Join My Cult - Original Falcon Press

of the Holy to her crying she is crying I am crying in the
temple in the temple of the temple of the temple of the sun.
Hearing voices crying voices wailing voices all in chorus
of the temple and the temple and the temple of the Holy
falling deeper ever deeper even deeper than the Holy
in the temple of the temple in the temple of the sun.
Meds are kicking in now. Soon the thoughts will leave me altogether.
Let me tell you now how I think, because this is my story. You have to
see it with my alien eyes. I am the gravel underneath my feet. The distance
between two things; I am, essentially, a relationship. There is no
synthesis named Johny. There never was. Just a fragment.
Cold feet at the bottom of the plank the farthest thing from me. Twitch
the corpse toe left, then right. What twitches the toe? Where are the
commands sent from, and who tells the Commander to issue the order?
Agent would have said “the void in the relation of subject and object.”
I’m that void. The Cartesian gap. Some call this relationship perception:
a shackle and chain, linking this to that with invisible cords. There
will always be the subject, the object, and me, that eternal, emasculated,
passive silence, the [ ], trapped somewhere in the middle. These things
in themselves are not without me to relate to, although that relationship
chases its tail as a dog. Ah yes, I remember now, some Artaud. All these
abysms conscious recognizes in itself; and yet, doesn’t the relationship
eat itself ouroborus-like? Yet I feel this very weight upon me with every
moment, breath, gullet swallow, DOWN/down/down/down to be devoured
and excreted.
These words eat themselves. These words are hungry. They don’t
relate to themselves. They are trapped in [ ]. These words fuck themselves,
and think they’ve gained something in the morning, aside from a
sore back and throbbing head. These words have stubbed their toe, and
whine about the unfairness of it all.
For a moment I zone out of this monologue to find just a brief flash of
the present moment. My hand, seeming grey and lifeless, clutching a coffee
mug emblazoned with the Lenny’s logo. Wait, I haven’t bombed the
Lenny’s yet! I’m just writing my future in a daydream, getting ahead of
myself…
~
It was three weeks after Alexi’s release from the hospital. In fact this
was the first time he had left the comfort of his home. Now he was re-
13