The Book of Dewayne




  1. It escapes me how exactly we met, but since I was married at the time I’m pretty sure it was  I know that we had some conversation about art and music and you grew interested enough to meet so I drove out to your tiny little cluttered basement apartment with the small bed and bathroom and the futon.
  2. I remember that you were/are light skinned, your hair is receding, you wore glasses that I thought were adorable, and you are short (a thing I was into back then).
  3. I remember you as a writer, though I can’t remember much of what you wrote; it was enough that you were/are a creative type. I remember stolen moments in that tiny apartment looking out the dusty windows up at the gray overcast sky above the parking lot.  You seemed to live on the edge of nowhere.
  4. Our sex was jazz. You bebopped a lot to trumpeters and pianists I had never heard of.  The walls were off white and the air was fire. The floor was strewn about with shoes and books—discarded notes in a discordant composition in some sad minor key I’ve never heard again.  I never saw the sheets. There were no curtains, so the world could have looked in on us if it wanted to; we weren’t hiding exactly, but we were.
  5. You took photographs of me: I wore sunglasses and a tuxedo in one shoot. In another I wore ripped jeans and a teal and aqua crocheted skull cap.  I stood on a fire hydrant and leaned against a brick wall.
  6. Snap. Snap. Snap.
  7. You made me a beautiful thing.
  8. I remember having a great fondness of you bordering on some feeling that I never wanted you to not be around. What is life without jazz?
  9. I was also keenly aware that the degree to which you could actually be a presence in my life was severely limited. I remember feeling trapped and wanting to be more of what I truly was to someone who could actually appreciate it.  But I didn’t live a life that supported truth. I lived with Jesus and her. 
  10. And you were not that someone.


  1. There came a point when you no longer wanted me around.  Perhaps it was because you realized I could never be around enough.  Perhaps I began to smell broken.
  2. Rather than communicate that to me directly, you withdrew.
  3. We disintegrated to nothing.  The poetry that was became disjointed syllables that would not allow themselves to be a language, just guttural murmurings from some unseen somewhere.
  4. Jazz to Blues.
  5. I accepted the disintegration because:
    • I had disintegrated before.
    • I knew at the outset that our rhyme scheme depended on slant rhymes—things that at first seemed like they rhymed, but upon closer inspection, didn’t—it all depended on how you chose to move your mouth. However it went, it required a lie.
    • I felt like a hallucination. (To you, to me)
  6. I didn’t blame you.
  7. You blamed me.
  8. I called you much later—over a year—to ask for permission to use the photos. You ignored my calls and would not return my texts. I grew concerned.
  9. I called your best friend to inquire as to what the fuck was going on.  He informed me that you had moved on through to several  another relationship (s).  In the course of that relationship you had been caught cheating.  It was something about you having inappropriate conversations with other guys on your computer and being too stupid to delete them.  To make amends you cut everyone off while you tried to figure out why you couldn’t be successful in relationships.
  10. I didn’t really give a fuck, I just wanted to avoid a lawsuit over photos and I thought that even though things didn’t work out, we had still been on decent speaking terms, so there shouldn’t have been an issue.
  11. Your friend relayed the message from me and you finally texted back:
  12. You told me (basically) that I was a devil; that I brought out the worst in you because you never should have been involved with a married man.  You told me that you never wanted to speak with me again because I represented one of the worst periods in your life when you were somebody you never wanted to be who did things you never wanted to do.
  13. We could talk about being and doing. We could talk about being as essence and core character.  We could talk about the relation of embodiment to being and essence and core character.  We could talk about doing as it serves as a function of being that is not pressed upon by external forces.  Then we could talk about determinism and essentialism.  I would tell you that we (you and I) are eerily similar embodiments of those same two metaphysical possibilities; that we both were only being who we thought we were allowed to be, and that we just were sameness masquerading as difference.
  14. We could talk about wanting as desire; that it functions in singularity; that no one makes you want the things you want, you want them in their entire constitution even before you fully know what that constitution contains; that in the realm of the divine we perceive in totality. Our auras, yours and mine, bumped into one another and knew the end before the beginning.  You wanted what you wanted despite the fact that the composition dropped off in mid riff at the bridge of a sad song; it was always a suicidal enterprise.
  15. We could talk about that. But we don’t talk.
  16. You blamed me.
  17. You made me responsible for your choices.
  18. I wonder about those other men, and those other choices?  Were they responsible for your character as well?
  19. You told me you didn’t care what happened to the photos.
  20. I was angry-hurt.
  21. How dare you assume that after an entire year, the reason I’d be calling you could only be because I wanted to fuck you.  That hadn’t been our refrain at all.  How dare you make bluegrass of jazz.
  22. You assumed those things because you assessed me as an awful human—despite the fact that I never sang awful songs to you.  We were “friends” after the affair.
  23. And if you were as Sage as you purport, then you were just as awful as I.
  24. You needed someone to blame, I get it.
  25. But …
  26. Just because you have demons, that doesn’t make me the devil.
  27. Fuck you.
  28. Fuck self-righteousness.
  29. Fuck self-deception.
  30. Fuck Wynton Marsalis.
  31. Fuck collaborative creative writing.


  1.  I stumbled onto your page on Tumblr last night. I see that you are still alone and unhappy.
  2. I’m glad.


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