AllergiesPosted: August 11, 2015
I will cruise through Beverly Hills like a hillbilly hijacking a hearse
shooting snot through a booger cannon,
a mucus drive-by,
blasting “The Beautiful People” by Marilyn Manson
wearing water wings and blackface.
I will smear the makeup off my face and into the blonde hair
of the ladies walking their bulldogs and their burberry bags.
I will scream like I’m on fire
and everything around me is also on fire
and all I can do is scream
and hope that somewhere,
water becomes sentient and capable of listening.
I will uglify this place
so that finally
the outsides look like their insides.
I will kiss the police when they arrest me,
grope their whose-it-what’s-its,
stick my tongue between two fingers and drool
bend over and hope they’re as horny as they are sadistic.
I will fling my shit like a chimp in the jailhouse,
plop it on the booker’s keyboard,
laugh like a toddler catching his breath.
I will speak eloquently at my trial,
wear a suit and tie,
squeeze chemicals in my hair,
whiten my teeth and sit upright
so they all know that I intended what I have done,
that the “Booger Bomber of Beverly Hills” is no psycho
but just a boy on the brink of banality
desperate for clarity through insanity
begging to be boxed away.
I will read like hell in the slammer,
Dickens, Dickinson, Dick Tracy.
I will fill my head with law knowledge
better than a Stanford grad,
become dangerous with words and persuasion,
discover loopholes and oversights,
crevasses and clerical errors.
I will dazzle my parole board,
make em laugh, make em cry
make em joke about hiring me at the clerk’s office!
I will be set free and immediately get my law degree.
I will be hired by billionaires to sue the little guy for slander.
I will win for them,
toast scotch in the executive lounge with the big boys,
get sloshed beyond reason and start to cry,
bawl my fucking eyes out
because what a fucking sell out
and the big boys will be baffled and slink away slowly
but I’ll sneak up behind my client on the walk from the bar to the escalade
and wring his bratty neck until blue and bruised
and as I stare at his empty eyes on the pavement
I will shoot a snot rocket into his mouth,
onto his rolex and pinstripes and comb-over.
I will live on the lam
hopping from freight train to freight train,
hitchhiking from city to city,
terrorizing CEO’s and poodle-women,
falsely tan rich kids and young execs.
I will be cornered by the cops in Columbus.
I will get gunned down in gaudy glory.
I will perish.
justice and history will be forged:
I’ll be talked about on blogs.