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forget everything lest it remember you
thin white duke
engulfed
THOU SHALT NOT BOTHER

[then it's old habits: "why die hard when you can live forever?"]

tunnel vision effectively dynamited by a month of touring, a dutifully shattering earth, & an unrelated black eye. yes, again. but eyes aside, there was the much-needed reminder that i belong on stage with these bands rather than floating half-buried in muted heaps of plush nowhere, especially accompanied by the colossal mindfuck that was glastonbury [fire-breathing vehicles with functional claws! attempting to sell bibles autographed by jesus &/or satan while dressed as jim jones in order to publicize our show!] or even the hippie-saturated fields of bonnaroo where we "artists" were treated royally & drowned in free vodka hello: Fuck All This Shit, I Wanna Be A Rockstar. again. even the microscopic venue we played for one of our london shows where it was almost impossible to play without hitting an audience member. onstage-bliss cancels out all the inconvenience of 12-hour flights, layovers in toronto full of angry airport bartenders, cheap tents in fields that let the rain in--hey look what i get to do. & whatever mess of my life i make back here i can say: i didn't LOSE my shit, i MISPLACED my shit.

whole notebooks full of Observations from the festival just itching to be transcribed. keep itching you fuckers. hell is slowly but surely freezing over. give me a few more existential crises & you might notice the NYPD car flapping its wings just outside the window--it's not just your eyes playing tricks on you. silly eyes, tricks are for prostitutes. but: committing acts of Real Live Journalism is not implausible. need to set a deadline but i fear deadlines, have nightmares about them rising up out of the realm of metaphor to wrap themselves around my throat & strangle me. actually my nightmares have far less substance but uh. similarly discouraging of sleep. but my new SECRET WEAPON ensures i don't have to.

& now that i've been back home for a week or two am settled back into my seat under the microscope with the glassy-eyed hypnotic edge-of-seat audience leaning out with drool pearling on their lower lips waiting for me to fuck up. hey news flash: i fuck up EVERY DAY. the cat no longer wants to come out of the bag, did i get stuck with a defective cat? AM i a defective cat? & who's to determine which side is IN the bag & which is OUT? i am alive & you are dead. [the existential equivalent of fingers-in-ears LA LA LA I CAN'T HEEEEAAAAR YOU]

was walking down 11th ave & a woman with cameradude in tow runs up to me earnestly asking What Is Your Weight Loss Secret? Is America Fat? & i had to exercise all the restraint in the universe when responding. the universe is no longer in restraints. so it punched me in the face & that as you can see is why i have this beautiful black eye. the end. & they all lived happily ever after, if you call that living.

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damn are they really? WHAT ARE MY SECRET WEAPONS THEN. so i know you're not bluffing. they're terribly shy.
& i did, because you asked nicely / at all.

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