Wednesday, September 12, 2007

Gut Smears & Shit Rails

Robert is in one of his moods again.
To the drone and filtered violin of Requiem for Dying Mothers, through speakers good enough to be loud but not too much so, he learned that the last word before the period “plays jazz”. In quotes. Longer sentences create a ride, while shorter sentences slow the reader down. Dead flies play jazz. Now back from the toilet, pissing Bud and burping suds, Robert loosens zipper to play with the kipper.
Not really.
A nobodies interest in words and abstractions, in the box and what’s outside, in being his own best friend. Three red lights in a column, the dishwashers finished. Peeling ceiling paint over the shower, and he is still worried. Gnats attracted to bright monitor screens, they may fall into the bottle. The distractions are part of the story, but he’s no lame.
He may be soused but damn that drumming sounds Holy.
He would like to be immortal, less like plastic and more like radio waves. He would like, he figures in the moment, to be shot into space, to be picked up by large purple dish scanning for carbon-based buddies. Initial scans indicate ten fingers and ten toes. They indicate a jazz loving, peace monkey. He is capable and competent in many areas sir, both ups and downs. Lefts and rights.
Toe that sucker in and light him up.

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