BLEEDING FROM THE EARS LIKE WILDER

Home at last and back in this chair with plenty of fire, fuckin’ TNT and all the nation’s armies at my fingertips. I can duke it out with the best of them in this state. Make them look like Wilder in the 5^th and 6^th and (finally) the 7^th round. Ear drum busted and bleeding torrently, thick red blood for saliva and useless tears. The best there is is this fragment of a second, passing on eggshells like a rocket packed with nitroglycerin to the gills and up its rear end. This is being alive and willing, a maniac artist with the sun as his clock and belly as his motivation. I’m thirsty for it. Thirsty for all of it. Thirsty for the would-be errors, thirsty for another G&T, for a good fuck, for a good song to blare down the crooked highway, past the panhandlers, past the blonde joggers wearing sunglasses and skintight nothingness that hugs the pussy just right, a clam, an avocado, two oysters making out under the pink, jellied sun, underneath the big bush, guarded by labia. There is nothing wrong with this so I might as well keep on going. My music won’t stop so why in the hell should I ever consider laying down my arms?? Even so, this tirade will go on. I have the village cornered, the plebs have started pillaging the mayor’s mansion, raping his wife, pissing on his law books, eating his cake off his maps, bathing in his commode with the lights off, dancing to Brahms in his kitchen while slitting their wrists with one another’s jagged smiles, mixing cocktails the color of asteroids in his shoes, blessing his rosewater, drinking his musk in wafts with mashed potatoes while strolling down his hallway of masks and tiaras. Blessed is he! Blessed is he! So off with his head! The bastard said. Oh this is starting to rise, slowly but surely, faintly but mostly with the gusto of a mother. The liquor store is only a walk away. Two skips and two hops then a jump, so why not continue making this thing work and work and work and work? The deadly combination of fearlessness and pent up fuckin’ want—here are the results. Relentless. Seeking. Go. Go. There is more. Let the mechanism have at it. Let that blue bird sing. Hats off to you, old man, you did it well. You’ll always be there, don’t worry, I haven’t forgotten about you—not that you give a fat shit, but there you go anyway. I’ll always remember the moxie, the headstrongedness, the laughter, the badass bitching and moaning that garnered sympathy, but not the soft kind, the kind that says, rather, Yeah man Yeah, I get’ya…life’s a bitch a lot of the time. Then here comes a tune through the radio, here comes a Daisy with her slide guitar and woes and eerie handles with hobo acoustic strumming, making you wish you were on a good one down a sunset-colored path in the fall. Kicking the dead leaves aside and shedding a tear for the fools that will never know such walks of desperation, so ghastly that you feel sorry for the poor saps. They’ll never know! They’ll neeeeever ever know what it’s like to walk around all by yourself and secretly picking at the puss from your wounds, trying to peel back the scabs, checking for fresh plasma—cherry red. Only the chronically favored by their own bleeding hearts get to cry them a river like this. Only the mad. Only the lonely. Apples and oranges. A candy-coloured clown they called the sandman…….