To run, free of the weights and just write. Write about everything. Write about your day. Write about your fears. Write about your strengths, your obsessions, your loves, your sexual fantasies, the freckles on your redheaded supporter’s butt cheeks, the disgust you show towards beggars, the way you hurt your dog dang near every day, making him hold his pee and poop inside of himself while you, the man of the house, sit and type, thinking about how to make the text end up here or there, the music quickly wilting, alone in solitary, the shoe.

Oh, lord. That mole on his face… I can’t consider him a true friend, the way he looks. Just give me one moment of your time, and by that I mean a dollar. We all deserve dollars. It’s the currentivist way. I told you I would be here until I died, and though the classmates try, I keep on waltzing back into the room, a tiger on my tail.

We should get it. The poison boiling in our brain. We are stumbling and it just might be the only way to get up these mixed up stairs.

The slimy goopy guy reserving a place in your heart. The president of the seminary class. A prophet, tarred and feathered. What got into his brain while he was down in that pit? Who are we even dealing with this time?