Saturday, July 2, 2011


THE ENTREPRENEUR got rich by telling people to wish on a star
the way he displaced my need for therapy for post traumatic stress disorder was less lol-worthy than the means chosen by my therapist
the morning after proving their redundancy to him, he indiscriminately beat all his henchmen to death
it was probably a waste of time being East European, looking like a Cabbage Patch Kid from so much steroid abuse, and being the henchman of a self-sufficient entrepreneur

MY THERAPIST usually ordered me to brandish a squirt gun at targets set up all over his office
issuing from the nozzle was meant to be the theremin, rainbow ejaculate of VHS cassettes containing my favorite cartoons
the teenage bonobo that molested me as a child wore a tinfoil hat to prevent the projection of a spiny, curvy caricature of the utopia he imagined himself inhabiting on the smooth, unspoilt surface of the dark presence beneath the hat he apparently embodied like a thickly lacquered marionette, and is now living in a nursing home where he is constantly shunned by the residents for animal cruelty
for some reason, all his exploits are likened to smashing berries in slow-motion on Xbox Live
the process is seen in slow-motion because the horror reaches up from a deep well
and because the residents of the nursing home as a rule see everything in slow-motion

THE ENTREPRENEUR'S website implores me to find a large shrub, to wish on a star, and then to summon whatever I want from the shrub
from every shrub I have found so far, the feet of a dead body poked out
I crawl into one of the shrubs and look down:
I am a bug standing on a mirror
the thumb of my therapist, whenever he illustrated how I should squeeze the trigger of the squirt gun, was very charming
I imagined it riddled with thumbtack imprints, from sticking targets to the walls of his office all day
the thumb couldn't crush the reflections of bugs
when he wasn't showing me how to squeeze the trigger, the thumb merely lazed on its belly next to him

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