FRESH BANDAGES [1999]

I received a ransom note from my psyche today. it made no threats I haven’t heard before. the strange thing about it was the ultimatum. apparently I have an outstanding debt with my muse & the interest is fucking monstrous. so my debt is thus… an opus & 3 pints of my soul by Thursday, or I’m aesthetically screwed. so much for being numb in the face of sterility. “so, what’s next,” said he, “a blind leap of intellect, or a drunken flail downward?” eh, who gives a rat’s twat anyway? the stitches from my last failure still haven’t healed & I’m running fatally short on metaphors. (where’s a Greek tragedy when you need one?) maybe I’ll wait until the other shoe breaks the silence & the lynch mob is on my front lawn? or maybe I can drink myself skewed & find a sharp stick to run around with? or, maybe the only thing separating me from the shower drain is a clump of matted hair? 

[IT’S 11:48 PM ON WEDNESDAY.]

and for my next illusion, I’ll grow a philosophy in my basement and kick back while the search & seizure ensues. then, I’ll sketch out a 12 step Indifference Program & watch the whole fucking thing burn. in the end, it matters about as much as nihilism on a fifth of Bulleit. I’d call for backup, but they’d only take it literally. I’d pray for a DEUS EX MACHINA, but I’m too familiar with his sense of humor. and by the way, who’s the sick feep who ran off with my ending? it was right here a century ago. I guess that I’ll just have to bend over & take it like the poet I am. and I guess that there are worse things in life than waking up to a severed idea on the pillow next to you. welcome to my nightmare, said he. it’s midnight, and I’m only on the rough draft of my last words. side-splitting, ain’t it? well, at least the bandages are fresh.