The Whitefish tapes

 Chapter 6 Induced Puharick’s words fold in my hand as I stuff it into the outer pocket of my jacket.  As the rain hits me, the door on my van closes and I begin the push to the door of the Daylight Donuts on 3 rd .  Rain has never been what I wanted it to be.   Too unapologetic.  Too self-centered.  It mobs me as I fight myself to show no interest.  It fucks my ankles, my neck, my hands and Puharic’s deeper meanings, now bleeding at first contact, or not bleeding but translucent, pretending unaffectedness.  I walk an extra ten feet to avoid hopping onto a slimy curb, and right about when I want to start swinging at the rain, I make it to an eve.  The door is off, a lot of things are changing, but too soon, too fast, too much change, Jesus, “pull” and it doesn’t even need to say it out loud.  Its destiny is distracted by a Dallas Cowboys Cheerleader and a Bud Light Sticker from the 80’s and so much small Stickerage and Signage, and ...

  Chapter 2 Gravity "Fuckit.  Gimmie the cinamin roll with the cinamin cream cheese frosting and some black coffee, hot as you can get it." Just a nod from her.  I shuffle and bump and distance-jockey the four feet to where payment will occur but contains three people and still too much time to be worth the effort.  It's not excruciating, it's not even awkward.  Its flipping through channels while someone is talking to you, it's on and off a bus with tourists for only a stop as you hustle between comfort and home while they see every moment too brightly, to adoringly to ever enter it, and so wander in dolor, snowblind but herded, and never able to really get off the bus, not really.  God save the Archetypes.   I get my coffee and dip back to my table.  I come here for many reasons, one of which is that they still pour the drip themselves.  Out ...

Chapter 1 Parallax Demming New Mexico, 1985 I learned to properly worship Satan from a guy named Cole, in the mid-eighties, in a hotel room, in Demming New Mexico.  It was also the first time I paid for sex, and the first time I shot a man; both unrelated to my "dark mentor".  Some generational wind had blown his great grandparents across the whole of the US after blowing them over an ocean, between here and Wales, or Ireland and all the way up to a damned barbed wire fence in the southern New Mexican dessert, which is already rare on barbed wire.  There they stayed until the Welsh washed off and three generations worth came, bloomed, hungered and went down into red dirt, until poverty, and powerlessness was all that was left, that and Cole.  His lineage survived the Romans but was beaten by the welfare state, and now he barely shared a trailer with his ex-sister-n-law and her progeny and just didn't fucking eat in favor of cigarettes and whisky.  We mostly stay...