Pharaoh, from the character, J

Pharaoh, from the character, J

Hey, fuck. Yeah, you.

Cheddar chatter’s in, thick slices cut from holy cloth. Did your god forget he let you write his book and call it good? Do your angels monopolize the clouds, do they look over my daughter or do they play Guardian to the good ol’ American boys selling their positions on women’s rights or the power to transform bigotry into Law for dollars? Does Heaven wave the Confederate flag for history while your Messiah sports Swastika sleeves? Did my son die for Him or did he lose his limbs and his head for you? Tell me which helps you sleep so soundly: is it the bonfire raging from food stamps? Or is it your warm bed, tucked beneath your campaign funds, or is it your fat lunch helping? Or the grumble of your diesel beast? Or is it your sexist god and all the jobs he creates in the sweatiest fucken shops because I need a cheap office shirt so I fit into this cubicle so I can pay the debt for an education your daddy covered. Hey, what keeps you sleeping so soundly?

How naked can you get for me? How many escorts am I gonna shed my identities for until I’m bare and raw, a pinkish, rotting grapefruit dissolving from the inside out; am I all shell? Am I naked on the inside or just fucking strangers for money because I like a woman who can keep up or appreciate good sex? These escorts expect anyone but me, and I like being their gift. I can drop eighty bucks for a quick fifteen minutes, and they have me going at it for an hour or more, what a poor schmuck lacking stamina or length pays three or four hundred for. And the girls are smokin.

Maybe that older guy in Scouts robbed me of whatever wasn’t sexual I had to offer women. Or maybe it was the six years with my best friend, my fiancée, salvaging Whoever I Was Before Her. This could all just be a sad song, a groundhogs day of karaoke. But I like doing what I like. And I like fucking.

There’s a new girl who loves me. She calls me a god. I’m doing my best to ignore her because she’s sweet and cheery. And I’m none of that.

Hey, look at me: I’ve made it several hundred words without dredging up my dead dad. I wish I wasn’t afraid of men so someone could me. I wish I wasn’t afraid of true, plutonic intimacy so I didn’t fall asleep alone. But hugging too long makes me hard.

Hey, you. Yeah, you. Yeah, I get it. It’s easy to dress yourself up however you need when All That Made Up Who You Were is mush, heaps of bland, gray matter for the flies to pick apart.

You’re so naked, and your personal museums, your jet planes, cars, your acres; none of it can hide you.

It’s a bitch being broke and rich in vices. But I bet it sucks being rich and spineless and loyal only to the dollar. We both die in the end, Pharaoh, and you ain’t taking none of that legacy with you.