A Man Sits Down and Begins Talking 4

including the small town on the outskirts of everything, a short description of yourself, and the western conquerors
sprites magdelyn, little green thingies creeping on vines, slipping on bannana peels of their own desire, ringing dinner bells for recalcitrant foes of the modern society, digging for gems in the soft earth, eating jello-molds like candy, not realizing their mistake, almost finding shelter before the storm, but then... hurricane bashes down like an angry god's fist, hammering, pounding, soundweapon, "that's god fucking you" the natives say, when they're in the mood, and they're right, with their serious eyes, gentle, sad smiles, quick, easy shakes of the head, they know everything. the ground here speaks, and the people know its language, for they and theirs have lived here since this land settled down from shaking a million years ago, or at least that's what they'd like you to believe. their houses are like extensions of the hills, the valleys. Their backyards are the swamps and thickets. They are the groundhogs, the gophers, squirrels. The animals are their friends, lovers, relatives. You find them disgusting because they dig in the dirt for scraps. They find you ridiculous. You both walk away satisfied.

Weekends strecth into months and then go away because they have become far too long. Nothing is accepted beyond a certain maximum power, a glass ceiling. but even glass can be
           broken.

hellish hounds nose their way into the devil's trash cans and he laughs at their stupidity as they yelp away rubbing at their burned and bitten snouts, "even you, an animal, should have known" laughing. the oak in the yard is death warmed over, or cooled under an apple pie window dressing in front of a mirror, then undressing, admiring, spying, voyeuristically watching yourself, hoping that perhaps you will have sex so you can watch, hah hahing at ridiculous notions with fancy ruffly dinner attire, helping yourself to beans and sprouts and mashed potatoes, not even noticing that you are the only one laughing, and liking it because embarrassments which you never notice are not embarrassments. Grasping pitchers and filling your mug, you drink up, knowing that tomorrow you will die, or the next, or the next, it doesn't really matter, merry, drink and be eat, go fuck yourself, have a good time, everything sucks but nothing is free, jets fly overhead, but birds have found tunnels under the ground, rabbits run, rabbits run, down. gnomes free themselves from tyranny. communism slumps over and falls asleep. hunkered citizens restand their fallen knees almost gaining independence from freedom. jilted lovers fall over into each other's arms finding true love in a one night stand that will not last even as long as advertised. bliss is in a moment, but it quickly escapes. heck even cowgirls get the blues, they just don't play it very well. lesbians are almost always never as attractive as you wish they would be, but the lesbians you wish for are only fantasies anyway so go home and meet them in your bed, they will be waiting for you, as beautiful as you can imagine, which probably is pretty ugly since you never really paid enough attention at school, you were always dreaming dead, black and white pencil dreams that didn't go beyond Mary and Lisa sitting in a tree. You didn't have much piece of mind. You like horrible puns and hope to find more on your next tax statement. No one really knows what you're talking about, but they don't tell you, which is a relief to everyone involved. Sleep, knowing you are no beauty, and hoping no prince and/or princess will rescue you. Your hand is in front of your face, but you seem unaware of anything so obvious.

tools still excite you, you run to press buttons, not caring whether they will do something neat or not, just wanting to push them, wanting to pull the levers, work the machine, fool around, monkey around, monkeys, you like monkeys because they are funny, you don't think about how much like monkeys you are. you don't think about much. You're not the most conscientious person. You wait to do things, delight in putting them off until the last possible moment. This is your routine, your wheel to turn, your bridge to walk. You built it, walk it, it's yours.

shoot on, fly out by night, take the bat's wings and flap awkwardly between shapeless lumps that you find by screaming, screeching, listening with your gigantic, hairy ears. you're a god damned six shooting wild plains blaster bastard burning up the tumbleweeds. split up the country, clear away the savages, retire yourself and become a piece of history. bring down the mountains, set up the traintracks, burn up the wilderness, eat up all the beavers! Drink up the rivers, dam up the streams, fill up the chasms, put up hotels and 500-screen movie palaces. WE'RE GOING TO CIVILIZE THIS PLACE!

10/10/96

Jim Genzano




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