make a wire transfer for 25 dollars don’t want to pay it, sunshine; “Are you mocking me?” i’m not doing anything let me get used to your smile—those carnivorous incisors that would keep you on your toes, but, by now, everybody knows you’re as good as they come, more beautiful, my darling, than any disingenuous outcome ”how do people keep their teeth so white?” So they didn’t smoke, for one thing, but i see them drinking coffee, they must have veneers, however and however much that works i think i’m in the clear; love that loud lipstick, red as my lips. i play a little dress-up to drive the haters away; or, even better, convince them, over time, to change their loving ways.
it’s okay to laugh—i just never figured it out; this life cruel enough to keep me sober day in and day out; every laugh i ever shared was a function of someone else. Now that I’m me, i see nothing but my projects, which, alas, are more important than me. that’s why i’ll die before i’m noticed—when people would chance building you up the proceeds go to them: no chance, then, of creating a jerk, someone that believes everything he hears, and then the trail goes cold. lover-john; i hear you loud and clear; “you leave me leaning sideways, unable to hear.” But what does Ursula want—this lover that i emulate? i know what’s coming for you you don’t know it yet (except i kind of do) my words will resonate, and the love of your life will appear out from behind the red curtain across the stage. the light opens up guess what, i’m here, and i’m here to stay so what if you get comfortable, and the intimacy you imagine, to me, looks an awful lot like a lie, something we tell ourselves to shut out the outside?
“Math uncle in the background—rock hard stomach as big as it gets,” don’t drink a whit of moonshine, you won’t catch me drinking again. maybe a little wine? before making love? that would ruin everything, be what you are not “Don’t know what you mean—don’t put me on the spot,” Ursula can hear me, yo, i’m going to make my mark. Slow and steady wins the race, save a little something for the end. “I know what you mean, my darling, but this is all up for grabs,” and I’m thinking, now, that math-uncle, as we know him, is no longer a fag. shouldn’t use that word, it overflows with hatred and woe; how can I make you love me? i imaging you won’t be able to help it—once my transformation is complete. thinking, aren’t you, that people can keep up with me? I gave up the bottle, now you see the lot.
what can i write about, if not my experience? “what is your experience?” doesn’t matter what it is—it counts as experience. You stop being one thing, merge into another, be something else, and yet, all that while, you were returning to yourself. we gut punted, don’t we, when we are born? We come into this world angry as a hen—the world has been disrupted by the horror that we forget. Now you tell me, demon-lover, that you waited all this time; but that’s not entirely true—you’re chasing younger women, that you can make pregnant; they’re the only ones that really count, aren’t they? Everything else is folk music—not exactly my style, no matter how close you get. “i ruin my teeth, i think, drinking all this pop; ground beyond my years—medication that, be-damned, has too many side-effects; there must be a better option; restless as an eardrum, waving this way and that, how did something, over time, get so incredibly complex?
Ursula’s coming for me, someone will read her in; she’s just my type of audience; i don’t even need a fifth of gin—which, by the way, went down with a protest, more so than the vodka that I used—that, even so, punted me again. “I’m back to my safehouse, there’s a ceiling I rely on, a fail-safe that i use; and, in return, i turn the mirror on its head. Make you proud of sunshine, and the women in your stead. So Ursula, Ursula, math-uncle sublime, we are talking, now, about the continuation of a series, communicating with the other side. Look, i know this pent up anger that you feel is your means of escape. Drop a dime on it, then we can negotiate hey, nonny, nonny, Mozart is a bag that you put over your head when you’re feeling misunderstood i mean so much more than that I have answers that might mean something—that might, dare I say, speak to you?
losing track of all my voices, i’ve got the actor on the line, me in a skirt, not even wasting my time: don’t you see: I donate 15 dollars to your campaign, shot on the spot. i think it really happened—but you’re the actor and I’m not go away—you’ve got nonsense on your mind, i can see into your mind’s eye, color me whatever way you like: there’s something dangerous, however, when eyes are in shadow, governed by their values, colors subdued. But I won’t pretend, angel dear, that my mind’s eye is blue. Now what’s she saying? All this time? I’m feeling inspired. the hard work is done—I’ve already written more than anybody but the most devout could attempt. Live an ascetic life, why? Don’t make these rules so complicated: don’t i change them every so often—creating, lo, this undeniable stitch? A pathway to heaven, the pinnacle of mass, happening already it’s happening already i know you live in a corner, safely stowed away, an embarrassment to your friends.
So you want to be president, and you assume the role: good for you nighttime rapist, enemy askew. Now, what does Ursula think? Coming out of her shell? I loved what died of cancer, wasn’t doing so well. Can’t fix that, can we, until we live in harmony with the sun—crazy ideas, on drugs in front of everyone. “Please, Ursula, I beg you to think of me—don’t shut me out, don’t fall in love with my friend—the man we both chase after, when He looks within.” I don’t want him, lo, You want what won’t complain. Too busy, i guess, to get in your hair. Don’t overcome my mind. I’ll feel nothing, and die, then, in despair. Liquid angel lover—driving to spite himself, escaped a dui, left the scene of the bender—nothing was totaled but my conscience, and the fact that, when pressed, I choose myself.