Posted Monday, March 10th, 2003
Not a Story
This ainít no story. This is flesh and bones. Much too slow and not quite fast enough for words, and the thoughts you think ainít it either. Iím talking about children being born with antlers here, growing up and marching off to war. But even that donít tell the half of it. Youíd have to have been there to know what Iím saying, from day one.
Like back in California, where cans can get returned for ten cents a pop, or at least they could back then, driving a van full of supplies for all the rich folk come up from LA to get enlightened. And the sea breeze coming in, even seagulls on the parking lot, eating Cheetos, I reckon.
Although at the time I wouldnít have said ďI reckon,Ē cause that wasnít until I had a roommate from Texas, which Iíve had for a few years now, ever since we met at the commune. And he didnít want to talk much about the miscarriage.
Anyway, California. I was there. I got to take a shower now, got an itchy beard. It always gets itchy if I go for more than a day without cleaning it. Keeps me on top of things, I reckon (go Horns!). The house can be a mess, with dog hair all over and the dishes piling up, but Iíve gonna keep myself clean, yeah. It really was itchy when I first started to grow it, right before I moved to California, that is. Which was a great move, what with the seagulls and all, and the people getting enlightened, who were sometimes naked, too.
I had to shave it off for a job once, working at some motherfuckin godamn Tennis Ranch kissing ass to the likes of Al Hague and Mother of Christ Alan Greenspan reading the Wall Street Journal drinking his espresso every morning with strict requests to not be bothered. And that was before I discovered the stock market and lost my soul and all and thought about family, so he was like Darth Vader to me, and me plotting an empire to overthrow him and his godamn media monopoly, fuck Wall Street Journal my ass, drinking coffee by the pool, so I had to shave it and all, to look presentable to those fucks, and make sure to pick up all the rotten oranges from the trees that were never harvested.
And man did it itch growing back, but I was glad.
And now look at me, still here with a beard, but almost ready to be a Storm trooper, thank god at the supermarket today when we went by to pick up the meds that were going to induce labor tomorrow, they had one of those explicatory books that I used to think were so awesome, the kind that give you background information on all the Star Wars trivia, like did you know that no two light sabers are alike, you can just say that, thatís so cool, ainít no one to say if youíre right or wrong, cause they didnít belabor that particular point in the original movie so it doesnít matter, and it I donít know just kind of reminded me about how awesome I used to think all that stuff was, and maybe saved me for a day from being so fucking dependent on reality all the time and shit.
Antler babies on the front page of the Weekly World News. Someone who can should write a fucking poem about that one. Whoís to argue? Of course I have to get technical, wondering if itíd have to be caesarian, or maybe the antlers are soft like a babies skull for maximum maneuverability like, so that no one gets hurt. But of course evolution wouldnít be providing for stuff like that when itís the first of a kind, so itís all kind of random. I didnít read the article, so I donít know if they go into all that stuff. I just know that whoever wrote that article, and got it published on the front page of a national newspaper, for every person who eats food in this country to see, which is fucking everybody, and you donít even have to know how to read, thereís a big picture of a baby with antlers there, that man who wrote that story is free.
And I donít know why I said that all the kids are marching off to war. I just hope that my darkest fantasies donít ever come true, thatís all. But they might.
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