These Fragments I Have Shored Against My Ruin: A Collection Of Scraps From One More Sleepless Night

How ashamed must be the loathsome models who wake up in the morning in bed with ZZ Top?

In the old bar of my early days as an inebriate there was a mural there on the wall, a tableau of drunken trolls, a forest scene, I seem to remember, a vertitable sprawl of blasted trolls, collapsed among the trees. A dark woods, more darkness creeping through the trees. They’d come through there any day now with the heavy machinery, the chain saws and earth movers. They’d lay waste to everything the fucking trolls held dear. They’d plow their world right under, drive the plump little bastards into exile. No wonder the trolls did nothing but drink, no wonder all they ever did was lay around eating and drinking and gaining weight. There weren’t even any women trolls, so when they danced it was a sad spectacle, bachelor trolls self-consciously dancing with each other and doing their pathetic best to make merry. Still, they did dance, once upon a time. They used to. They used to be furtive and quick on their feet, used to cover all sorts of ground just for the hell of it. No more, though. They knew what was coming, and there was nothing left for them to do but wait.

If you want to speak directly with a disc jockey, your best bet is to call in the middle of the night. It works for me every time.

So many white men, taking turns pushing their tired white brains down a moonlit dirt road in a wheelbarrow.

Please present a word with two w’s. Wheelbarrow. Willow. Wallflower. Window. It’s difficult to find such words that don’t start with w. Awkward.

Dear Giant: Please put your lips to that little chimney and blow this frozen man out of his chair.

The Giant’s prerogative: He can do whatever the hell He pleases.

The backs of my eyeballs feel like a chalkboard on which some invisible hand is quietly scratching a descending series of numbers.

We got a word for fellas like Clayton Eshelman where I come from, mister: pussy.

I can’t seem to shake the memory of a little cross-eyed mudpuppy, crammed in a jar of formaldehyde in a high school science lab. When I was younger the eggs in the refrigerator would talk to me, telling me stories of long dead hens, nights in the country, the distant sawing of fiddles, crickets who giggled all night long, the gravel percussion of truck wheels coming up the driveway, the soft crooning of the old woman who came each morning to carry them away. I’m extremely grateful for this opportunity to present my side of the story. Thank you for your time.

Now: Bushed. Shagged. Tuckered. Fagged. Fried. Beat. Shot. Sacked. Whooped. Whipped. Saddled. Socked. Weary. Worn out. Crapped. Crying Uncle. Exhausted. Tired as shit. Lights out. Now I lay me down to sleep. To sleep, perchance to dream. Nighty-night. Sayonara. Get a good night’s sleep. Don’t take any wooden nickels. Don’t let the bedbugs bite. I’ll see you in the morning. Good night. Sweet dreams.