right now outside the window of my 4th story loft in brooklyn i can see the empire state building, its glow fires up thin smoky clouds rolling by against a solid grey blanketed overcast sky. the sight is absolutely remarkable. nah, i guess not as hot as the dude on Prison Break, tho, or all the hot dudes on Queer As Folk - my brain just soaked up 6 hours of that show. well not just, i guess over the weekend.........
my new job is awesome. i can't get over how much BROOKLYN KICKS MANHATTAN'S ASS. the people here are real, they're not stuck on themselves. working in manhattan was such a drag. the people i work with are so coooooooooooooool. when i walked in this morning my coworker was asleep in a booth with his hat on his head and jack kerouac was reading a part from on the road through the speakers and my other coworker was walking around with a copy of slaughterhouse 5 in his back pocket and i made breakfast since i can have all the coffee and food i want for free then i sat down and read some of dennis cooper's "period,"
i came home and found an email from another agent wanting to read one of my books this month so i have to crack down and work on some shit now. i hope everyone is glorious, here's some more Demonic for yall........ oh, yeah, my agent is switching agencies for some unknown reason so for those of you who have inquired about when Demonic will be published, i don't know but i'll keep yall updated.....

*****Marhollow*****

I looked down and remembered I was wearing my favorite shirt. The slogan read I AM A BOMB DETONATOR. I found it in a thrift store a few months back. It was homemade, but the lettering was very neat and precise. I stood looking at it for what must have been at least ten minutes, amazed. I wore it for ten days straight. I didn’t even want to shower cos I had to take it off, so I didn’t. It came to my mom slapping the shit out of me and her and my old man ganging up on me, literally forcing me into the bathroom and telling me I couldn’t come out until I bathed.
I knew the shit was made cheaply which is why I never washed it. It had a poignant smell like bread left out in the sun for a long time. I wondered if Phil could smell it. The glow of red from the stoplight caught the word DETONATOR very well. I looked over at Phil and wasn’t surprised to find him looking back. He was about to say something to me, God knows what, but the light changed and I slammed on the gas and sped even faster than before. Phil looked nervous, his back arched and pressed against the seat. He looked like he sincerely believed we were going to crash.
“Hey, I have a question for you,” I said. I spoke magnificently calm considering all the wind slapping at me hard through the windows and sunroof. “You know you’re gonna die, I mean everyone knows that, death makes us all equal in the end. Death is a lover that way; and fuckin’ I think all the time how I’m gonna die. One day I was like I wish I could plan it, then I realized well, fuck, I can. Anyone can – that’s the one thing people have control over, death. How do you want to die? What if you died right now in a car crash with me, would you find that satisfying somehow? I think you would.” It was a moment before he said anything. A long moment, stretched out before us like the yellow line dividing the lanes in the road.
“Um…,” he started. He would never be able to shock me, the bastard, but I could always shock him. I went faster. I was well over a hundred miles an hour. The palms of his hands were stationed hard against the seat. “I just really think you ought to slow down…” he raised his voice over the wind. The speedometer read well over 100.
“Not until you answer the question,” I played. I loved playing with him. It was like shaking a box full of kittens. He was so easy to scare. He closed his eyes and tried to breathe. The wind was beating his face. It seemed like he was seconds away from being blown straight out of the back of the car.
“Okay…I mean yes of course I’d like to have some control over how I died and I don’t want to die yet.”
“How? How do you want to die?”
“I don’t know…Christ.”
“You do know, tell me, how would you want to die?”
“I don’t…”
“Tell me!” I screamed. I knew I sounded psychotic when I screamed. I knew I shook up every nerve a body had to offer. That’s just what this one girl told me once. I frightened her so much when I screamed at her she went away and never came back.
“Loved,” he said. “I want to die loved. I want to die a crime of passion. I want someone to want me so bad that they can’t let me live because the world will hurt me too much.” I slowed down just a tad.
“Okay,” I said, satisfied. “Okay, Shakespeare,” I mumbled. Somehow I was disappointed in his answer, I don’t know why.