Pt. 1 - Sunrise:

 

In memories, the sun scrapes the sides of walls.  “It’s a new day” everyone would cheer before eating their grains, punching their gods, getting in wrecks in their imaginary cars.  It’s never a new day when the sun never sets, spinning around like that fast-food dancer tragically avoiding conversations.  She knows she can.  The clock doesn’t click but slides downward until it hits the baby’s room.  That’s where the morning starts.  Syrupy firelight bathing its little blistered little sugarfuckface until it starts to scream not so little every morning of every day.  It’s the same day, the same day it’s always been, nothing has changed, and no one likes your new haircut.

 

Pt. 2 - Grandeur:

 

The sound of thick drips stop.  The clock radio across the hall plays the same song it plays every morning.  The one by that asshole that everyone likes except you.  Then again, what’s new?  Getting thrown out of highschool because you frowned at Brill Poyter, the asshole that everyone likes except you.  He ended up dying by choking on his own dick along with everyone else, except you because I’m a champion.  I’m the grand finale.  I’m fluid and strong.  I am the man.  I am the mirror.

 

Pt. 3 - Passion:

 

Scabs in the throat from a night of true love keep me from screaming back at the shitbaby in the stupid baby room, and heaven help me I would because I’m not afraid.  I’m the man.  You’re the man.  It’s always loud everything’s always so loud, the driving, the crying, the chewing, food melting in a fat useless stomach making nothing but stink.  But then everything went silent, heavy breathing and the drip drips dripping off the side of the bed.  It’s so still. It’s so quiet.  I can finally hear my thoughts a sound I haven’t heard in years...   My hands hurt.  I think it’s time for new sheets…  300 thread count.  But first I want some coffee.  Go get yourself some coffee.

 

Pt. 4 - Birth:

 

Get up and head to the door it’s time to go, it’s morning time.  “You want anything from the store?” out of habit.  But not anymore.  So many stairs.  Get outside.  So many stares.  They all see the new man dressed in Sunday Best better than baby Jesus himself walking on water but coffee will do.  Gas Station coffee is underrated, who needs that fancy shit?  Not this man, this god of silence.  That’s right, that’s me, I’m in control.  Time for a haircut.  Sit and wait with those sticky seat slouchers and you realize you don’t need a haircut.  I like my haircut and no one can tell me otherwise.  This coffee tastes like butter and spit so let the carpet drink it up.

 

Pt. 5 - Ascendance:

 

The lights spin silent with the sun at full mast and a morning memory having just past.  You suddenly realize traffic lights are for material assholes with inflated insurance.  I am transcendent.  Several blocks around in circles appreciating the time, but that’s old habit, I make my own time.  Back inside the baby stopped crying “I hope it’s dead” you think to yourself.  You stare at the bed, it’s colder than ever, wet and heavy and red.  You forgot the sheets… but the sheets were my idea.  “That’s right, my idea.  And I’m getting blue sheets” you tell her one last time.  I’m a god of silence.  It’s a new day.