Act 1 Scene 2 (A Room Full of Mirrors)

Fuck me, and when Voodo Chile skips I think about burning my idiosyncrasies down with a flamethrower. I fight technology for a while, but it battles back and mandates that I sign, scan, and replicate an official document. I fail miserably. The corners are cut and my skin turns pale. I make a phone call to the fringe and within minutes my volition crumbles into hues of lamenting grey. I hang up, then call back and press all the numbers simultaneously until someone finally speaks. Customer service, why do you feel the overwhelming need to rape me of my easy living naiveté?

Girls in the Pacific Northwest muse at the curling of my moustache while ambitiously rolling joints from jars of grass, and I throw a ball across the yard for the dog and then lie on my back and drink Coors light. The sun heats up upon my stomach, and I start to worry that my flesh may begin to tan. Darkness convenes in my mind. The wind blows wistfully. Shape up, size down your ego, ship-out your mendacious tendencies. Sucker punch the melancholy humors and interchange them with a new Buddha and a better configuration of dawn.

Snake pits, golden hair looming over wretched cosmopolitan flesh, hard bellies, and rolled eyes. Socialites teeming at an incestuous extravaganza of new born aficionados, drunk on their own myopia and steadfastly ignoring a congregation of wild things who are burying themselves alive.

You move me like a piece of bleeding pork. Burnt and split through the middle, whining about revision and the smashing success of your newfound celibacy.

Act 1 Scene 1 (Alligator Elegy )

Sunday night, and I am listening to Saul Williams' pathos unfold into hip hop soliloquy in the comfort of the dark. It is 12:03 A.M and I shall go to bed soon, however first I find myself struck with the impetus to write. What will happen inside of this medium? Likely journaling, some poetics, much political incorrectness, and possibly a little mediocre prose. Will I write anything erotic? Perhaps. I have recently written a graphic short story about the sexual misadventures of an assiduous overseer and a barefoot country nymph. She’s only eighteen and recently divorced from a minister. He’s slightly older and vaguely resembles me.

My overseeing potential is unlimited, although my current occupational prospects are dim. Tomorrow brings forth another week of life, in which I will halfheartedly attempt to fetter my reality in the form of a job. Fuck, I’m broke, and luckily JM continues to lend me money and girls with sunburnt cleavage continue to buy drinks for me. Somebody even bought me an alligator sausage sandwich on the eve of St. Patrick’s day, due to the fact that before the check arrived I had already departed into the beer soaked seas of green.

Motherfucker, enough of the unraveling of my ego, the time is not yet ripe for self aggrandizing propaganda, this moment is prepared solely for me to abase myself without regret and without glee. And if you’re lucky tomorrow I’ll explode in radiant specters of dialectic extravaganza but right now you’re forced to wait; and muse about the insignificance of my words tumbling out from my caverns and tickling my pectorals and groveling at my knees.