“The least of these shall not speak the name of Gods unless commanded to do so. Do not call upon the Gods. They shall call upon you.”

That means money. Shekels. Coin. Tax.
Cash in the God’s hands meant opportunity to work in order to provide more.
Some call it prison.
The God’s call it respect.

“The least of these will remain silent in the Days of the Great Return. Once he has descended onto the fold, your mouth shall dance with flavor. You shall be anointed with the grace of the Prodigal Son. The One who knows. The All Father. The seeing eye.”

It was in a context of words only bound when spoken into existence. Then it became law.
Then it became the Word of Gods.
It became verses to memorize.
To live by.
A thing they coined as “the Narrative.”
Nazareth on steroids.
The birthplace of Saviors judicated in full force.
Henceforth, the Family Bible was conceived;
which was later put through much arbitration to become law.

I am sitting next to Captain
another man is sitting in a shadowy corner.
He has a gray beard that reaches down to his man ****.
He eyes me, takes a mental picture, and proceeds to smile his way through his conversation on how blessed we all are that a mother is here.
Who the **** is this guy?

Paralyzed. A man is watching me.
I just know. From where, I do not.
He is watching my every movement.
My every breath. I need to see him.
Just a glimpse would suffice. No. Breathing, regularly. In and out.
So NOW I’m hungry? Look up at the ceiling.
Tell yourself everything is okay.
There is a ceiling for one. That is pretty okay.
To the left of me I spy a coffee maker.

It’s a cut of prime rib,
that I slice to your size specifications,
served with a heaping side of horseradish.
I hate this ******* clip on bow tie they make us wear.
La Cave. Underground niche joint,
where all the cocktail waitresses and servers wear
******* clip on bow ties.
We specialize in meats and baked potatoes with endless amounts of butter, sour cream and ******* chives.
And don’t worry honey, I’ll be sure to bring you a whole plate full of baked potato sides.
Quantity is very important in La Cave.
The quantity of your tip depends upon it darling.
Sultry, red misted desperate dwelling of men
who dampen even the highest of spirits.
Where is my pronged fork for this huge slab of insultingly low grade prime rib?
It comes with all the sides you could ever want.
No questions asked.
And that **** little honey of a gal, that waitress right over there will cut you off a slab as thick and as cheap as you want it.
Happy Hour can **** it.

You would think having roommates would be difficult.
And you would be correct.
There is nothing like a good old roommate. Or roommates.
That word.
Gets me everytime.
We are supposed to be friends. We have rooms, and we are mates. But, mates could be mating.
I’ll put it to you this way,
being single and alone for a hot minute of your life is paramount.
Do this and you will have zero regrets.

His arm is over my waist as I sleepily adjust.
Bristles of an old, worn curtain against my hip.
I can feel that.
That scratchy cloth barely grazing my thigh made me feel more alive. I knew I had to be alive.
No way I’m dead.
I would like to be the first ghost who feels a breeze.