Tell Your Bodyguard To Back Off, Please

Combat is offered now, but at a bonanza accepting
such a thing can be dodgy. It may be featuring tranquility
instead of cheap splatter. I just know I’d feel very dazed
while contemplating the offer, like I’d been on a still-white,
black-blood diet for a week.

There’s a moment where closing your eyes and walking
on a high rail your out-of-control clothes
crust with rough stabilization: failure happens next
but it isn’t in losing your balance or dropping your
keys from on high on a parked car’s hood, slamming
right through it and creating a lewd, extempore manhole.

Failure lies in forgetting the many lovelorn singles
who during your selfish, ecstatic moment of
amnesia still relied on the Mixtape – each song a
flailing limb, a brick or iron-cast foot that clumsily leans
in the wrong direction and throws off the rest of that
bright weight pointing at what you should be stopped from
wanting but you forgot those – now you leave the fair
with a stupid teddy bear.

Please tell your bodyguard that it’s disruptive as
hell to either hit someone over the head with a cannon,
to modify it so it can look at the spot of concentration poised
on your purchase of all that’s combative and magically beam
a large heavy round object – via magnetic stilts or
with matchsticks’ burning, quickly scissoring legs –
into it; or to use the cannon conventionally.

Tell him, please, because it’s very very disruptive. You know how
long I have to choose to pick this item off the shelf? Exactly
one nanosecond. Then it’s gone. Poof. The passenger saw the
bird on the wing and his throat lost that large parking
space in which only something as tinny and flat
as an airplane meal can park. Some wise people
often wander around bonanzas throwing pebbles at
people but sometimes also pelting them with such over-cooked,
phlegm-dripping nuggets as: ‘Sometimes, you can only choose
between war and choking.’

Ouch! Which is also the unlikely sound – in a dirty toilet – of
bankruptcy. A brooding cannon-drone in a daydream.
Vandalism attracted to lavish reflections of zeros, dreams learning
shaking hands, to erase the vampire, to intricately pick the
splatter from the cross-stitching. Dumbass! Your quest is
for infringement – of what? Of white rule, which is OK; but
also of the humble Indian and of the broken family, which is
ALREADY BROKEN, man. Can’t you see? And this
imperfection is so passive aggressive, just like your
bodyguard—a veritable cannonball of brooding honor
slipped through the trellis of a heart surgery.

Now this is how you make a mug on a prison photo look
self-assured: you make it look like a wedding photo. You’re
not given long to do this. You’re given an eternity insulted
by a small child. It shrinks it nicely. But to make a wedding photo
look self-assured you have to make it look like
a jailbreak. Praise for a penny. It’s that kind of bonanza.
You’re this kind of boy next door. The type who doesn’t
throw pebbles up at windows but instead throws mixtapes
containing singles alternating between death metal and
schlock rock. Petroltank-crushed ’nads. Coldplay.