My Swiss chocolate has the bitter aftertaste of still smoking people who can’t smoke inside. I’ve got a loud gun in my bag, and hell, hell my head’s still where the .25 ends and the trip begins. The trip where I’m looking for something to prick my arm and pull me up because I’m here, I’m at the bottom of the top of my descent into life. Now, now I’m patiently watching, simple and elegant, and stripping myself. Stripping myself and my eyes, and I’ve lost my fix on the kitschy fold-in on the back of the TV Guide, and now I’m just pushing the printed glitter all over dirt, where it belongs.
I’m alone and I’m two-thousand copper pounds on a cement floor, just sitting still until time dusts me into glitter. I’ll sit here. I’ll sit here in front of this television and write my own biography. One where the film pops off the reel, and all that’s left is a white screen full of lightning.