Dear Sir,
While I am writing this for your benefit (you are on fire, you see), I would like to point out that when you finish bleeding to death, you need to do the dishes and cut some onions for dinner. I am *not* fucking around on this one. Just do it. Ok?
It has also come to my attention that you are afraid of the light. While I would like to be able to understand this and explain away your fear for you, I am afraid of Potato bugs and certain that we will never find any middle ground from which to conduct our experiments on orphans and retarded children. I digress.
Did you hear the one about the Pirate who went to college? Neither did I. You’ll have to imagine a setup and punchline on your own, because quite frankly, the only joke worth telling is the one you hide inside yourself and don’t let out for fear it will run away from home. Keep feeding it, petting it, and changing it’s litter and you’ll have nothing to worry about.
I saw a woman at the supermarket the other day with two heads. She looked at me funny. Twice. It’s not fair.
In closing, I would like to say that Darth Vader is Luke Skywalker’s father. I imagine you’re confused at this, as you have never seen the movie, and honestly that doesn’t make you better than me. There. I said it. Now have a happy Flag Day or I’m going to cut you.
Respectfully,
Albert P. Dillweather
at which point I pointed and laughed.
at which point I drew a line in the sand.
at which point I had you lashed 49 times.
at which point the taco stand closed for the evening.
at which point existence caved in and everything lost meaning.
at which point I cracked two eggs, toasted some bread, and drank a pot of coffee.
at which point I shat, wiped, and went to sleep.
at which point I ordered a double cheeseburger and fries to go, got screwed out of four dollars, and got a speeding ticket on the way home, goddamnit, fuck!
at which point I shot JFK.
at which point I shot John Lennon.
at which point I shot Ronald Reagan.
at which point I erected a mcdonald’s in john holmes’ honor.
at which point I shaved my chin and cut myself below the jaw.
at which point I screamed.
at which point I burned the flag.
at which point I rejected god.
at which point I was dejected.
at which point the screaming and steaming had overtaken my mind and I collapsed into an abyss of despair and darkness from which I could not arrive. Oh yeah and the Ewok Adventure was the only thing to watch on tv.
at which point I masturbated, briefly, in the stall of an airplane bathroom, to a fantasy about the flight stewardess and the entire back half of coach heard me.
at which point I found jesus.
at which point I found muhammad.
at which point I found love.
at which point I found my undoing.
at which point I drifted away.
at which point-
“This coffee is shit,’ he said,
a disatisfied curl adjusting
itself to his brow
and a frown glued
to his face.
The sigh was short
and airy as he shook
his head
as if to say
‘I surrender.’
I understood completely.
As quickly as it began and
as painfully slow as it came
to an end,
one thing was always clear:
‘There is no easy way to get ahead.’
My hero, you see.
I blinked.
She smiled.
For a moment, all I could see was traffic lights and smoke stacks-
an invitation to the seedier parts of town-
the places you don’t dare to go-
the jokes you used to tell.
I blinked.
She smiled.
The joke was totally inappropriate and no one was laughing-
tastes were offended and bridges were burned-
I never stopped laughing ’til the gas can was empty-
Embers glowing and flickering into the night.
I blinked.
She smiled.
Art is a form of psychosis. An appreciation of art is an appreciation of psychosis.
Artists are not psychotic, art is.
I blinked.
She smiled.
Conversation was the only foreplay we found that night-
undressing as fast we could-
her hips in my hands-
That was passion.
That was intensity.
And though I later found out she was a work of art-
artists are not psychotic, art is-
for a moment, everything was alright.
I smiled.
She blinked.
Because I didn’t know him, I let the burning lie in the middle of the road. He had his fists raised to the sky, and was crying outloud for a little bit of water.
‘Please help me, it burns!’ he screamed, while no one paid attention.
I shrugged. What could I do? Forgot about it. Walked on.
I saw the story in the newspaper and it said there were no witnesses when he was melting in front of me. If they only knew.
I smiled.
I laughed.
And then I walked away, much like before. Only this time I could smell his burning flesh and hear his screaming voice- great gobs of melting, screaming skin, swimming across the pavement.
‘Oh god, oh god, oh god, OH GODDAMN EVERYTHING!’
I’m removed.
I’m untouched.
I’m alive.
I’m one of us.
Because I didn’t know him, I let the burning man die in the road.
have you ever felt so screwed
not at the cards that life
handed you
but with the ones you
drew for yourself-
from the discard pile-
and cashed your chips on in for.
those aces weren’t so wild.
‘I should’ve finished college.’
‘I shoud’ve gotten my degree.’
‘I should’ve married someone-
had the wife and the kids and the dog
and the second mortgage and our very own home
for the banks to foreclose on.’
‘And rot in debtors hell.’
and my credit’s still not all that hot.
America, I have a question:
which way to the men’s room?
I have a quarter for the condom machine.
do you want ribbed or a tickler of some sort?
I promise to enter slowly, though we all know
this isn’t your first time.
and it won’t be the last.
So I got interested in layering sounds the other day, when Matt and Devin were trying to make a song out of the Bud Dwyer video.
Today I downloaded Fruity Loops and have been playing with it all night. This program rules.
Click on this.
Ronald Reagan is dead.
I know you miss him like a senile old grandfather,
but don’t forget about Grenada.
Ronald Reagan is dead.
Don’t forget about Iran Contras.
Ronald Reagan is dead.
Don’t forget about Nicaragua.
Ronald Reagan is dead.
Don’t forget about South America.
Ronald Reagan is dead.
Don’t forget about Bitburg.
Ronald Reagan is dead.
Don’t forget about Central America.
Ronald Reagan is dead.
Don’t forget about Beirut.
Ronald Reagan is dead.
Don’t forget about Reaganomics.
Ronald Reagan is dead.
Don’t forget about Star Wars.
Ronald Reagan is dead.
Don’t forget about snitching to McCarthy.
Ronald Reagan is dead.
Don’t forget about the Cold War.
Ronald Reagan is dead.
Don’t forget who called Oliver North an American Hero.
Ronald Reagan is dead.
Don’t forget about the hostages.
Ronald Reagan is dead.
Don’t forget the 80’s.
Ronald Reagan is dead.
Breathe in deeply and exhale.
Ronald Reagan is dead.
Remember when America had a real President?
Neither do I.
