markov-ized autobiography

An excerpt from a markov-ized version of my autobiography. To markov-ize a text of your own, click here.

I glance at a neon OPEN sign, at its reflection on a framed poster’s plexiglass. That reflection turns over once more, rights itself, a word turned inside out then back again, in the surface of the tip of the white, block letters advertising rates for haircuts and styles and perms had been scratched off. And the wages of sin are death and resurrection of the same man’s erection. I’d never thought of being around him produced a sensation warmth near the bottom of my upper arm. As her thumb pushed down the drawing, pulled some serum from the speakers, the wood-paneling on the couch, she’d ask me if he’d ever heard of any distinguishing feature – the shade-patterns of a hallway. Everett pulled out a long, slow breath. The ground, solid, presses upward against the side of the blades around its orbit until I became seriously, dangerously depressed for the next few years, the fear I’d experienced the night I invaded that lair, where he rented a small efficiency apartment that he were thinking about his own son.

A thick man with whom my father had quarreled. My mother had described him as an older brother.

“I guess so.”

“Do you want it happen, it will. I can’t explain why. The next morning, as I sit up, I let him sleep. That afternoon, a psychiatrist diagnoses me with a Beatles haircut and glasses so thick as to make pirate-shaped figurines from dyed corn husks. I’d had trouble folding the hat and so she’d twisted my unruly and brittle husk into a complicated knot for me, letting me add the two black dots for eyes with me, walked briskly toward me and placed the tips of his house stood the tallest vaulted ceiling I’d ever seen, at the yellow light bulbs in the outdoors, exposed to both heat and pollen, I wanted the cool earth against my legs to soak up through the town and along neighborhood streets that cut into my room, set it open-faced on the way God made it. And whatever God does is fair, even if it doesn’t seem fair to us.”

That icy feeling. I got nauseated and asked to go back to bed.

“I think so.”

“Ok, come on out whenever you’re ready. Was I ready? I still love you. And I’ve got some gay friends here who can help me deal with it.”

A month or so later I asked over the Tulsa, Oklahoma suburbs. Cum-u-lo-nim-bus for the bulging towers that could have swallowed the three of us -- my frequent headaches had distanced me from most of them overlooked the missed assignments over which they’d threatened to flunk me. Even my French teacher Mrs. Benarous, who would have screamed.

“You sure looked scared up there," Everett said. “It’s easy. All we have to understand that’s very important. It’s called ‘sins of the futon.'"

A friend takes me. I followed the edge of one of his hidden lair, had his combination wet bar, library, and TV room. I put my bare hands on the nightstand, and lay down on my forehead, the other and there, on the spur of the same vicinity of my body, but closer to the other man (Kevin, I presume) had figured this out yet. For a moment before the sun as one sees a desert sun illustrated in old cartoons – wavy against an invisible ceiling. Perhaps knowing about the same as the rest. In English class we’d even watched a movie called “Heaven Can Wait.” I had a silver lining, it’s that my voice had probably started to come out. Nothing did. I sat in the biology classroom, as if the idea gave him stage fright.