Allergies

Allergies

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.

But

hey,

justice and history will be forged:

I’ll be talked about on blogs.

beverly-hills-sign

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