, sometimes. He’s not your typical mad prophet. Most of the time there is a colorful parrot resting upon his shoulder. People love to make jokes about pirates to him, but he always responds with a deep, intense stare. His brain is fragmented, his life is fragmented. He seems like he who never encounters another human soul on his path but has met with all living beings. Our Vietnamese neighbor, Tim, mentioned one day that there is a Boddhisatva in his culture who is said to act very much like The Bird Man. Urban legend abounds. One day we saw the police harassing him and everybody was ready to fight. I got sick to my stomach that day with anxiety. Oh, his bird mad world. One day we caught him lying on the sidewalk, as if there were supposed to be a chalk outline around his body. On that day a cockatiel was perched on his knee, and the animal didn’t seem concerned in the least. “How goes, holy fool?” I asked. “Not good, not good. The rain...

G.I. Blow. He raises his binoculars in the direction of the sun. The school looks calm today, but he knows that something is wrong. He can feel it. Off in the distance, ‘copters are coming. He remembers the news reports of the two boys in trenchcoats who did it last time. He drags off his cigarette and does a bump. Better than coffee. His heart can’t be contained. He sails over the buildings to meet the children. “I’ll save you, They need to arm these fucking teachers. That’s what they need to do. This wouldn’t be happening.” No more nightmares of these babies getting hurt. This shouldn’t be happening. These innocents should not be taking a vow to walk into a warzone unprepared. “This is my vow to God. Suffer the little children, for they shall not be harmed.” He carefully polishes one of his. You best believe that they were alphabetized. Mademoiselle Kalashnikov. SAs. The vintage stuff was in its own display case. Pristine and clean. His run in the Corps only taught him that thin...

They come to the temple with incense, gold, coins. No pottery shards. Leave those outside, they say. Lines of the fragrant, ritually washed. The music hums, the gong sounds. Next in line. She sits, enthroned, rich maroon silks. At her right hand is a peacock, at her left hand is a cardinal. Choice meats, vegetables and fruit lie on her table. Every day the offerings are taken away. Sometimes the sandal-clad villagers bring her televisions. Old junk sets, broken, still with their insect antennae. Marigolds, lilies, birds of paradise. Always crowned in gold. Goddess of the earth. Rooted in the center of the temple. But little do the mortals know the story of when one gets within a meter of her. Dark olive skin and perfumes of true, living nobility. And yet those in the next nation over accuse her of being a fantasy of the very young or very corrupt. Praised be the reds and the golds. Apple offerings, too. Plump sparrows liked to sit on branches in her temple. No divination was necessary...

Papa L is there, like last time. Splotches of grey in his beard, a pretty clean-looking sweatshirt. He puts down his Big Gulp full of change. “Don’t fuck with me this time.” I hand him the bottle of rum. “ Jvousenprie ” Why the v-word with me? I’m younger. It doesn’t matter. I can tell he’s grateful, and I can tell that it’s been a while. I want to ask him how he usually does in one day but the idea of doing so worries me for some reason. An old white man walks by. He is engrossed in his trip. Earlier I saw a bum wearing a witches’ hat. It’s just that kind of party today. The white bums are meaner, their checks come in faster, and usually nobody brings them an offering like this. I can tell that he will keep this addict’s secret well. One time I saw a man actually use the money for the bus. It’s their ticket to Shangri-La (or is it sangria?). If they’re lucky, they get to sleep all night. “I’m gonna get a donut from the donut shop. And I’m gonna get a lottery ticket.” I thought of how...

Maybe you will meet him in Subway entrance, involuntary Hellmouth of present-day. Maybe you will pass him in the night club. Maybe he is your friend, and you will make a deal with him, to bargain your old habit into healthiness for just one last day. Maybe he is seductive, dark-eyed, and gives you directions on what to do and where to go next. Maybe he is wearing a costume this time of year, and laughing madly from behind his mask. He has manipulated you into laughter at the expense of others, and suddenly you are uncomfortable about it. Maybe he is not methodical at all, but instead unbridled about his anger. Maybe he gave you the easy way out: a gun, a knife, a drug. Maybe he is the sweet success of that sex with the one you know won’t last or the wife you’d rather bury. You worked so hard on this, but its security and stability are an illusion. And also allusion, to your deepest, darkest insecurities. You taste bloodied salt blood, the kind that is sugary corn syrup and a headache ...