Having just endured the Democratic National Convention I now sit here in a drunken stupor
Well, it’s two in the morning and the balloons are falling all over the world; meanwhile, it’s just me and the dead soldier facing many a long sleepless night leading up to The End, the colossal orgasm. Yeah, I see it clearly now, the great derangement has come home to roost; Gagool has taken up permanent residence, and I will sit here through the sheer will of sitting, till the chair rots from under me; I will put my head through a brick wall, if need be and shout bullshit! bullshit! bullshit! till I turn old and grey and shrivel up and droop and keel over, because the only answer for the legions of dull dreary walking dead is to take them apart piece by piece like broken clocks, their little cookie cutter cogs and wheels set to spinning like tops or put up in specimen jars with labels like me mine us ours friend enemy god devil evil pure impure and (last but not least) Joy! Joy! Joy! endless mindless lunatic fucking joy. And though I watch the doors on the steel coffins of their minds clamp down even harder shutting out the last least wisp of light, I won’t go. I won’t capitulate to joy and cheer and thievery and mass murder, No. I’ll resist, go underground, like the fugitives of old, like the Book People I’ll circle and weave through the burnt timber the night pulled up around me they won’t see me coming, I’ll shapeshift one minute a coyote, the next an owl perched high up in the naked limbs; just me and the vultures thinking, watching, waiting for the right moment.