8.28.17

give me a styrofoam cup

of black coffee, black like street pavement

and steaming like fresh shit,

and lock me in a room

with tools capable

of typing and printing,

and i will stay in that room forever,

drinking my liquid tar-magic

and spilling my silly words

into places invisible to outside

judgement and influence.

and dying will happen

rotting will happen

decay will happen

in the room

and that’s fine, it’s expected.

. . .

the afterlife will be a word processor

and a room with a view,

but not like mrs. woolf’s–

no, my view must be of

a valley populated by

stampeding buffalo and

men on horseback chasing

each other, blasting one another

from the face of the earth

with revolvers.

this is the pitiful man i am:

my fantasies of paradise stretch

back only two hundred years

to a time of lawlessness and chaos,

while i watch cowboys

murder cowboys

from a window,

like the sadist my mother raised

me to be,

avoiding those stupid words

that never come anyway,

drinking my black magic

by the motherlode,

and watching,

just watching.

---

Written at 12:33 at night, in my office, in Agoura Hills CA.