A Shrine to Me

Today I got a phone call from the Executive Director of outer space. He told me to expect something big. Bigger than space? “Twice that big”, he mumbled. “That’s a big deal then dad”, said Tube (the son I never had). Wow! My expectations of my life having been changed in an instant had changed in an instant. It was as though something big was really about to happen. “Bigger than space, dad”, I was quickly reminded by the son I never had as he deleted my conscience. Don’t! “Too late”, replied my non existent child.

“I’ll never be able to forgive (or forget) your alleged mother”, I plothered. A made up word to describe the way I communicate to my anti-son.

When the big day arrived I was like a son I never had, diluted with anticipation and full of apricots and vinegar. Yes, as you properly guessed, I am no longer writing this story. How did you, dear reader, gain such bountiful wisdom? Certainly, you show wisdom beyond your wizening!

I in fact am the son-of-a-me that was never had. And as such, can thus properly acclaim the disproportionate coronation of my dad. You would never believe him because the story is about him. But it was big, bigger than space even! And they placed it upon him with glee, there was oh so much glee, and dancing, oh, the disproportionate dancing, and twins, conjoined twins with hula hoops and hacksaws.

There was a distress in the air that no one could fake. Why would they want to? But the air was fake, mostly argon, I hate argon!

And the bows were provided for snake charmers and neptune handcuffs, but the prognosis was large, bigger than space even!

I am beginning to understand the reason that my non existent son (the one who is writing this) has allowed me to see you, dear reader, as you can barely finish this tale. It is because you are the end of this story, and I/it is/am bigger than you. Your conclusion, no matter how meaningful or meandering, cannot infuse meaning into itself or even this/it. You must secretly know this, but won’t you tell yourself? If you can’t trust yourself, then who can you trust?

Try to trust a doctor with a very mild conscience and we shall see which side of the morgue you wake upon. I have no conscience, it was rolled back at the Wallmart, and my neverboy charted it to doomsday mice.

Sparks launch my blood-target to force the issue of pain from the dark void of all-encompassing doomsday particle accelerants to the peaking of the pain in my mental shard, the one left true by bankers and deli thieves and skate park honchos.

I look at the derailed rallied clouds of crowds embarking on the journey to the center of my daily grind, forcefully intruding on my nocturnal bliss, the moment my eyes close and see the snake of sleep drift into the heart of my translucent nightshade, and they enter, with hearts made of hands and pulverized, sequenced, entombed, razor-edged diatribes, benefiting no one, being shared by all.

There are quips and engendered vagrancies that delight in stopwatch harmony. The fluttering embolism that is a symbolism of the persistent gouging away at my incomplete, post-destined, punctuated life that has been capitalized on by the hounds of reading. No pages re-inserted. No coffin overflowing. No chance to escape the day I am scraped into a shrine built for no one but dead little sad little me.