Broadcasting Live from Crack Central
Cold Facts Avenue
The Coyote takes his position among the sheep, awaiting the perfect moment to pounce upon a week and willing target of his desires. Ideas are deadly, flags are dangerous, and the word Fuck means nothing. Sentences are my prison, paragraphs the cellblocks of meaning. Censorship and violence make their home in our dances and speeches. We must protect the children from hurting themselves. Knowledge is power. We must quickly incarcerate the people who read false profits, and foul language is a barrier made out of the ashes of burning books. Stand by, as corporate fascism preaches to the masses, passing the opiate pipe and syphilis blankets onto the slaves. The word-jail has many inmates, when language is a hate-crime. Kike motherfucker nigger spic faggot WOP terrorist towelhead terrorist liberal Uberdyke wetback cocksucker. Sissy boy.
“Why do you keep torturing yourself over this? You are one big self-inflicted wound, after another.”
“I am a very sensitive person in this desensitization of the world. I don’t want to play. I don’t want to be the patient.”
“They have a name for people like you.”
“I am sure that they do.”
“It is a fancy word for crazy, loony, psycho, and kooky. You have all the symptoms.”
“Just what I need is another label.”
This is misery. I can find my way home from here.
There is a devil residing inside of me, walking up the street, and pinning her name onto my lapel. I closed my eyes at the crossroads, the minute we turned that corner and headed this way. We are digging a bigger grave out of tomorrow than it was ever meant to be, even on a bad day, full of torrential rains and blood-red sea. The outlaw escapes from his hideout, wanders up 16th Street, for five blocks, to the Ogden Theatre, a renovated movie-cum-music venue, to see Painted Souls open for 16 Horsepower, his favorite band of postmodern apostles. Alone, he people-watches, while sitting Indian-style in the middle of the gum-stuck carpet, near the railing. Sad, he gazes upon lesbian love, cute little titty girls in each other’s arms. Over there is a straight couple, she is pretty and he is fat. Everyone, but the Wanted Man, is in love, and coupled up like a slow danse on the deck of the Titanic.
“This moment is indeed misery, and I can find my way home from here, a familiar road stuffed with gravel, sticks, and stones,” he whispers to himself.
A religious experience, the outlaw singing along with the preacher’s son with his lower lip filled with tobacco. Banjo-picking, heroin-shooting, promise-keeping son-of-a-bitch keeps time better than the devil, I tell you. We are saved, again, today, my Lord. I am quite capable of feeling my own immortal pitiful shame, thank you very much, your Honor. I have been on trial more times than the average Joe. Which one of the gods has turned their back on you? Stop thinking that they have a vendetta to carve out of you, an effigy of burning flesh on a stick. Can you stop, for one moment, and realize that there is no one following you? Tell yourselves that they are not watching you. Napalm sticks to kids. Father, I love you. Praise Jesus, we found you.
There is blood all over the walls of the prison cells. If I die, by your hand, will you remember my kisses, my promises to love you for eternity? You can send all the white roses that you want. It is never going to heal the wounds that you imposed upon me, that vengeful night, so many minutes and not enough long ago.
Once upon a time, and all good stories start with Once Upon a time, you are the princess and I am your hunchback jester. Everyone will kick you in the balls, when you are two feet tall. In the Land of Stone, the princess has executive order to inspect and authenticate all decisions, all motion. Nothing gets by the princess without a stamp of approval. The princess is the owner and operator of her life. Just ask her. When the jester comes to the court, our humpback must watch his comedic discourse. Do not offend the princess. Clowns should not be sex symbols!
This story should be entitled “Fashion Violations- Or How To Make A Clown into a sex symbol.” Welcome to the Jester’s Faux-pas. Fiction is not an easy way out of anything. The stripperclown approaches the stage from behind the audience. He steps seductively up the steps, creeping along in his overly-large shoes. He pretends to trip on the top step and skitters across the stage and into the limelight. Sending in the clowns, as the music starts and stops, a tear in the eye of the stripperclown slips down the makeup scream. Suddenly, he peels off his polka-dotted shirt, and reveals his bare chest. The audience howls and hoots, in response. For this one moment, it is his stage, his act, and they are watching him, the clown!
The dragqueen named Elvis steals the limousine and the Governor’s son, taking them on the ride of their lives, where they meet Darryl Junior and Sticky Fingers LaRue, two trainrobbers, who happen to be at the crossroads, waiting for their appointment with the devil. What did they do about Tex Evil? Posted Wanted Dead or Alive posters, of course. Some of the story takes place during wartime. Just dial 1-800-Get-Even, and ask for Vinnie. Jumping into the taxi of seduction, our characters take off looking for retired superheroes.
It is always darkest before dawn. So if you’re going to steal your neighbor’s newspaper, that is the time to do it.
“Reality is nothing but a collective hunch,” says the psycho clown.
This road is misery. I can find my way home from here. We are effectively outrunning the ghosts and all of their promises, along with the demons that keep slipping out of the closet, and take up time chewing away at our ankles. You cannot hide the heartbreak. We can see it in your eyes.
