From the recording Marry Me Margret

Things get very weird for Don.


After Dad’s inertia flight to oblivion I lost my way and was a directionless body in motion and could not sleep and could not eat and ran into every immovable object you could fucking think of until I finally fell down beside a bus stop and when I looked up Isaac Newton was sitting right there and without looking up from his Newsweek says, “The greater the mass, the greater the force,”
and gets on the #2 bus and just like in the movies he runs to an open window and with stunning white hair floating atop a diesel mist and whispers as the bus pulls away,
“God would like a word with you.”
And son-of-a-bitch with that my body at rest stands straight up and proceeds to run and run and run and amid this extended step lively round the junior high track I coalesce the tenets of “The Accelerated Church Of Christ Where A Body In Motion Does Not Desire The Unmovable Object But Embraces The Irresistible Force.”

And I embody the notion of a body in motion running hard and running wild. And I am everywhere and everyplace extolling my ontological energy in the strip malls and strip clubs and out by the lake.
And right now I am saving souls collective on this weekend when sedentary clerical workers and middle management oafs forgo their a.m. snooze to quack waddle run on barricade streets for diseases horrible and hyphenated and if detected early in stages of heatstroke these fun runners are responsive to short bursts of theology if spoken loud.
And loping along searching for curb woozy stragglers I do not see the emerald Eldorado speed by and screech stop.
And on the same stride as me a sultry savage woman is hurtling towards me the same speed I am traveling and she is unstoppable and I am unstoppable and this static equilibrium will end in rapture and reward and sha-thwack I am sumo smashed to the black top
below and I am either dead or sleeping and I am not dead and I groggle awake and a stiletto heel attached to a sensible shoe levers hard on my ribs and an un-merry man of muscle yanks me perpendicular and pries my jaws with just two fingers and the woman removes a mannequin hand from her left pocket and leaning back for leverage crams a bocce ball sized red delicious into my chasm mouth and I am wheezing and shaking and she is pushing it harder with the sole of her shoe and says,
“Eat it, you blasphemer.”
And to consume an apple soft palate deep is near impossible for most but trolling for converts at every Halloween carnival in this devil worship town I bob better than most and spit core and seeds asunder.
And she says, “Listen to my words. You are in violation of the laws of inertia, interaction-action and reaction.”
And I say, “Says who?”
And she says, “Says me and the man whose fingers you’ve already met. So listen good. I am the muscle and means behind, The Issac Newton Foundation of Philadelphia PA. And these laws you’re so free and easy with we outright own under various copyright and interstate commerce statutes and depending on my outfit I would cut your throat on any day but some front office nit thinks your metaphysic-physic manifesto might make some money.”
“So if you want to keep doing what you’re doing. It’s 60 for Isaac and 40 for you. And if that doesn’t suit you I’ll shove a prism up your ass so far rainbows will explode.”
And I say, “Wow.”
And she says, “Yeah.”
And I say, “Are benefits included?”
And she replies, “Yeah.”
And my body in motion thinks that sounds ok.
And my Carol Baker voice replies, “I’d like that a lot.”
And with no more said the frightening but fetching 501c3 enforcer speeds off and I wave good-bye like a waif in an upstairs window.
And regrettably benefits do not involve polyhedrons splitting light in my lower intestine as I hoped but it was nice to get my wisdom teeth out.
And now somehow I am the delegate for the renamed Accelerated Church Of God Where Irresistible Bodies And Bodies At Rest Come Together.
And while sordid this rebrand does attract a singles bar demographic I was missing.
And money yes is coming in.
And money yes is lots of fun.
And money though is dirty dirty dirty.
And I think of Lisa’s laundry.
And the energy ecumenical think that’s a super idea.
“A new church.”
“A new start.”
“And new money.”
“All for the glory of gravity and god.”
And in the morning a news crew films me putting tens and twenties in a front load Maytag.
And at the station at 5:21 a man points me to a chair and there’s a wire in my shirt and they’re counting down numbers and a chyron chimes, “Speed Shrine Funded With Laundered Loot,” and the questions are awfully off-topic and I stutter a lot and drink all my water and with first breath finished I am fired furiously by a news team anchor who is not my boss and is not wearing pants but he flashes i.d. from inside his jockeys and says with an accent from nowhere at all,
“Do not go to Pennsylvania ever. You are not wanted there.”
And after that fiasco I lost faith in god and gravatation.
And I am embarrassed to admit sought solace in the trunk of an Impala but that’s no way to live.
So I’m getting up and getting dressed and getting a job and I need to look nice and I like to look nice. So I iron Dad’s suit the one we did not bury him in and reaching in the right pocket my right hand removes a rumpled tissue but on inspection are the bones of a tiny creature and with curator care place the tiny skeleton on the edge of the counter and fuck in a bucket bash my head brutal on the cabinet above and god damn and god bless and carousel reeling blur focus on a tiny chipmunk sitting on the counter drinking a Diet Coke and he it or whatever I will not look in a wheeking-chucking voice churrs,

“Man is not meant to be alone.”
And I conscious dim mumble, “What does that mean?”
And it says, “Hell, I don’t know, can I get the Coke to go?”
And I don’t have a lid that small.