Pseudo-indie yellow DTs on a park bench in
front of the Thames, pow-wow illusions of a
schizophrenic Wisconsinite, total recall:
how long has the library been sanctuary for
those unable to cope with their social life?
Litany penned in the rocks in the bottom
of a well, “it’s like 8,000 frequent flier miles
to China, Pink Boy!” I could have fallen asleep in
that living room with display cases of dead babies
and an upside down Christmas tree that I
thought was an artistic representation of
grapes, the one food here that doesn’t taste different.
Waiter, there are date rape drugs in my soup!
That feeling of Jake pounding for Pete—as if
an asteroid the shape of a mattress spring hit
Teddington and only your spine knows how many
are dead. Wildly articulate representations of
reality! Perspicuous and well-defined theories!
I don’t get the queen, don’t ask me to
explain it. If this were a beehive, a drone would
have already broken his dick off in her and
died. I’m American, I’m allowed to be
blasphemous. Don’t ask me to explain it.