He said: This is a disappearing act for the ages, with a little of that all-the-king’s-horses-and-all-the-king’s-men business thrown in for good measure –although I should say that it never struck me as particularly surprising that horses wouldn’t be much good at putting things back together, lacking as they do opposable thumbs, not to mention hands.
It’s bad, though, the place I find myself, he said –or, rather, wrote.
This was on stationery from some Howard Johnson’s in Florida:
I’m smeared all over the sidewalk, my brains sprung clean out of my broken skull, black birds picking throught the gore.
Have you ever wondered what happens to the stuff that’s in your mind when your brains get bashed out? Does it evaporate like a gas? Or is it still all stashed away there in the leaking coils of meat? I don’t have any idea. I suppose I’m about to find out.
Do me a huge favor and give me back my corner, my floor, the feeling of solid ground beneath my tangled feet.
I’m waiting for another dog to answer my piss.
Hey, wait, listen to this.
What’s that you say? You don’t hear anything?
That’s exactly my point.
Anyway, here’s the thing, to get back to my original question: You can’t just stick a knitting needle into a pile of brains and say, There’s an idea.
There’s a thought. There’s a memory.
And there –right there— is a fucking dream.
Was, if you know what I’m saying.
Leave a Reply Cancel reply