Why do you still exist? And who keeps putting you on my doorstep, every 12 months or so?

The internet revolution happened. Clearly you missed it.

I suppose someone, somewhere is making money off you. And clearly someone, somewhere is wasting money on you.

A to Z, we’ve all been the sucker.

Should I dump you in the blue bin, or put you in the bathroom for long visits and the off chance we’ll run out of toilet paper? Ooh, I ’ll leave you here for the birds to build their nests.

The flickering sign makes me nervous. “The Razor Blade.”

Is that supposed to be a joke? I stand for a moment contemplating the answer and chew on my bottom lip. Besides the random glow of the sign, the alley around me is still. A minute or two passes and I realize I’m stalling. They aren’t paying me by the hour.

I check the glock tucked into the front of my belt — just for the comfort of it— take one last look at the shit for bulbs sign, and walk toward the door.

It’s a simple door made of metal. Steel would be my guess. A typical knock would smart a bit, so I pound three times with the flat of my fist. Then I count to five and pound once more, just like they told me. The door scrapes forward and I back up a step to give it room. A nice looking young man in a black suit stands in the threshold, a dim light from behind accents his frame.

“I’m here to see the goddess, “ I say.

“Welcome to the Razor Blade.” His voice is shaky and I assume he’s older than he looks. Much older. “We’ve been expecting you Mr. Cole.”

I nod and step inside.

“Continue forward.” He says.

I obey my greeters command and walk slowly down the hall in front of me, the steel door scrapes closed behind. Through the muted light I can see the hall is long. A dank, wet odor hangs in my nose. With each step, I’m aware of the soft slap of my shoes, suggesting there’s a small bit of water on the concrete floor. The air feels moist on my face and neck.

At the end of the hall I come upon another door; this one also steel, but with a small circular mirror centered at eye level. Etched along its edge, a snake wrapped around, devouring its own tale.

I looked at myself. Even in the half-light, the dark bags under my eyes and the crows-feet portray a tired, aging man. My skin is rough and the scar on my right cheek is a little more jagged than I remembered.

“Do you wish to make the imperfect, perfect?” a voice speaks from behind the door. How it traveled through the steel I do not know.

I continue with the little entrance exam, just like they told me to. “Yes. Yes, I wish for you to cut… me.”

I think of the glock tucked in my belt, but in this moment it’s not comforting. This is some creepy shit.

“Are you sure, Mr. Cole?”

“Yes I am sure. I wish for you to cut me.”

“Then come in.”

The door clicks. I wait a moment, expecting it to swing open like before, but instead a handle emerges center right. I’m in. I take a deep breath, then grab the handle and push open the door.

A warm inviting light fills my eyes and the memory of the hard dank hallway I had just passed through dissolves into the softest, plushest and perhaps largest room I have ever been in. Men and women of unimaginable beauty are spread about, some walking, some standing in groups talking, and some lounging in couches clustered around touch-screens with which they interact. Most are holding some sort of flask or bottle, occasionally sipping its contents.

“Welcome Mr. Cole,” a silk voice speaks next to me. I turn. “Welcome to The Razor Blade, or as we who have been cut call it, Day One.”

My eyes narrow and I swallow hard as I take in the woman standing before me: Green eyes of dirty jade are set in a red storm of shoulder length curls; a nose perfectly established in a sea of milky white blemish-free skin; slightly upturned lips full and glistening and gently parted with the tip of a sweet pink tongue; high cheek bones curved into a subtle firm chin; a neck flowing so gracefully downward, spilling between the soft rise of mostly covered breasts; nipples hiding playfully under thin white fabric, like two dark moons just beneath the clouds—

“Do you like what you see, Mr. Cole?”

I bring my eyes up to hers. Damn they’re green. “Yes. Yes, I do. Like what I see.” I feel my cheeks flush red.

“Do not be embarrassed, Mr. Cole.” She and her lips are suddenly an inch from my face. “It is human to be”—I do not know how she moved in so quickly, her hand is on my crotch now—“moved by perfection.” She’s right, I’m moved.

And then she’s behind me and the cold barrel of my glock is pressing against my temple. She whispers into my ear, “You’re fucked, Detective Grant.” I swallow again, harder this time. “Yes. We know who you really are. But after we cut you,” the puma shifts to my other ear, “we will be the only ones.”

..............................................................................................................................

Celluloid scenes soak in water. People at a party. A wedding. No a bar mitzvah. I’m straining to make out their faces. The water is red. Is it water? There is a boy-man. He is clearly the subject of the photograph and he is dancing and smiling. I know that boy. The red water is bleeding into the scene. I thrust my hands into the bowl, grabbing, but the picture is no more. I observe my hands. They are stained.

I’m at a sink, washing, scrubbing. The red will not come out. The tips of my fingers sting, then throb. Are my hands bleeding? That is not my blood. I see finger nails circling the drain and disappear down the hole. “No! No, those are mine!” I yell.

I now stand at a full body mirror. But that is not my body. There is no face. Just… a smudge, like the end of a wet eraser rubbing away pencil on paper. It’s tearing a hole. There is nothing underneath. “Donavan.” I hear my voice. It’s a whisper. I spin but see no one. “Donavan, I’m here.” I turn and see Amber in the mirror. She staggers. “Oh Donny. Where did you go?” She’s reaching for my cheek but it is not there.

I am mirror. I am falling. I know what is coming and submit to impact.

I am a thousand shards. Divided unevenly. I feel the heat of the sun. I am pieces and I am melting.

I am whole again, but formless, being passed from gloved hands to gloved hands. No, stolen. Someone is stealing me. Pressure cups me. I am subtracted from myself again.

And again.

And.again

A n d . a g a i n

nAd.gaani

a.dnaiAn

a . d n a i A n

a . d n a i A n

a . d n a i A n

a . d n a i A n

a . d n a i A n

a . d n a i A n

a . d n a i A n

a . d n a i A n

a . d n a i A n

a.dnaiAn

nAd.gaani

And.again

A n d . a g a i n

And again.

I am thinking of my children. I am thinking of their mother and the story she will tell them. The way she always makes me heroic, even in my betrayal. I think of the way they see through her fabrications. I think of their questions. Of their tears. Of their ache. Of my absence.

If this is not death I am ready to die. But they won’t let me. I see them as they remove my eyes. The final nip and tuck of their thievery.

I will wake. I know there is no choice in this matter. It will come. There better be a bar near by. 

As soon as I drove off the lot,

it's alignment was bad.

And a slight drift is enough

to send you off the road,

eventually, if you keep driving.

Every sixteen year-old knows

the driver is always at fault.

Signs were prolific. At first

I ignored the pull, then I tried to realign

my vehicle. I'm no mechanic though,

just a son of self-corrected steering and inevitability.

Boom.

At some milepost, at some turn,

I knew it would be this messy.

My heart is a lemon.

I would like a new one please.

The flickering sign makes me nervous. “The Razor Blade.”

Is that supposed to be a joke? I stand for a moment contemplating the answer and chew on my bottom lip. Besides the random glow of the sign, the alley around me is still. A minute or two passes and I realize I’m stalling. They aren’t paying me by the hour.

I check the glock tucked into the front of my belt — just for the comfort of it— take one last look at the shit for bulbs sign, and walk toward the door.

It’s a simple door made of metal. Steel would be my guess. A typical knock would smart a bit, so I pound three times with the flat of my fist. Then I count to five and pound once more, just like they told me. The door scrapes forward and I back up a step to give it room. A nice looking young man in a black suit stands in the threshold, a dim light from behind accents his frame.

“I’m here to see the goddess, “ I say.

“Welcome to the Razor Blade.” His voice is shaky and I assume he’s older than he looks. Much older. “We’ve been expecting you Mr. Cole.”

I nod and step inside.

“Continue forward.” He says.

I obey my greeters command and walk slowly down the hall in front of me, the steel door scrapes closed behind. Through the muted light I can see the hall is long. A dank, wet odor hangs in my nose. With each step, I’m aware of the soft slap of my shoes, suggesting there’s a small bit of water on the concrete floor. The air feels moist on my face and neck.

At the end of the hall I come upon another door; this one also steel, but with a small circular mirror centered at eye level. Etched along its edge, a snake wrapped around, devouring its own tale.

I looked at myself. Even in the half-light, the dark bags under my eyes and the crows-feet portray a tired, aging man. My skin is rough and the scar on my right cheek is a little more jagged than I remembered.

“Do you wish to make the imperfect, perfect?” a voice speaks from behind the door. How it traveled through the steel I do not know.

I continue with the little entrance exam, just like they told me to. “Yes. Yes, I wish for you to cut… me.”

I think of the glock tucked in my belt, but in this moment it’s not comforting. This is some creepy shit.

“Are you sure, Mr. Cole?”

“Yes I am sure. I wish for you to cut me.”

“Then come in.”

The door clicks. I wait a moment, expecting it to swing open like before, but instead a handle emerges center right. I’m in. I take a deep breath, then grab the handle and push open the door.

A warm inviting light fills my eyes and the memory of the hard dank hallway I had just passed through dissolves into the softest, plushest and perhaps largest room I have ever been in. Men and women of unimaginable beauty are spread about, some walking, some standing in groups talking, and some lounging in couches clustered around touch-screens with which they interact. Most are holding some sort of flask or bottle, occasionally sipping its contents.

“Welcome Mr. Cole,” a silk voice speaks next to me. I turn. “Welcome to The Razor Blade, or as we who have been cut call it, Day One.”

My eyes narrow and I swallow hard as I take in the woman standing before me: Green eyes of dirty jade are set in a red storm of shoulder length curls; a nose perfectly established in a sea of milky white blemish-free skin; slightly upturned lips full and glistening and gently parted with the tip of a sweet pink tongue; high cheek bones curved into a subtle firm chin; a neck flowing so gracefully downward, spilling between the soft rise of mostly covered breasts; nipples hiding playfully under thin white fabric, like two dark moons just beneath the clouds—

“Do you like what you see, Mr. Cole?”

I bring my eyes up to hers. Damn they’re green. “Yes. Yes, I do. Like what I see.” I feel my cheeks flush red.

“Do not be embarrassed, Mr. Cole.” She and her lips are suddenly an inch from my face. “It is human to be”—I do not know how she moved in so quickly, her hand is on my crotch now—“moved by perfection.” She’s right, I’m moved.

And then she’s behind me and the cold barrel of my glock is pressing against my temple. She whispers into my ear, “You’re fucked, Detective Grant.” I swallow again, harder this time. “Yes. We know who you really are. But after we cut you,” the puma shifts to my other ear, “we will be the only ones.”

....................................................................................................................

Celluloid scenes soak in water. People at a party. A wedding. No a bar mitzvah. I’m straining to make out their faces. The water is red. Is it water? There is a boy-man. He is clearly the subject of the photograph and he is dancing and smiling. I know that boy. The red water is bleeding into the scene. I thrust my hands into the bowl, grabbing, but the picture is no more. I observe my hands. They are stained.

I’m at a sink, washing, scrubbing. The red will not come out. The tips of my fingers sting, then throb. Are my hands bleeding? That is not my blood. I see finger nails circling the drain and disappear down the hole. “No! No, those are mine!” I yell.

I now stand at a full body mirror. But that is not my body. There is no face. Just… a smudge, like the end of a wet eraser rubbing away pencil on paper. It’s tearing a hole. There is nothing underneath. “Donavan.” I hear my voice. It’s a whisper. I spin but see no one. “Donavan, I’m here.” I turn and see Amber in the mirror. She staggers. “Oh Donny. Where did you go?” She’s reaching for my cheek but it is not there.

I am mirror. I am falling. I know what is coming and submit to impact.

I am a thousand shards. Divided unevenly. I feel the heat of the sun. I am pieces and I am melting.

I am whole again, but formless, being passed from gloved hands to gloved hands. No, stolen. Someone is stealing me. Pressure cups me. I am subtracted from myself again.

And again.

And.again

A n d . a g a i n

nAd.gaani

a.dnaiAn

a . d n a i A n

a . d n a i A n

a . d n a i A n

a . d n a i A n

a . d n a i A n

a . d n a i A n

a . d n a i A n

a . d n a i A n

a . d n a i A n

a.dnaiAn

nAd.gaani

And.again

A n d . a g a i n

And again.

I am thinking of my children. I am thinking of their mother and the story she will tell them. The way she always makes me heroic, even in my betrayal. I think of the way they see through her fabrications. I think of their questions. Of their tears. Of their ache. Of my absence.

If this is not death I am ready to die. But they won’t let me. I see them as they remove my eyes. The final nip and tuck of their thievery.

I will wake. I know there is no choice in this matter. It will come. There better be a bar near by.

She walked into the room and discovered that he was doing the dishes. 

.........................................................................................................................................

An excerpt from an article on sexiness by Janice Holly Booth: "For men who are looking to increase their sexual activity, it isn’t getting in shape or becoming a better conversationalist that offers the greatest likelihood for more lovemaking; it’s—astonishingly—marriage and household chores. Psychologist and couples expert John Gottman, Ph.D., has studied the effect of shared housework on a couple’s sexual frequency. When men contribute to housework and child care, Gottman observed, their partners see them as sexy, and they reap the benefits of that by having more sex than couples in which the men are chore-free."

That's what I'm talking about. Yessssssss.

To the esteemed colleague who ate my Yoplai Lactose Free Key Lime Greek Yogart that was clearly marked "Todd's Midday Snack": I hope you took the time to roll each bite around in your mouth and savor it like I have done around 2pm every single day of my thirteen year career - except today. I couldn't help but notice the empty container in the trash can wasn't licked clean, so evidently you weren't as hungry as I am around that time, which leads me to the conclusion that you were most likely adding to your overall body mass. I do not put snacks in the fridge and follow the rules of community space in

order for you to feed. I look forward to enjoying my free Yoplai Lactose Free Kye Lime Greek Yogart tomorrow at 2pm. I expect it to be in the fridge and clearly marked, "Todd" so I know it is mine. And please use a felt marker, not a crayon. 

She was the kind of girl I could fall in love with.

Lips that had a few secrets and eyes that held my gaze in a vice.

Every word she spoke went down like red velvet cake.

I rolled them around in my mind, like the way I'd enjoy a bourbon after a long hard day.

She was a puma

And I was happy to be under her paw,

If just for this conversation,

Even if she was about to devour me.

I reach for mama's hand, but it is not hers. It's too big and too cold and it grips mine too hard.

His eyes are wild with fire and he tells me to shut the fuck up. All I can do is nothing. 

The van smells. I want mama.