I'm sitting in the antenna of truth, pulsing like music, wishing P.J. Harvey wasn't on TV flapping her arms and strutting down a drizzled street, acting like she's in love. Now I'm learning how to bleach my hair. How to rain. How to sneak into a thrust. How to blare. How to write a letter to a deviant star. How to act like loss by chewing leftover turkey meat. How to wash it down with coffee. How to not stop. How to hear footsteps in the stairs. How to imagine my own murder taking place in my dad's house the day after Thanksgiving.
Now I'm learning about slippery bikinis! I'm learning inside a snake nest! Are you wearing a bikini right now? Is your slippery nest churning to some unoriginal song? I'm sorry to keep coming back to pop music, but that's what I am: A beat and snare. Or as they say: Once a saint, always hungry.
I rediscovered Shakespeare when I least expected it - sitting around with my best friend smoking bruises and sipping on gin and juice. We were discussing the frail beauty of the human throat. No, I'm lying. We were talking about tail. He wasn't my friend. I was alone, drinking a Coke. No reason to lie. No reason to tell you that windows can look frightening on an afternoon in Suburbia.
My dogs are going crazy because a cat just ran past the window. My dogs' names are Ishmael and Tellulah. I used to have a dog named Bartleby but he was hit by a mini-van. I eat oranges to stay healthy, but what's really the fucking point? You and I are napalm in a jungle where nobody lives anymore. Or the only people who live there are cockroaches, and cockroaches aren't scared of napalm. They may even find it nourishing and produce many healthy offspring. History is confusing. In a past life I must've been an occupation, and you a frantic resistance movement. I swallowed my teeth and left town.
An ecstatic industry has commissioned me to build monument out of old telephone books. It's all about recycling nowadays. For example, talking to you right now. Giving the land back to the Indians. Giving my arms back to cigarettes. Giving my mind back to drive-by shootings.
The problem with windows is not rocks; it's the kids who won't throw them. The problem with movies is that the directors know nothing about spiders. Once I played a desperado in a deserted movie about lungs. Once I was an epidemic. Once I was interviewed about moths.
No, the interviewer asked me something about you, and "moths" is how I replied.