Trans-Fatty Acid

flying lobster

i'd like to flip the script in this country, i really would. i try to fit in, i try to do what's right, and it never works out. there's something about me that's fundamentally antithetical to the american way. the thing that's fucked up is that i think there are a lot of people like me out here--people who are pretty fucking disappointed. people who do not walk around with smiles on their faces. whether paxil or big mac induced or whatever. listen, i'm not dissing it. that's TRUE who mocks it--not me, not anymore. im telling you, im TRYING to be a part of it. (at least most of the time). i feel like im knockin on the door of america. im calling to her and she's calling back to me, through the cum-splattered screen that covers a hole in the dirty plaster wall of the backroom of the club of earthly delights. i tell america how hard im trying to be nice and get ahead and fit in and lay low and play retarded reindeer games and laugh at the jokes and drink my coca-cola and peel for the prize on the back.

(oh, im nearly reformed...so don't say that you weren't warned)

america merely laughs and shakes her head.

kulture void

i told two flabbergasted girls from another country about how when i was growing up i'd ride down the highway with my black friends and for no reason a trooper would start trailing us, his brights blinding us as he rode up right up on our car. everyone looked straight ahead, cursing. he was waiting to see if we'd accidentally go one mile above the speed limit, at which exact moment the sirens would turn on and we'd pull over and there'd be this big dramatic entrance by the cop, followed by him asking for the driver's license and registratrion and IDs from the rest of us and then would we all please slowly step out of the car and then, the audacity of taking me aside and asking me if i was ok and there under my own free will and i was like yeah (motherfucker) and then placing me off to the side while he frisked everyone else. i stood there with the cars flashing past and the wind blowing up my hair (back then my hair was longer) and i imagined (so help me) taking out a rifle and blowing two huge, gaping holes in his back. making big invisible eyeballs that would stare back at me. the hunger and the intensity of my aggression made me feel sick and twisted.

the irony of course, was that if anyone was holding in the car it would have been me.

the girls from another country were amazed. they knew about this america from movies and books, but it was another thing to hear it from someone's mouth.

...a mouth that was white like theirs.

all day breakfast

that bit about me talking to america through the hole in the wall of a club's backroom reminds me of my first job in the city, which was doing coat check at the limelight when i was 14. in addition to the benefits of all the free drugs i found in people's pockets, it was bestowed upon me the honor of hosing down the jack in the box every wednesday, which was hot body AKA "anything goes" nite. although it was cyndrical and not square, the jack in the box was otherwise exactly what its name implied--a booth covered with condom covered holes. someone sat inside and jacked and sucked off the stiff cocks that were pressed in them. needless to say, by the end of the nite it was a mess. i was usually so high by then that i went about it like it was a walk in the park--a narcotic park, that is. i'd think about the person who sat in the booth, and tried to imagine how it felt to be there in the dark with the music mind-numbingly loud while stiffies come poking at you from all directions...

was it scarily claustorphobic...or was it comfortably numb, like inside the womb?

as i ran my hose up and down the dark blue and green polyurethane i'd sometimes get the strangest feeling that it was alive.

(oh baby, oh my smooth, smooth plastic idol)

i was on the train the other day, dressed in my wage slave get-up and listening to public enemy, thinking to myself that maybe in a year or two i will have made it somewhere--get a better place and some nicer stuff, have more responsibilities and more friends, more recipies and more shoes...more...more, more, more...

mas y mas y mas y mas...

the train stopped in the tunnel. everyone stood around and looked at the floor and waited in that new york way that manages to be simultaneously bored and nervous. a light turned on outside the window where i stood--a small white lamp, all alone and lighting up the black concrete wall of the tunnel for a few meters in either direction. it also lit up the face of a little girl standing next to her mother who sat huddled over asleep, with her face covered by her long brown hands. the girl's left cheek was marred by a huge dog bite. it looked like a jelly fish layed out across her face...or maybe a starburst from photoshop.

but it was real, all too real. she felt my gaze and looked up at me. i switched hands on the silver pole so that she could see clearly see the stumps.

she stared as i had...greedily, like a beggar at a table overflowing with food.

it didn't bother me.

i smiled and she smiled back...

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