Reading Poetry to Ebola Corpses

Hey. Aw…shit. This font is so much better. I think it is the same god damned font but it is three times smaller.

Man, shit, what a world.

Sometimes we got to write for ourselves and sometimes we got to write for others and sometimes we just got to write and fuck the cost. Man, shit, what a mother fucking world.

Hey I don’t know. Maybe this shit is good for you, like a can of green beans in the kitchen of a doublewide trailer.

Twenty-six minutes from now, my wife will get off of work and I’ll sit around waiting for her to come through the door. Twenty-six minutes from now I’ll be sitting in a chair with my feet up inside of black socks that make my toenails look ragged in the morning. Twenty-six minutes from now I’ll be a little less drunk, a little less happy, and all together half as amused.

Yeah but fuck it that’s a lifetime away for an aborted child and anyway I’ll probably look back on this moment with pity in my heart for the poor bastard who thought these thoughts.

I am planning on writing stories, on becoming a millionaire, on starting a new blog and washing the dishes and getting up from this chair and being someone other than Gordon Mother Fucking Flanders once in a while. I’m going to stop dancing at the masquerade and I’m going to laugh freely in the dark when bitches are maneuvering furtively around the plate of cubed Colby Jack cheese on their way to the exits. I’ll go outside and have a cigarette with the riffraff catering staff. I’ll swap stories with syphilis infected sailors and pull the plank out of my third eye while measuring out a cup of sugar for the neighbors.

I’m out of whiskey and I’m tired of breathing.

More blog views this week than any other month except my best month – February 2013. Daily post. Links. Gaming the system. Bringing in the readers. And all for what? For sucking my own dick. Don’t let anyone do it for you. Sometimes got to grab yourself by the genitalia and moonwalk past the gatekeepers.

Hey. Fuck it. In the land of the blind the one-eyed man is king. And even the king needs a place at the table.

Do you ever feel like that sometimes once or two times? I do. I feel like that all the god damn time. What am I going to do about it? I’m going to do something about it by God. I’m going to help this shit, god damn it. I ain’t going to wallow around in my own cock sweat. Fuck it.

Yes I am. I’m done with this bullshit.

Nah fuck it. Fuck it man, I’m going to write a story about Christians and shit. Ya’ll won’t recognize me. Next time you see me, i’ll be the number one best-selling Christian thriller author. They’ll compare me to Frank Peretti and you won’t understand, you’ll have no idea. I’ll write about spiritual warfare and Eastern Mysticism. I’ll start a school in Dubai for people who want to wear less clothes. I’ll traipse across Pat Robertson’s new wraparound porch and call myself an anarchist. I’ll find arrowheads in Billy Graham’s back yard and buckle Sam Walton’s bootstraps. John Steinbeck’s grand daughter will pen an award winning memoir about our travels together in the Austrailan outback. I’ll come in second place to Timothy Leery’s third cousin Andrew in a sack race at Rick Perry’s inauguration party in Honolulu.

Beryl Markham’s bastard son will write me a letter comparing me to William F Buckley and I’ll respond with a quote from Norman Mailer’s The Naked and the Dead. I’ll read Shakespeare aloud to corpses behind ebola treatment centers and I’ll suck dicks in Venezuela until they give me Che’s body. I’ll melt the polar ice caps in a rap battle with Eldridge Cleaver on a vacation in Iceland and have Alexander Pope reincarnated to put that shit into heroic couplets.

But mostly I’ll stay home drinking whiskey and listening to music in terrible headphones. The cat batted the shit out of the good ones.

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