Take it in stride my dear, you do not become the land of the lord overnight. It will wreck you sometimes, spare yourself the grief. Pick up an axe and start the hemming, it leaves much to be desired when you are in the zone, in that constant overturning apple orchard that rocks you like the otters do, they teeter on the brink of extinction and laugh about it, joke about it like your uncle when he tells his stories, you know, the one about the bowling pin and the hooker, that one.. The way you can’t see the sunbeams when it is sunny out, I love you for that, the way you don’t sleep when you dream, the way your lashes flush like a butterfly, sloshing mini hurricanes in the timid air, I like that.

Don’t waste all of your love in Asia Minor, it is destitute. You are better off timing it right, keeping it, or spending it on the trees next to me, growing around my ankles and lifting me into space. It takes a true hero to limit himself to the base that’s offered, to not run back and forth screaming at such a high speed he tells himself to fuck off, to let go and to let the girl get the best of things, it is a trite offense but it happens to the best, and the rest take it in pieces as well, an awful gain of power and distress, something you or I will never take, never believe in and never understand fully, it is an awful business, but that’s what it takes to be a man, to be an awkward lanky giant in a land of elves and god kings, it is awful, like a towel still dry, soaked in dry blood and warm, hot air, buzzing the dignity out of you with vampire teeth and creeping up on your soul, poised to strike and sink the teeth of rabbits and bats into its bloodstream.

The fire of the world is in Chicago, under the sewers and in the poor people’s hearts. It lights the streetlights and fuels the waves of the rich, heightens the buildings with coal and burning desires for money and greed accents the fornicating devils inside. Why don’t we crush the entire city, smush it like a fireant, try and do what God did to Sodom, that would seem fit. It is an awful thing that we have made, it will spawn more, and we have doomed ourselves, but we can love the future babies and deem our hatred to the past, they deserve it and why not, they fucked over the ample theatres of York and England, that is a whole loaf of nutty trees to go over. Now lets hold hands and sing through our throats, out our eyeballs and with the juice in our feet, it’s a time for rejoicing says the king of our breath.

It is akin to bringing forth the light you birth in your hands, the grief that bellows inside your stomach, grumbling and bumbling like an insane man in a whorehouse ready to squirm and faint. Too much, they would say, an awkward display of talent without the class and portrayal of lust and love. How we must feel the grease on our knees and rejoice when we do so, it is frantic living in days like these. How would someone so fat be able to clap a mountain between his hands, or even touch it for that matter? He cannot move, he can only look puzzled at the flies and pixies dancing on his drunken belly, throwing a kegger inside his bellybutton and poledancing on his pubic hair. Extraordinary depth, tightening the invisible noose swelling around your neck, burning into your raw milky skin. Lice covering your liver and nibbling at your skull, digging manholes to your cerebellum, hoping to find work in a better land. Maybe the economy is better, or maybe the crime won’t be so bad. But they sigh and they know it is, yet still they nibble, toil, and wake up in the morning. How could one not see the neglect in their eyes, they have not given themselves a chance to partake in the seasoning of the dogs, or to chew through the rat meat without the horror of being caught, or captured by the one who owns it. There are better things to do, and so we stay in delusion, constant motion, living in denial and prancing up and down hallways in constant delirium.

It’s a pie to the face or a punch to the stomach, it will bring happiness to those who don’t have it and gleam in the sunshine. Whenever it is near people will celebrate, throw up their arms and hug and kiss and follow eachother to the mountains singing and dancing and raking lawns for hours and hours until the notes in t heir brains are dead and dull, and they can do no more. It is a feeling very void and awkward, like a lanky giant pruning an apple tree or going to the ghetto to raise a calf. It brings little reward other than the actual money and dogs, but when there is nothing left to breathe there is nothing left to care for. It is a free world again, and we will have our wishes. The prayers will stay unanswered, but the hollow shells of horse carcasses and goat liquor will stick to the dingy desert surface for eternity.