i was born in this apartment thirty five years ago and to the day. There's a half painted sign for the hells angels unclaimed facing the wall. A clay figurine of a reclining buddha made for a madman. Half complete ink drawings. An unused fireplace burnt black by someone elses fire and therefore part of someone elses history. A sealed and unusable door. Empty vodka bottles. Dirty tin mugs. Air tank. Fan.

 

It's my habit to take inventory when i wake up in the morning. Part of this inventory is a catalog of my conversations from the previous night of debauchery. When i drink i'm either filled with a terrible love or a humorous semi hysterical rage. The outcome could be a new, vindictive enemy or a passionate but brief love affair. My catalog prepares for me for the phone calls, the apologies and the tears.

 

Once my inventory is complete, its necessary to listen carefully to the days injuctions from the idol. My father, an even more obnoxious and thirsty man than myself, gave me only one testemant. To pay careful attention to the effigy.

 

Even if  I were a bright or courageous person, which I'm, i'd still be poisoned by my rotten nature.  I'm blessed to have a prophet living in my own kitchen.

Everything I do is carefull guided by his capable hand.

 

The circle of halfeaten apple cores near my mattress covered with ants reminds me that our nature is perishable. We need greater men to lead us and we ourselves are incapable of any kind of greatness. The idol holds me safe from my own rabid human nature. When im a bad boy he looses his hold a little, and i can feel myself dissolving in a red mist of animal lust.

 

Begin each day, he says.. in his piping voice.. knowing that you can be better than you are. Understand your underlying nature which is filthy. Don't curse. Be professional. Work on the next version of yourself. Remember you will never be complete.

 

He lives in the kitchen cupboard I can never open. Theres no lock or handle.

There are times when his voice drives me mad, foaming, screaming crazy.

 

ii

 

If i were too be honest, i'd admit that i know he comes from his cupboard at night inching his way across the floor on his little wax hands and feet. He rests his mouth on the juncture of my leg and thigh and bites into the pulsing artery.

 

He sucks blood, that flushes his little wax head and invigorates his body. He dances a quiet jig to invisible music.

 

He kisses the wound and seals it with his saliva. He dances back into his cupboard and the door shuts seamlessly behind him.

 

I wake up every morning feeling tired and beaten. He reminds me each morning that his powers limit the damage I can do to others and to myself.

I'm deeply grateful, and occasionally driven to tears by the power contained in his tiny fragile little body.

 

iii

 

"There are rules" he says,  "remember.. there is a better place than this. If you walk carefully in my footsteps you'll get there. The gates will open for you. I have the key."

 

"We are going on an exciting journey. Say goodbye to the grotesque animal you were born as. Only love can file down those sharp teeth!"

 

There are days I feel like im paralyzed with joy. Every joint aches. The smell of stinking food from the sink makes me retch. Im dissolving into the mattress, my skull is emerging from my skin. Bless the white walls of my room.

 

Every friend I don't have, is a friend spared from my low, dark nature.

 

iv

 

when im drunk, im filled with obscenties.. then the grip of the little man on me weakens..  filthy stinking little dwarf!  the insults

flow from my mouth like pollution from a factory might poison an otherwise clean river. i grip the bottle in my hand, smash the neck off with a confident swipe, aim the jagged end before me into the dark.

 

prepare to die you miserable little turd. you'll be wearing the wooden jacket before im done with you.

 

i run into the kitchen and aim a kick at the cupboard with  my steel cap boot. ah those boots were given to me by a friend of mine who worked in the build trade, a hard fire eyed man with hair like the sun who hates black people. they're tough boots, like a his heart, but reliable. you can take a lot of punishment and give it back doubled with one good kick.

 

the doors of the cupboard buckle, they bend. i can imagine a little wax shoulder pressed against the door holding it closed. i grapple with the edges of the cupboard, looking for a way inside. i fall to one knee and crack my forehead into the cabinet door. the wood groans but does not break.

 

my rage is a biblical one, but there is a part of me that understands this is just part of the little game. what god would walk among the people, offer himself up to them. he'd be devoured, slit down the belly, his entrails removed, cooked on  a stick, masticated, masturbated, the flesh would be sucked from his bones, the bones chewed, the marrow sucked on.  they'd pickle his brain with onion. theyd stew him with fires heated with the light of his own words.

 

there is no way into this cask with these clumsy fingers. this is the ark of the covenent covered with knife scratches, food stains, gas burns, dead ants, sugar.

it holds the secret but what if the secret is nothing but a burp of stale gas, the evacuation of an animals bowel.

 

no no let the secret stay where it is, lets open the windows and howl up at the neighbor. lets scream through teeth the color of a pear handled gun.  unroll our tongues and let fly with a verbal red carpet. soon the police will come. why bother  with this little nut anyway.. it needs a stronger tool than you own..

 

you fall around the kitchen breaking glasses, through the medicine cabinet, pills up into the air falling like confetti, into the bath then.. a nice hot bath while the screaming landlady presses her mouth to the ventilation grille and spittle rains down on your washing..

 

v