From the Secret Confessions of an Epileptic Priest Named Milton Berle

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Back when I served The Source of all nouns & verbiage covered by flesh***back in The Wastelands of Chicago*** in an epiphany of His mysterious ways***I birthed the idea of bringing a tape recorder to the confessional.***After recording several confessions*****I spliced the tape, deleting all the articles, such as “the,” “a,” “an,” etc. I taped them all–from serial killers who loved to speak about their strong, thick hands to rapists who drifted in from the Midwestern storms from the periphery of disowned-alien desire.****I performed more splicing operations, this time****deleting the spaces between words*** phrases***sentences***tenuous phonemes***& strings of vocal quiverings*** even the spaces between spaces, etc. The miracle was that everyone sounded the same.*** They all confessed to the same sin in hidden code. Each hated to be a space of one.*******In random urge sequencing, they all revealed a traumatic memory of tasting their mother’s blood shortly after being born.*****They all pronounced the salts of this life as bitter.*******They all harbored the childhood intention*******of squeezing a soft pulpy fruit until it burst.*************I heard the yowl of my own soul in the train of these confessions.***********I allowed the strong hand of The Source to grip me tight-in-the-night******to squeeze me******until I was nothing but the drone, the scratchy hum*******of an empty tape******left running.

Note:

* = the space of one human ontological denial. Think of the void left by the absence of fingerprints of an angel.
The Author

Kyle Hemmings is the authors of several chapbooks of poetry and prose: Avenue C, Cat People, and Anime Junkie (Scars Publications). His latest e-books are You Never Die in Wholes from Good Story Press and The Truth about Onions from Good Samaritan. He lives and writes in New Jersey. Read his blog.

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