Peachy to meet you, but my thoughts
are thistling. I might need a New
York Minute to trim them. Luckily, I just had
a cigarette. Unluckily, it was the nausea cig. Every pack
has a nausea cig & a euphoria cig. Someone nigh
always bums my euphoria cig. Queasy
as she goes, I guess. Anywho, we best be getting gone: Stop
Drop & Roll donut work in hell. True
love ain’t nothing but easygoing
heart disease. A common denominator between wooing
& winterizing homes: the rustier
the roof, the wetter the basement. Yes, I’m talking
womankind: sign, tangent, & secant
of all our affections!! But there’s troves more
to me than redhead apologetics. That there is just a throwaway
filet of scholarship. Timely, timely the critics crumpling up
eviction notices in my hippocampus say. But, at core, I know my prose
needs policed. It’s dastard smut. A liverspot
limo to the spanking new vomitoriums
in Torment. We Pharisees: we’re overbrained
& underworked. Our excuses are so poor they qualify
for TANF in the reddest state (don’t get it twisted—you won’t find me
grousing about a safety net, but it shouldn’t rest easy
as a blankety-blank hammock). & the limp
morals—trust me, Balaam’s ass sets up
buxom in a wonk’s mind. Without, within
we’re weapons-grade sinful. We take knees
to sharecropping & Southron history. Heatstroke was just
the scent of the season. Many-throated, the fates say
somewhere along the way you started to think you weren’t
part of the food chain anymore. You can’t sugar
over biology, primate. Start peopling. Yet here I sit, sipping
the sedate grog of philosophy, mulling over
my unseaworthiness. The old legislation was just quill pens
& curlicues & spliced commas. What does it say to a clay
eater? All he understands is gout & government cheese, a stiff whiff
of grapeshot. Can’t you smell
those skunky chromosomes from here? Sheesh. Machine-gunning
gibberish, am I? No, smart mouth, I’m just begging
America to stop digging her own blasted grave
with a fork & knife. Right now it’d take the jaws
of life to span that sea
to shining sea waistline. Translation: those britches are so tight
I can see your religion. Uh-oh—so this is where the mood goes
somber, bibleblack? It’s ebbing right
smothersome in here. & you look like you’re up for a promotion
at the headache factory. No need to mope; there’s no bull
from them papists that says you have to stop living
deliciously. Just cool it with the foie gras. Goosegrease
is kingly steep. Now you don’t seem like the sort to henpeck
an anecdote, so I won’t tar & feather you
with too many facts. Just one more hairy truth: binge eaters
& Commissars both know what bliss it is to pig out
on somebody else’s ruble. Apologies, but my own way
is all I can afford to pay. So here’s where we part, man
in the pantyhose mask. But take heart: I was born with nothing
&, knuckles white as driven snow, I’ve managed to hang on
to most of it. Best of luck
pistol whipping the next schmuck.
