Wednesday, April 22, 2009
(by Daniel Harris Levine) There
Are people coming in and out of my office. Waiting. For a meeting they hope to speak with the Person in chArge but. They come in. Saccharin smiles, greasy ponytail, bald. Lots of glasses between two people. My feet are sweating above the Lounge where it is freezing and he shut slammed my door. Again. Twice. I am not exactly hungry.
I will continue this elsewhere...
The pre-faced multigram hoodwinked children out of the soccer team stickers, mini-van speakers blowing different makers marking territory on cloudy Sunday afternoons. 'Fuck Sundays' they're called.
Fuck Sundays, indeed. I mean, c'mon, AM I WRITE!?
I love this part.
Free cake takers queasing out on the sidewalk. If you can replicate what my nose just heard, I swear to fucking god I'll hike the grass.
The dolphin-baby-sitter-fucker sat on the Filthy Throne and produced an ooze bubble with baby maggot inside. Not exactly a rip, more of a reference. He was quick to rid himself of soul music and eager for an abundance of pasty shit torrents of woodwind book burnings. Twelve and thirteen year-olds like it because they don't know any better. That's plural, non-possessive.
Gotta have standards. Cue the music! An ornithological mess of note-sharing puts the bartender on the table, takes off top, toots tiny tenor imitation, and Bird tears through the rest. IT. He's got IT.
2. 4. 2. 4. 2. 4. 2. 4. 2. 4. 2. 4. 2. 4. 2. 4. 2. 4.