I ain’t got a goddam thing to say that hasn’t been said before.
There’s $1.92 in my bank account. There’s also a pizza box on the floor, crumbs on my lap, and it’s Friday night before the eve of witches. I just watched Birdman and I’m quite ready to lose my mind entirely.
This stuff is a maniacal grind, like jellyfish rolling around in the sand, like this nonsensical smatter that falls upon the keys as I rock my hips back and forth in this empty chair, humming the syllables of your name, tender on the lips like fall dew, leather-bound, belligerent, nostalgic, and hell yeah, of course I miss you. I miss all of you.
I really like words with hyphens.
Fuckin’ hell, what an utterance.
Snare-snare-snare, kick-kick, snare-tom-tom-tom-kick-tom-crash-crash-china-choke.
More than to lovers, I’d like to succumb to the steady fall of rain.
You gotta learn how to grin with your eyes. That’s the first step. You learn to grin with your eyeballs, then you rip out your eyeballs and grin with your whole goddam body. And you swish around a cocktail in your mouth as he talks your head off about whatever the fuck he does for work, or thinks he does for work, and you can only sit and nod, and your face glosses over as you imagine him hanging upside-down above Milwaukee, and a gentle nudge from your chewed-off cuticle (nervous tick, force-of-habit, look at all those hyphens) is enough to expedite him to the sweet, sweet abyss, and you’re slightly jealous that art could go to such waste. I mean just look at all that human potential, and this guy knows Excel!
“I mean, I don’t want to brag,” (plastic laugh) “but I do know Excel better than the rest of the douchebags in that office!” (repeat plastic laugh verbatim).
Nod nod nod, stir stir, the cold Wisconsin air, cheese heads, the poem written in the sole of your stiletto is making your heel itch.
Somewhere, someone is gutting a pig they won’t eat.
Imagine a canvas. A huge canvas. A gigantic canvas, I’m telling you, a gargantuan, colossal, stretch-of-a-naked-white-canvas. In the very center is an orange. A normal orange, with dimples and oblong citrus, just gloating at its very girth.
Inside the orange is the most electrifying orgasm you’ve never had.
Just a sea of canvas and one tiny orgasm, like Enola Gay and the Trinity Site’s meticulous afterthought.
Anyway. End scene. The Excel guy wants you to pay for the Taxi.
Anything to get out of these goddam stilettos.