ON BEING A SPECTATOR
Why? Is there some event other than the giant woman floating in the sky, eating cupcakes, tethered to the ground like a hot air balloon? After World War II? After Roman chariots and horse races ended in bloodshed, all pleasures-of-Nero style? After centuries of entertainment? Now, with a woman floating in the sky, her big blue dress ballooned out just enough to expose her white thighs to the crowd below, the menstrual stain on her panties, and twelve strong ropes keeping her from drifting into the atmosphere; could there really be anything more real?
ON BEING A MARXIST STORYTELLER
Like the origami artist folds paper. Fold cardboard, pineapple, intrigue, and alkaline batteries into a stew to feed the king and his royalty. For the blacksmiths, a porridge of stone pudding vis-à-vis Hegel. Below the canopy of rainbows, a baby mountain lion is slaughtered for the customers. In the real world we pay people to hall off and hit us. I pledge allegiance to the flag, of the United States of America, & To the Republic for which it stands. I wish I may. I wish I might. Have the character changing sentimental ending and really mean it.
ON BEING HONEST
When will you pick up the moon, clean it, polish it, and put it back in a different library bookshelf in Pennsylvania? Or else why not drop it off a cliff where the coyotes and hyenas may devour it? Have you any kind of mercy? Have you cab fare or could you possibly pick up the kids after work? I need a drink. I need a drink very badly.