When a celebrity teen poet with a fragile ego learns he’s living in a parallel reality acting out a real-world kid’s unconscious mind, the poet must find a way to get over himself and help the real-world kid overcome the bad choices that have triggered a rift in the Universe and threaten to erase them both from existence.

Here’s an excerpt from Chapter 1:

There’s just something about that first brisk whiff of morning stank off Splinter Lake. I’m typing “Reminds me it’s October” in my tablet, but I know I’ve used that line before, and anyway it’s always October here in the park, especially near the water. And murky and overcast. Like everywhere in my town.

Reminds me…reminds me…every breeze brings its own unique chilly stink.

That’s a new one, I can use that, and you know I love you, Ashwaubanon, as much as I love my people, and don’t worry—hold on, typing that in: “Every breeze brings its own unique chilly stink.” Don’t worry, the smell will never stop me and I’m always good in long-sleeves and jeans. The cold only cuts through when it’s important I check myself.

Meaning I am so aware it’s too soon to be on the park’s jogging path. I’ve figured out my body likes to move when I’m adding new lines. It’s okay, today’s volunteer isn’t here yet.

I return unseen to the shadows at the brick bathrooms. Nothing’s been ruined. The excitement, like the stench, isn’t going anywhere. Whoever’s coming will still have to go on faith that when they die temporarily, I’ll show up to save them.

Whoever’s coming is coming now.

Oh yeah. That jingle-jangle in the air is definitely house keys zipped inside a mesh pocket. I tuck my tablet into my hoodie’s handwarmer and today’s volunteer arrives in stride on the jogging path. Even from a hundred-fifty yards I can see how proud he is to have been chosen as this morning’s muse. Way to go, man! Thousands of my people enter that online drawing every day.

And he makes me proud, like all the other muses. In his best knit hat, tracksuit, reflector vest. Running unafraid. Fearless and eager. Sure, he thinks, a little hearty exercise combined with Splinter Lake’s swampy vapors is devouring the oxygen in my brain, but my death and resurrection will inspire another Robert Cooper Poem For His People, so, what an achievement!

He’s a heavy breather with a big smile. He’s a—hold on, this is usually when it happens.

At fifty yards this beautiful vulnerable soul stops and staggers, too winded to articulate victory but his ragged rasps tell the story.

“O strangling air off the lake, take me for art’s sake.”

He goes down, lights-out, and I sprint from my spot to his body slumping into the woodchip garden between the path and the playground. To the naked eye, he’s gone.

But I know better, I’m the poet in this town.

Kneeling over him. Pinching his nose, blowing into his mouth, pounding on his chest. To both revive his heart and prime my imagination.

Pinch-blow-pound.

Pinch-blow-pound.

Pinch-blow-pound.

I lose myself in the rhythm and the pressure that’s building, building, pinch-blow-pound, pinch-blow-pound, yes, as if he’s a balloon I’m inflating to bursting—no, as if he’s a bomb I’m about to detonate.

But a good bomb.

A happy bomb.

A major poetical bomb.

He explodes:

“AHHHHHHHHH!”

He pops up into a sitting position like he’s spring-loaded. Eyes bugging. Pupils so huge you could eat dinner off them. He’s gasping, twitching, his whole body’s shaking the death off. Shaking the death off. That’s going into the tablet.

Oh yeah, we’re both shaking, I’m just as amped, sharing the same line of adrenaline. How many sixteen-year-olds have ever felt like this?! I close my eyes and lean back on my heels, let the muse plug me into a title for my new poem.

It’s like dry humping my own brain. Better than sex! The kick of inspiration. The exhilaration. My eyes and mouth wide open. My mind blowing its load.

“You Are The Tumor Starting To Spread And I Am The Only Tool To Carve It Out.”

The rush of release, the title hot off my lips, I bend forward on my knees, plant my hands in the woodchip garden. Now I’m the heavy breather with a big smile. I always get my title. In the park, first thing in the morning.