The father would have it like this:

1 Loosened association.

2 Antic behavior.

3 Autism.

4 Morbid ambivalence.

The son begins:

She came by way of Archer, Bridgeport, Nanuet, worked off 95 in jeans and a denim jacket, carrying a plastic bag and shower shoes, a phone numbers, waiting beneath an underpass, the potato chips long gone, lightheaded.

I have spent hours circling around the drain of the morbid ambivalence wrought from the antic and autistic and associative slurry. A neologism that unlettered me is too unbothered to think of as anything but consecutive execution framed out the pad into which the slurry is poured and left to harden.

But the arrival of the son and the story of the fucked and the forsaken he had to tell made me nearly forget that entire centripetal journey and I was amazed to find that I did not miss the coarse encounters or the dazzle of multiple sparklers in a hand and two more dangling from the teeth.

Vis-a-vis the belaboring of the oblivious, the exuberantly hopeless, the drawn blinds and the fetid breath of a pallid man, I do not intend to bite and so I pay obeisance to my sources:

I.e.,

But I read them hard, expecting sentences to have been spitefully spatchcocked into the running gelatinization of barbarisms and typos to check up on me, to see if I was actually reading.

No sentimentalist, no stander above men and women or apart from them,

No more modest than immodest.

Unscrew the locks from the doors!

Unscrew the doors themselves from their jambs!

Whoever degrades another degrades me,

And whatever is done or said returns at last to me