Skipping college for dispensing
Hasidic wisdom in a post office
is not altogether bad career counsel.
Right now there’s a spooky correlation
between studying and going bald from
bad sex. Being a matador curbside
excused being drunk all my life – and
the back brace remanding me to
the lighter strains of some racetrack musical
written by a former cover girl for
beautiful paraplegics is like a million
dollar food stamp, career-wise. Not – haha –
not FRUIT amp: where the tangled shine
is loosened in dust, where you’re standing
alone without your dyslectic Vitamin C.
Nah, I’m not a sissy. I’m the whipped cream
asbestos, bullying veggies off
the periodic table and programming
sperm to stampede all over your
snow-covered teacup. We’re the
Fiji post office party scene! We’re the
adventures of a half finished beer
made dumb in the manufacture!
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