The New Country

Turn once about where you’ll find me that’s not me but some future self who makes wax skulls and pointy sticks for a living in some country called New Shitheadbrook. There will be blood in the soil for initiation’s sake, for dead Arabs’ sake and false passports blurred and obviously Warhol prints of young Elvis passed out to every migrating hipster kid this side of Gaza. I had to lay down on sharp rocks and think about the notion of empire for the sex fiends and Magus men and itty bitty kitty cats upset and mewing with ruffled hair and gashed ears. Oh how I love them all. There’s a girl kneeling in the street, about to get run over by an elephant, next to Nigel pounding cock into her tonsils and– hold on, I’m about to, oh yeah! And wet gug gug sounds spewing out around her lips. “What a purposeless purpose,” says a small girl with a mohawk, frightened and shaking in the cold. Yes, but it’s like eating or sleeping– how stupid and wasteful a thing– like calling yourself captain of the football team or Johnny Rockstar even though you’re a beedy-eyed artless son-of-a-bitch working in a financial office for Howard Co. The airplanes overhead open hatch and drop jellybeans and men with big dicks who land with a splat– parachutes anyone?– all over the North end of Baddadgag. Charlie’s playing standup bass and trying to catch jellybeans in his mouth, though none of them land close enough. Ted joins on tenor sax and quicker than a porn star falls from a plane they’ve got kids galore dancing it up, singing fragments of Elvis songs way out of key. “Damn, can’t one note be right in the whole lot!” I’m still on the rocks trying to solve the problem of a legal system in the context of relativistic morality and a police state where liberty is the rule. Then my neurons snap quite audibly, so much so that a goblin sitting next to me says, “sounds like someone has an idea,” and I leap up like a social Darwinist gorilla hooting and hollering, waving what was once some dead sap’s femur suddenly out of nowhere, trying to say, “eureka!” but vocal chords no longer capable of accommodating. I run up to where Charlie is plucking his bass and make for a smashing assault, only find myself standing erect in an Armani suit, sweating from hours of intense debate and the capacity for thought that claims modern superiority. Charlie claps me on the shoulder, says, “the world takes care of itself man. The world takes care of itself.” We dance late into the night.