Prayer to God

I spun the wheels south — well, actually, clockwise, as a literalist. But full radial anarchy pulled me in the direction of the Range, which was planning on redirecting slightly west, then north, after a pit stop in my only available path as I raced the rain home.

I’m countercultured. I opposed these plans. A strawweight versus super heavyweight bout of hubris. I wasn’t betting on anything, nor would Vegas bother with these odds. No point to be proven nor shame to evoke, because these types don’t feel; their metal cold fusion, their blood heavy water. Defiance for defiance’s sake.

A cycle of impotence compelled me. I coiled and unwound my legs in hopes of springing surprise on the right rear door. I named him. “Fucker!” He, because of course he, didn’t move. I did. I prepared for the body blow and the down-for-the-count, the announcer’s cry, the crowd’s go-wild. I received disintegration. I am now the mist.

Fucker’s eyes wrinkled three unearned, untwinkling tattoo tears. He wouldn’t have bothered earning this fourth either, had I not willed its inscription into his skin. He heads slightly west, then north, to where his child will greet him with a shuffle upstairs, his woman with an unsigned document. All’s well.

A traveler, from over yonder and only visiting before dark, identifies as a witness. “Martyr!” It echoes in the street, due to emptiness. He tries again later, elsewhere. “Martyr!” It ricochets around this new favorite forum, muffled by wet bites of Velveeta mac. Two likes, one of which is me, invisible and trying to juice the numbers.