1.Greetings.

So. This is a lie. It's a very attractive lie and I am really excited to see you, but it's fiction anyway. Theatre. Exorcisms of demons disguised as farce, satire, and tragedy. Revisions of classic literary idiom, meticulously studied, painstakingly re-imagined, and inevitably, regrettably, discarded all together. This is social ill addressed by way of networking.

These words are dime rack disposable. Proselytizing pimps and unrepentant hookers. Muscular men adorning tights on newsprint; always right, therefore righteous, and therefore boring. This is an alien invasion, set in 18th century smut, drawn like 97’ circa Ziggy cartoons.

This is propaganda put to page to fill your mind with bits of rage and incitement to violence. This isn’t nice shit; I'm not a nice girl.

These are disconnections. Each standing alone, a vision of high art, the work of a man from on high. Nothing in common. No thematic through line. No reason to dig.

This is an inexpensive work of genius. This is fiction from my brain clouded through cold finger tips in an empty apartment to your eyes that look so weary, into your mind that I will never really, truly know. I wrote this for you.

Unless I'm still lying. 

5. Minute Break
Annie sits on the curb sneaking a smoke, the first in months. Escaping the airport to breathe. Blue felt journal sits open on her lap as she ponders the sky, changing bills in Illadelph mixing sounds in her parents’ basement. The soundscape consumes, memories and movement, lyrically sad upbeat songs. Sometimes she just wants to fly. In this moment inhaling deep the pungent smoke the sound of liftoff faint but unavoidable, imagines herself in headphones. She thinks of her closed book, filled with half finished poems, calling them endings and selling them in Holland. Pen in her pocket. She grins, knocks the ash off her cancer and thinks of a man. Imagines a family that does not resemble anything she's known. Yeah, that'll do. She glances security and sees the line growing long inside. So, she puts one heel down hard on a disgusting habit, smiles, then heads inside to cut the line inside.

8. Magic
so it's tuesday and he’s filled up on enough caffeine to keep linda blair’s head on straight. turns on a keychain light and gives the shiny thing a twirl, hovering midair. people start buying the trick. he starts singing, smells like teen spirit. thinking, the next paycheck looks great from here.

this lady with two kids comes up to his kiosk. he starts the routine. oh, this? it's a keychain light. doesn't float on it's own, though. you know what this is right? right the foundation of our civilization. take a look at the dollar. go ahead, caress it, love it, make sure it's real. okay so, that's a real dollar, woops, uhhh - pause for the dollar floating into his hand - well, this is a real jar. ok. check this out. in the jar, right? yeah, he floats the dollar in a jar. cool. do you got a coin on ya? any coin will do. penny nickel dime euro peso - nothing from the canada. why? because they're not a real country. ok, obviously not a trick quarter. and, there it goes. like a frisbee under telekinetic control. it's gonna follow my finger up the around the back of my arm and shoulder and now it's my hand again. tell me that's not the coolest thing you've seen so far today. a sunset? oh. anyway, secret material is inside of this envelope. you can float potato chips into your mouth, if you're that lazy, and, we're all American here, so... play your cards right, you can float condom into your lap proclaiming it the holy spirit destiny. you can float your license out of your pocket and make the cop think he's the one on heroin. i swear on the bush administrations moral track record you need this illusion. here, watch me float this phallic symbolic out of my pocket into your hand so you can sign the receipt. five bucks and i'll throw in the light.

the lady in the crowd gawked then walked, leaving her kids behind to watch. and back to nirvana.

selling, spitting public enemy at middle flights. the older child asks what the secret is and he tells him it's to be more wasteful with money. the little one tries to grab for the light. quick, the keychain floats away, the salesman giving a wary eye. he starts singing, birdhouse in your soul. the routine is repeated again, only this time when the little one takes a swipe, he’s warned a third offense would result in being lifted in the air. so, of course, the child is defiant.

the magician would have liked to have floated that boy to the ceiling, spinning him around until he projectile vomited across terminal b. but it just wasn't in his power. instead, he picked the boy up and spun him like a pinwheel, eyes gone wide. after the display of his power, the salesman went back to floating small things and the kids just stood there. stopping, context seeping in, i didn't mean to offend. the older boy, the older boy says it’s ok. his dad had done the same thing. the magician nods and then they watch until the lady calls them to come get on their plane.

That I am male, white, about five-eight, five-ten stature, shaved bald, spectacled, NOT bearded, carrying a walking stick, and wearing either a hat, backpack, or both. Or the severed head I am carrying, but they normally notice that second.

6. Jehovah’s Seduction of Mary, As I Understand It
Mary was experiencing an awful Goddmn day. An early Spring morning, prescribed by the mythological groundhog, the young woman rose to her toil. Hours in the desert heat, her fair skin felt burnt sore and calloused. Shlepping across farm grounds, she’d been doing her shiftless boyfriend's carpentry duties, claiming heat stroke, resting hangovers. Servile yet chaste, the combination of childhood and disinterest. After a miserable day of building for a man who only served himself, the good virgin wanted the sand out her vagina.
After hours of trekking, Mary arrived home to find Joseph gone. She threw down his tools and popped a cork on Manishevitz. It was around her second bottle that she found herself uncontrollably grinding on her straw seat. Taking a large swig, she thought, “Joseph may an awful carpenter be, but tonight, I shalt show him how to lay wood.” As she approached orgasm on the bale of hay, Yahweh appeared in the room, back arched on the doorway, dark shades upon his face. She saw him, and he winked.
“Holy Jehova!,” Mary exclaimed.
“H-hey, call me ‘Jeho’,” replied The Holy Spirit.
Mary got to her knees and wept. Hands clasped together, Mary began chanting prayers of forgiveness. Now, for the first time in her life, she could see her almighty Lord before her; whom, she couldn’t help but notice, was wearing a robe revealingly.
“Hey, ain't no need to be on your knees, baby. Not unless you want to be.”
She rose, averting eyes in reverence. Yahweh’s eyes were on lock.
A flutter in her chest, Mary was unexpectedly taken aback by the Lord, accustomed to less seduction and more brute force. Finding resolve, she frowned and looked Him dead in the eye. “That’s pretty crass language for the Creator.”
“No disrespect, baby. Got that brain/mouth confusion. I just say what I feel,” God replied, smile never leaving His face.
“What are you doing here… Joe?”
“Kicking it, you know. Love these buildings you people be building, be innovative motherfuckers fo' sho. Noticed Joseph out. You heading in. Did little of that magic creeping stuff, didn't think you'd mind.”
“… You’ve been watching me?”
“Shit, shorty, I'm the watcher, it’s kind of my job. But I, be fronting if I didn't say I keep a special eye on you.”
“Joe. I don’t know what to. Why?”
“Girl, you special. All these other hos, they be running round, trying to get pregnant, get that Shekel. Chickens be cluckin’. But you, shit, baby. You play it cool by the rules. Like that. Soft color garments. Hiding that ass you know is fine. Sexy girl.” Whispering...
Mary blushed cheeks, supernaturally turned on by God. She squeezed thighs and gave Jeho a sour look. “Joseph thinks I’m pretty sexy too.”
“He’d be a fool not to and I ain’t make no fools. But he don’t know you. Ain't built to.”
“God, don’t,” she moaned.
“Don't what?”
“I do. I do want it. But I shouldn’t, God... I’ve been saving myself! I’ve been a good girl and I've been doing that because that's what you said you wanted!”
“Yo, feel me. You’ve been saving it for someone special, right?”
“Yes.”
“I invented special. Mary, I’m gonna give you something that’s going to change your life.”
“But, Joseph…”
“Joseph ain’t here, Mary. You with big Jeho, now.”
And so, they fucked for precisely thirty seconds, simultaneously climaxing.

The deity and the former virgin shared a Newport in silence. When the cigarette was done, God let out a sigh.
“Shoot, that was cool.”
“You, you're leaving?”
“Yeah, got to appear on a Persian’s felafel in Pakistan or something.”
“Maybe. Maybe we could do dinner, or uhm, this again?”
“Yeah, I don’t know. Pretty tight sched. Don’t really need to eat.”
Just then, Joseph stumbled in. Drunk, of course. With his pseudo girlfriend, spent and naked on the bed, he saw the true face of the :ord putting back on the robe his mother had given him on his Bar Mitvah.
“Damn, fucking good shit, Mary! You seeing this; Gehova in 3D over here, oy gavolt, such a thing! Wow.”
God pulled out a blunt.
“Aiight, I’m out. Oh, and, you’re pregnant with my seed. Word.”

I showed up to school wearing Superman under my clothes. Twice.

3. The Finest Work of Literature Ever Composed, to Date, Because Honestly, Comparatively Speaking, This Work Embodies Ideas Far More Complex Than Anything Alan Ginsberg, Albert Einstein, and Alvin and the Chipmunks Could Have Possibly Fathomed, Fuck You, Albert Camus, Here, Now, Before You Is a True Masterpiece, To Read, Absorb, Comprehend, and Be Forever Changed, Like Your Socks, Take Your Socks Off, Otherwise, They Will Blow Right Through Your Shoes, You’ve Been Warned To Be Fair, There Have Been Other Works That Have Been, You Know, OK, Just Saying, All Things Being Equal, You Might As Well Take a Shit and Read That, Because Compared to This Story, Right Here, They Are Fundamentally Just That, Anyway, Titles Don’t Count When They Think of Great Works, Do They, “Crime and Punishment”, Not the Most Compelling Title, “On The Road”, Bullshit, Anyway, Here’s The Fucking Story Already, But, If Someone Should Happen To Ask You, Hey, What’s That Story You’re Reading, You Don’t Need To Read Them The Whole Title, Just, You Know, Maybe the First Line of This, You Be The Judge, Because, Honestly There Is a Time And a Place For Everything, But Really, Here You Go, Enjoy the Story, It Really Is Very Good, Very VERY Good, I Know, You’re Probably Seeing A Lot of Sarcasm Here, And There Is, But, There’s Some Truth To It, Too, and I Am Proud of This Piece, And Honestly, a Little Horny, Not For the Piece, That Would Be Weird, Just Horny In General, Is That Normal? It Must Be. Shit, Here’s the Story.

A million voices cried a sea of sorrow, as Ry put his Hustler back.