Tuesday, November 25, 2008


Category: Issue 13


Came across two urbanites con-urbating in what used to be a field, now a parking lot laid out for beds of non-necessities, everyone was sleeping in them. How apropos, I thought wondering into the shopping mall where dime stores sold dimes, and nothing more. Money for money’s sake, I wrote a haiku on the wall to that effect, but no one noticed, there was a nacho-fest in the food court, so I followed.

two pennies rubbed hot
together don’t make sparks nor
      fire, no worth at all

Twixt Monterey Jack and Jalapeno Pepper there was a talent show, the fat kids from the local I-Am-A-Superstar camp down the road were doing numbers from FAME, I became nauseous so went to the toilet where a machine sold miniature bibles for a buck, no change given, I bought one but it jammed and salvation was left crammed in the john whilst in the background some soon-to-be-high-school-drama-queen sang, I’m gonna live forever, and it seemed oddly fucked or fucking odd the juxtaposition of the simple sentiment and the macabre ruse, so I grinned, rueful and bemused.

when you must piss, hold
it in till you need to scream,
release is gorgeous.

I still needed the toilet but looked for a potted plant. Every one I checked was plastic as my bladder had begun spastic roiling and my back teeth were floating, fearful I would wet myself, I flew super-jumbo-hotdog-thick into a throng of octogeneric Americans left in the mall to wilt and let fly with a tilting gusher on the marble floor, no one noticed, except Estelle who thought her Depends must have let go. Careful, I said to an old Chinese lady, don’t slip on the Yellow River and she said she’d done the long walk with a little red book so a little piss wasn’t going to hurt, so I hugged her brittle dragon bones and was off. I needed a drink.

      power comes from the
beer barrel, the chugging sparks
      still-born rebellions

Came across a political rally outside a shaky lard buffet, a million Maoist gay-biker Hitlerites screaming, it’s not a spectrum, a circle, a circle where the extremes meet, cross over to the commie-fascist conundrum, as they gulped cheap low-carb brew all wearing buttons proclaiming “Putsch with Butch!” as he walked up to me and said, sign up here, and not wanting to deny the handlebar moustache and bulging biceps of the stud himself, I joined the ranks of the kung-po-eating-pilsner-swilling-brothers-in-each-others-arms-man-munching masses, and I loved it, my sublime paradigm.

do I revolt you,
he asks, no, it’s the status-
quo that trips my gag

Lay wasted and spent in a low-rent dive above the pizza joint with Butch and the boys sipping café latte between croissant bites, the light settles through the curtains on a portrait of his mom, everything she hoped for her son piled high on the answering machine which he refuses to erase, so much to strain against but at the end of the day he’s still a son who loves what he was brought-up to be, life, liberty, pursuit of a good lay and they say America is dead, but just ask anyone who actually lives there, the ideal is just as real as it ever was, free to be me and you be you, every stereotype is true, every voice a valid scream, worth something, the value of that is insurmountable as he offers another go and I think I’ll pass, too much else to rebel against by my dawn’s early light, the sparse change had come.