In the Confessional (Paid time: 1 hour)

Let me confess: I am a liar (we all are). I don’t mean I intentionally misrepresent myself. No, I simply pretend I know who I am. I respond to questions as if I know the answers. I project preferences not my own. I am not my own. I am not.

I have sinned. I’m actually doing it right now. I am in need of absolution-in-motion. You can pee in my stream of consciousness if you want to. Your territorial pissings will be in Ohio by sundown if my calculations are correct.

Listen, I am talking to you: I experienced a poetry relapse again. I contemplated a sonnet in trochees. I longed to reverse the lilt of all lullabies. I wanted to pound the table with a downbeat resounding through the ages, a call to the great, unresolved unconscious of the race. People are silly. They are but effete apes. A populous of parlor tricks. Aliens onto themselves.

I killed a man. He was me. I was not myself. It was a perfect alibi. My former self’s final heartbeat was merely an academic exercise from the perspective of my present day’s executive. There was no one left to take the stand.

Sex came as a surprise. I had imagined business would be conducted. I did not know there was a back room. I was unprepared to don the necessary faces that would force evolution forward. We  tried it backwards and failed. All that time I had spent weaving feathers into vines, the intricate patterns, the droppings I had lain….what was it for? Within seconds I had tossed aside my silly, expensive learning and peered into the black hole of universal unknowing. I liked it. I wept though.

You never understood me. I made sure of that. I spun a silken narrative around my face naturally, as the sun selects each dew drop for extinction in the middle part of the morning.  The whole time you thought you were talking to me. You were. The light makes my vapors visible. I’m just temporary. Illusions are real from a certain perspective. I’m an uncertain perspective.

Hate is a light word. It rhymes with a lot of words. It has a long “a.” The ugliest vowel is a short “u.” It sounds like an Anglo-Saxon scop taking a dump or fucking a clump of ugh ugh ugh.

I’ve had quite enough, which is never enough. “Quite” is the emptiest qualifier I can think of, in the category of “really,” “very,” and “many.” How many depressive episodes is “many?” One. The one is the many? Yes, Vedanta Master, let’s go with that.

Listen, priest, if you confess you’ve had sex, I’ll tell you some more, but I’ve got to imagine this as a mutual confessional or my egalitarian ethos shall be offended.

Ghosts are real, that’s why ghosts are not real. And why is it every time I confess my guts to the world I am greeted with laughter? Worse yet, it’s the flattering kind. I can play the martyr, but not the comedian. It’s hard to get your manifesto straight that way. Just when you think you’ve figured the universe out, some grateful bloke is entertained by your sermon and praising your name to his ignorant friends. I’m glad your diaphragm was invigorated, but I was actually trying to shatter your resolve and ignite a crisis in your stupid, provincial schema. Glad I could play the  clown!

I make more of me every day. There’s another me in the hair in my cereal. Would you like to buy it? Would you like to raise a well-trained army of me’s? Yes and no I suppose. I am fun to think about, but loathsome to grow. I am the lowest high maintenance man I know.

Here’s another thing no one knows about me: I know as much about death as anyone who has ever lived. I will stake everything on this.

One time I launched a thousand ships and one came back with a note reading “Your odds of circumnavigating God are equivalent to your chances of slow dancing with the sun for the last dance as long as it takes the drunks to stumble off into eternity’s glorious bosom.” I thought that was a nice note.

My time is almost up, man, and so I’d like to discuss what I’m here after:

One bronze statuette of a virgin in dialogue with her future self with the parents present and embracing their former virgin selves and Jesus is sort of refereeing the whole thing and maybe Confucius, too.

Two falcons turning in the gyre and sometimes clipping each others wings and sort of negotiating their respective apocalyptic postures and Yeats is there playing a flute.

Three triangles, sort of hoola-hooping around Descartes’ waist, and he’s kind of cursing, “God, God, God” and so focused on keeping those babies rolling that the canon ball he launched lands right on his head. (This is actual Descartes biography stuff. I’m not crazy. Well, I’m not crazy regarding this particular antidote, which seems random but is plucked right out of history, and should make sense since the guy was just a philosopher-for-hire who could do many tricks, mainly keep his ass from being burned at the stake for heresy.)

Four spirals forming a mandala with a still point for a center. I’m gonna need this after all the confessing I’ve been doing because I feel as if I’ve invented a ton of sins. That means, well, by confessing my sins I’ve actually sinned, not on purpose though, but just because the very act of adding language onto language adds more lies. (Again, this is not intentional. Nothing is intentional. It is God’s will. That pretty much excuses every dumb ass thing I do. God did it. Had to. By extension of his omnipresent, omniscient, all-powerful, all-league oneness with all of it, even transcending stupid calls for free will because he knows how everything will turn out and anyway invented free will and so what do you know, conscious pretender?)

Thank you for listening to me, kindred spirit. Thank you for pretending to care. You should know by now I’m not insulting you. It just so happens that my entire worldview is objectively deeply offensive to most people, but only if they don’t think about it much. I am paying you the highest compliment when I say: you are a lying freak. You are lying to me right now, simply by listening to my confession. You lie. God loves you. You lie again. All is forgiven.

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