Night Five

Dear Journal,

Oh shit, we’re back at!!! I love the geniuses I work with… damaged flicks of light from the darkest part of space. I fuck with their energy… they’ll be suns. Hell yes ! they’ll be the light their ancestors only dreamed of from the bottom ships, beneath shit and piss… This is not that entry.

By the way [15 secs], I am heating up a cinnamon roll… Holy shit, this Looper THC pen is working 💪🏽 [8 seconds…]

Scratches balls

2 seconds.

Fuck the academics… fellow researchers and professors.

Beep

They’ll never want to read what I have to write. They just don’t have the stomach for it. Or maybe the heart.

I am no literary genius. They will undoubtedly grasp the words, the literary theories and the themes, but my text itself will remain lost to me, like reading the Vedas and never seeing the Ganges.

I want to start conversations about why late-night post-nut clarity drives men to the refrigerator for reasons other than thirst. It is a kind of hurrah. Ebenezer. Twelve memorial stones. Washington crossing the Delaware, immortalized on canvas.

It is how we stand with one arm resting on the fridge door and the other like Kimbo, dick dangling, flaccid, with conquered pride and ego finally in check. Light making everything blacker.Whether she was a face known for years or for minutes, it is all the same afterward.

I want to talk about how limited that statement is, in terms of the places that aforementioned dick could have gone that were not a vaginal canal, but ideas like that conflict with and complicate the ideologies I was raised on. Part of me still flinches whenever I say sex in public, solid-gold maturity with my inner child or teen still frolicking in the joy of breaking into the Louvre and leaving loaded.

I want to talk about how all lovers leave with the same cadence. The same lopsided, one-footed, tilted shimmy. How they all meander out, legs laddered with pleasure, stumbling somewhere between guilt and satisfaction.

I want to write from a whore’s and a priest’s perspective. I want to do this in rooms full of smoke thicker than autumn fog. I want to write for the degenerate and factory-damaged models like me.

I want to remain sober enough to plaster my words on paper.

I want to fucking be early and sober for work ….. shit ! Let me go brush my teeth.