The Third Case...

Maggie left the TV on for the same reason someone leaves food out for you, they think your incompetent. Maggie believes I am incompetent with my free time. I turn off the TV. Its just you and me house, we are both not haunted but, we both wont to be haunted. I relax into my kitchen chair like a Joey in its pouch. My spin rises out of my back searching like an inch worm for a stem. I can’t help but to listen to the brown transmissions in the ether. I fill for a line to follow, I a take God sip, then I exhale yesterdays newspapers. I ride the empty path until, my wires cross, I pick up a prayer "o please god don’t let me pee my bed." This plea skips me, and goes straight to my sympathy. I fine tune in, a rollercoaster of daisy chained belligerent sectary Kali skulls pass and record me, I turn in to supernatural 481. I am venerable, I listened again hoping not to be triangulated not to be lost, not to be found in a ally ranting; viva Abandonner! Viva section me, squeeze my intestines like tooth paste, divide all my parts, put them into mayonnaise jars, and tupowear bowls. That’s the only way to hide when your caught listening. I listen deeper I lean into the infinite maw with a bottomless stomach, no rail. Just a dead line, I lost the patient. He will be drowned in urine by them. I have fear, there are no corners I am exposed for light years. I am skinny dipping in the river stix, I am dread, joy, Ka voyeur, its too late to stop. I am pulled from the ether dragged like a snails head, over the cooled, dead corpse of the wood floor, into my safe lead lined closet. Clothing, hangers entangle me into a prison womb. Under a red milk crate of records hides my Chinese immortal heart. Under the trapped sounds, is a shoe box full of what I love. for a moment satire held its tongue, and the paint box full of letters held its breath, there’s the truth of me. Behind the disillusionment that there is a still born in Joseph tomb, lays a boy lead off track by fact. What’s left if you aint got religion, what’s left when time makes all your decisions. A Chinese alchemist twin worms of mountain and river or maybe Immortality and knowledge? More like a tranny fucking his/herself. Is it me or is someone burning toast? I am half man half ghost. How can I be guilty I, am not me judge, I’m 382. I pull out like death in reverse, I am in itchy damp piss, dry eyed and milk all around me on the floor. It was morning when "I left." It is now night, which night I do not know. The doors is wide open, letting every form of fling and buzzing second hand typewriter porn junky’s needles in. The door also let the outside in. The house is out of its own warm breath it was drowned with me in it; the kirks. I rise from the sticky wet, and physically go to the closet. Inside I see the records, I look to long, one begins spinning. It is a record I did not own until that moment. I here singing, he sounds like he was bured alive in the past "When I want you, to fetch me some cool water, you gave me venomous spit, I asked the lord if yous was the devils daughter he told me ""son you need to repent."" When I ask you for some money to pay our rent you say look sucker I give up broke ass nigers for lent. Oh I am going to beat you women I’m going to bet you until you make sense, oh I am going to knock you to the floor and make ya holler "" tune my devils fork to 584"" The needle lifts like the sound of foot steps quieting behind you. It saw me but its voice is a life time away from its Adams apple. Somewhere something or some things are slowly turning east. Oh Jesus my heart beats collide with each other like a train suddenly with out a track. I don’t want to picture them picturing me. I don’t want to be seen. I hastily close the closet behind me I am now just my body and what ever is in this closet. There’s teddy unblinking soul magnate. No time to play I cant loose focus my mind can never again be a wedgie board for a hundred disenfranchised hands. I 888ed for two years. I escaped with every one else, into music, book, movie, TV, video game. I made a bunker to hide form the cosmic rage of daddy betting mom, daddy fucking mom, daddy molesting the little one. Daddy turning the radio up high, to drowned out the drowning of his victims, drowning himself, drowning his ancestors. Daddy is meditating on my door. He is a parasite in me. Kept clean by keeping clean. We are a parasite on him, don’t wake daddy. I have to make a Alice choose, the paint box or the shoe box. 1 or 5, above me in the closet the ties hanging like meat hooks the noose of work. The noose of all the good men who safely turned off the world, brought down the power plants that came with it. The world fell apart around them but they stood fast, bleeding out the nitrogen disabling the weapons. When we are cave men again we will not find a lobotomized Siva. He will not rub his nipples with two hands and wipe drool with another then scream "turn me on." We will owe them so much, I will open both containers and, make an alter to the soulless martyrs. Oh Buddha they filled your bowl when you where empting the world and, Christ they were the Frankenstein that made your body and, blood. The blood that held your memoir in the Toa . Not yet I am not ready made. I need to hold to the center, the now. I am being looked at not looking. The center is the first eye, it sees everything from behind. No mirror could expel or expose the center. The white cookie tin with the green paint strokes on top became a paint box’s 14 years ago. That paint box became a place to put letters 10 years ago. The internet caused the box to stay sealed for 6 years. The shoe box is more shame filled then a cum rag in a salvation army bucked. it’s the one I’ll open I shift from 2, to 3 to 5. Maggie’s red heels, where is my shameful talisman upholstered in the skin of bulls testacies, doom. where? I get dizzy think of all the wrong places. I have lost way more of me then I have found. How can I escape when I am not passable for myself. I am 3% me, the rest of me is made up of tar tentacles of mass media, mass hysteria, mass hungers, Possessions, pass life regurgitations and, dreams without scaffolding. I think I am more bounty the quicker picker upper then me. How can that change. There is nowhere to go but between the selfish hunter , and the selfless herd, a Ka voyeur. There are other chooses. Teddy offered some for a price. Teddy was a recording, the offer was probably not even meant for me. That’s the deepest truth its all not meant for us. We think we are a big part of something but we are not the host, the guest of honor, or the guest for that matter. We are not the reason, the result, the cause, or the conclusion. There is no system for us because we are not thought of. We made our own systems and now time is proving our creators, judges, and saviors are sock puppets. We are nonevents between the big bangs book ends filled with harlequin romantic novels written in disappearing ink. That’s to much conjecture and not my problem. I can’t find a shoe box let alone...ohh I fell, my arm. I’m laying on the wall. All the shit in the closed is on top of me. Jesus the house must be side ways. Is everyone side ways. I hear something and it is not with my ears. I got to be still, I am in the closet it is lead. Are those voices? The neighbors, oh god they don’t deserve this. I can’t hide. I should of always hidden; shit. Don’t go out there death will not save you from them. Maggie! That’s My Maggie. There are no hero’s they will teach you this forever. Fuck, no hum the powers out every were. What if its an earthquake and I am a new age nut case. What is that sucking noise. I most be still and listen. It is randomly growing louder and quieter nearer and farther. It’s not look for me. It’s a dry sucking that becomes wet. causing a one less hysterical mind to go away. Its must be big. Its not don’t give a fuck about us big, because its eating , kidnapping or killing, it gives a fuck. This means its not the kind of thing I fear the most. It is finite. It has to be looking for me. I was the one listening. I hear Maggie she’s crying for help. And that help means me I am the only other person under sixty in the neighborhood. I will use the paint box, you’re a badass. shit is scared of you. No I can’t move. I will stay right fucking here and get her to come here into my bunker.

Henry was shocked and angered at the comments that Dr Courier had made against Doc P. The way he asked " Maggie Harper was one of your….client Doctor?" First he knew that she was one of Dr P’s cases. Second why the fuck did he pause before client, like a cop would pause when asking a hooker "is this your...boyfriend." He wanted to knock down all the mutton chopped paintings of French faggots that collective work didn’t lead to anything more then the invention of the douche when compared to Dr P‘s achievements. Why did Académie Des Sciences call a front line general of the army of intelligentsia to their halls. Just to humiliate and then dishonorably discharge them. They treated him like a common witch. Henry had only been with Doc P for under 6 month but, "my God" he thought all the things he has seen in this short amount of time. Doc P was being tried for nothing short of malpractice against a house. A fucking house. We weren’t even there when it happen. Whatever it was. But Henry was there when they saw Magie... Henry filled with dread held his sit he forgot the house by throw a sheet over the bird cage. Why didn’t Doc P defend himself. He Didn’t even pretend to pay attention. In truth Doc P was not paying attention at all to what was for all intents and purposes a kangaroo court. He truly was not there. Dr P was to transfixed on a meeting he would attend with Dr Courier 6 years from now. Dr P Knew this was just a side effect of case 12 but, all the same it seemed more real then the room he was in. In the future Dr Courier looked worked up like Teddy Roosevelt on the stump. He was waving his hand like a wand over a red milk crate filled with papers, records, with a shoe box next to it. He said trembling like a chowowo thanks to the rash but brave sacrifice of Young Henry Davis, we have these letters found in the basement of what we know now as the source of the transition. Here in these yellow papers we have our only chance to find a translation, a cure, or at very least a reason. A copy of these scraps will be made available to every discipline we have at our disposal blah blah imperative.

Dr P saw through the crowd a bloated greasy grey women with lips that looked like two uncomfortable grubs. He felt her thoughts "the only reason I am here is the same reason that the tarot card lady, and the tea leaf guy is here I am one of a thousand hedges. Computers will dissected eat then rape every letter. comparing them with DNA, Morse, Caesar ciphers, anagrams, and stars. I am here because I have no where else to go no one has any where else to go. I’m luck I can go home poor some tea and read. No microscope, voodoo dolls, dosing stick, just read. They don’t know why they choose a room this white, I do. Yes it easy for anyone the white is control the white is pure the white says daddy my be down but daddy will save you, when the volcano goes off daddy will wrap you in his corpse. Daddy is dead there are just a bunch of frightened boys, a planet of piggy’s. Then she fixed on Dr P disembodied eyes. She screamed "their here their fucking here."

Dr P stood up bowed to his accusers grabbed Henry by the arm and pushed throw the fine Victorian doors. In the hall Henry made mean faces at paintings as he talked to Doc P. The first word Doc P listen to were the ones Henry spoke as soon as they entered the light of day. "Doc P they seriously think you believe diseases are intelligent?" Dr P picked a leaf from a tree they passed. "Is lounging Vishnu that dreaming of you intelligent? Child you can only know a disease mind by the bad parody it plays with our bodies including or brains. It’s language makes our teeth fallout, boils form, fever boil your brain, then loosens and blackens your organs that eventual slide out your anus. Diseases have been telling jokes for millions of years and our misery is their punch line." "Doc P I don’t know if I will ever be able to use these pathology metaphors you use to solve medical mysteries." Doc P straitened his glasses "yes metaphors." Dr. P wanted to tell Henry that that viruses also sang. Sirion or saints their song elures even the aware. That those songs was filled not just the opium slots in his brain but all the slot. Instead he would explained what he could about the case. About Maggie, about poor Simon.