ultimate performance piece
lost things dwell
on these sleeping bags, I let the ephedra work through my system
and think about how wonderful it will soon feel to wake up smiling
in a new place.
As soon as the sun is a faint white line in the west, the buses
begin to run. I can get a hostel room for the afternoon and sleep,
then be back here with my ex-housemate and his sawed-off shotgun.
Ken used to be a bouncer at the 1201. I told him enough.
On my small battery-powered boombox, Eddie Murphy is going off
about white people not moving out when things start to get weird
in movies like "Poltergeist" or "The Amityville Horror."
I know this bit word for word.
People are so trusting. I am living proof of that. What you don't
see in the fine print can literally kill you.
I'd seen the flyer while wandering the campus of Reed College,
broke and hungry, hanging up my own flyers at every possible rounder:
WILL BEAT LOWEST RATES IN PORTLAND
The pentacles and moons hand-drawn on another flyer had caught
my eye, good fine-line work that looked almost like a scratchboard.
The body text had been written in bold print with a Sharpie:
WANTED: ARTISTS, WRITERS, MUSICIANS
Shared 6-bedroom house in Eastmoreland.
Large rooms $250-$400/mo. + 1/mo. deposit.
Spacement, large kitchen.
No support groups/shrinks.
The perfect setup for a house. Or so I thought at the time.
My friends from the art department congratulated me for finally
finding a place. I'd come to school on work-study with no savings.
I called in the flyer and got a quick tour of everything I thought
I needed, and what has turned out to be enough freak-scene in the
side-scenes to fill up your average David Lynch movie in the first
All I had wanted was a clean well-lit place and a little time to
I sit here now with a million candles burning, writing in a notebook.
Snippets of memory keep pulling me out of my little island of light
with the fire guttering in the fireplace and my boombox blaring
any stand-up comedy I can find. I have been through Bill Hicks'
"Rant in E-Minor" twice now. That one's good to keep coming
back to. What did I do with that one Steve Martin tape ...
Outside my room, the house is an icebox. Savagely brain-melting
trance beats shake the walls. Eb's room must be on a separate circuit.
I can feel the heat coming up through the floor with the bass.
It's getting on toward 10. Our nearest neighbor just moved out
under rather mysterious circumstances a few days after calling the
cops for what was our last-straw noise violation before getting
evicted. Eb had gone round and round with Bill the neighbor about
bass through the walls. It nearly came to blows the last time, and
would have without the cops.
I have often wondered just exactly who the fuck our proxy house
warlord thinks he is. I grew up five blocks from MacArthur Park
in Oakland, about pissing distance from the PJ's. Eb might have
lasted five minutes there with his attitude. Maybe. On a holiday.
All the neighbors on Bybee Boulevard, as far as 10 blocks back,
have been up in arms anyway about the mounds of earth behind the
house that reek suspiciously of cow shit. The Eastmoreland Neighborhood
Committee muck-mucks had just had their own battle with Union Pacific
the year before about contaminated dirt from the rail yards. So
they weren't too big on us, after the owner ... or whoever ... had
landscapers truck in several tons of fertilized topsoil to re-sod
and re-seed the little old terraced back yard.
Eb claimed to know nothing about it. "Don't ask me, I just
live here." While the weather was still slightly warm, the
stink was god-awful.
The topsoil they brought in that day was strange, soft and yielding
as shit itself, yet drying in places to a weird glaze. It reminded
me of the St. Anthony graveyard in Oakland at the end of my block.
No Cali-sized roaches, but ... there were mad bugs. Great, I thought.
Come spring, he'll have a lot more housemates.
The owner is someone on Eb's dad's side. When I called the police
back the morning after the last little shouting match, thinking
to dig up some dirt on Eb to use later, the cops told me that the
tax records showed the house in ownership by a private trust of
the Vanian family. In perpetuity.
That slimy little fuck, I'd thought, after he had laid me
out for cooperating with the police. His family owns the house,
and they let him sublet it and keep the swag. I was so jealous I
literally could not speak. What a racket!
Eb was a touchy one, I found out soon enough. The most otherworldly
shit pissed him off, things that any human sublettor wouldn't have
batted an eyelash at. The wallpaper in the bathroom next door to
my room had been peeling in strips, and it seemed like everyone
in and out of that place took turns getting rid of one of the ugly
hanging flaps that looked so much like dead skin.
I have the corner penthouse next to the bathroom, and a bad-ass
easel I scrounged up from the basement that sees more of me than
any of the housemates. One day, I had been wired out of my skull,
taken a bath, dried off ... and in a fit of industry, torn down
every sheet. The walls were waterproof pressboard beneath, I saw,
and fairly cheap to re-paper. The place had been billed as a "collective."
I thought I was, in some small off-handed way, speeding up the renovations.
Eb had knocked on my door an hour later. "I was going to do
some tribal art in between the torn-off parts, layer them together.
Total heroin chic." He sounded defeated. I shrugged from my
"Sorry, man. If I'd known"
"Well, it can't be helped." Eb said shortly, and slammed
There were all sorts of other little nitpicky things like that.
When you get two creative people who are almost exactly alike in
the same living space, the fur inevitably flies.
Come to think of it, Eb and I do look a bit alike, though I am
clean-shaven, half a head taller and all pierced up. My hair is
nearly the same shade as his.
But more than any of that, it's something about our aspects. We
move the same, react the same sometimes, somehow. We read a lot
of the same things. In the early days, I would often stop and listen
below, hearing the same song that had been going through my head
as I worked in silence playing on from his big bumpin' system.
At the time, I saw all these as good things. Like the way Eb would
always finish people's sentences with that bright bad-seed kid twinkle
in his eyes. Or the way he would come in creeping and leave a poster
or a CD out for you to borrow when you weren't around.
But now I am starting to wonder. A lot.
I'm getting out. I have the deposit rolled up in my pocket, and
all my gear stowed into four boxes, three suitcases, the boombox,
and the computer with two years' worth of art-history papers and
Photoshop files on it.
Ken had heard the Readers' Digest Condensed version of my situation
and simply shrugged, his big booming voice on the phone like an
audio Get Out of Jail Free card.
"Yeah, man." His cell reception was breaking up a bit.
"The basement's still all hooked up. Sorry to hear about all
this. Like I said before, $150 a month, and help out with the juice
and the DSL and stuff, so probably about $230."
"Have I told you lately that I love you?" I deadpanned.
Ken roared with laughter.
"See you tomorrow, man. Don't work too hard."
"That'll be the least of my problems."
I clamp down on the memory, hoping that it's not too late ... suddenly
grabbing a candle from beside me. The kitchen phone is ringing.
Something is burning on the gas stove. Smells like my soul. The
breaker has cut out again.
All right, call me a pussy. Tonight, as amped-out and sleep-deprived
as I am, I am scared shitless of whatever you want to call it about
this house. I would rather chew off my own arm than go down to the
basement even for the three seconds it would take me to flip the
I can write in the dark if I take my time. Something about this
wants telling. So I grab my notebook in my free hand.
The darkness is so alien of angle that I must move by feel. The
shotgun blasts of phosphorescent stars I had lambasted my walls
with do well enough until I get to the door of my room. Then I'm
Old man Vanian had built the place in '41, I'd heard. The walls
in daylight are hideous off-white with rotten-meat-colored trim,
made of plaster that cracks into earthquake faults every time you
drive a thumbtack home. There are a million little side rooms and
crawlspaces, and a secret room behind a panel in the wall behind
the bar of the "spacement." (I can't get it out of my
head how crawlingly yuppified such a word sounds in my mouth, but
George Carlin was already through the whole yuppie trip on tape
an hour or so ago.)
Waking up in the darkness there all those nights, I always felt
as though I was eight again, sleeping over at my gramma's in Berkeley.
The neighborhood looked a lot like Oregon, now that I think about
it. They hadn't renovated since World War II there, either.
In this house, at first, I would sit there with the space heater
going, curled up under about a million unzipped sleeping bags and
puffy comforters. After a while, I would pull them up over my head
and blank my mind.
Still the dreams in that house grew worse and worse, until I was
missing class, finally springing for a bottle of ephedra at Plaid
Pantry. My sketchbooks began to fill. The prodigious output that
my advisor crowed over was precious little comfort.
I learned a lot from all the old newspaper clippings that Feral,
the original upstairs tenant (some 17-year-old computer whiz kid
from the Shitheads For Peace movement) had dug out of the attic
crawlspace. That day, Feral had been pissing and moaning about the
dust and we'll have to get respirators to clean this part out. I
had been standing there waiting for him to pack the bowl, not exactly
sure who the "we" was in the scenario. But Feral is too
young to realize how annoying he can sometimes be.
A few bowls later, Feral had come bursting into my room, his black
hair everywhere and his weird girl's eyes glowing. Even more than
a Campbell's Soup Kid, at the moment he looked like Sonic the Hedgehog
about to go straight Columbine on someone. He was barefoot in baggy
blue cords, and his black T-shirt looked like it had done some time
at the tree-sit it advertised.
"Eb says he's kicking me out," he quavered, but the note
beneath was strident and smug. "He wouldn't give me a reason."
My gesso-covered hands shaking with the frustration of a broken
groove, I set the canvas and pallet knife down on my easel that
dominated the back wall, turning wearily. "That's three down,"
I said, frowning. "Only ones left are Josh and me. And Will,
but Will just rents the workspace"
Feral nodded. "I know. He hasn't said anything to you yet?"
I shook my head, sighing. "Great, is he
The kid cut me off. "No, but he keeps talking about having
to go back to Arizona pretty soon. Like in a week. Some big spiritual
thing, I don't know. Going to the desert. He says he's got friends
waiting for him. I guess ... I guess it's something he musta set
up a while back." Feral shivered. "He talks in riddles."
I shrugged. "It ain't me, it ain't mine." Something occurred
to me. "But if I do get the boot, I want my deposit back."
got my deposit back last night. The bills are all 1930s-vintage
but carefully washed and pressed into an envelope with a wax seal
on the back, the kind of seal you can get for a buck a throw at
the art stores downtown.
It shows a leaning, ruined steeple, superimposed beneath some dickhead
in a goat mask turned around backward. I tossed it in the fireplace.
Probably got it out of a gumball machine at the Roxy or something.
It looked like the pictures in all these books he had, some Mason
cult or another called the Fraternia Saturnis or however you said
it. Whatever. I was not impressed.
The night of Feral's announcement, he had heard me speak of the
deposit and leaned in closer.
"I have nightmares about him, man. He just sort of shows up
out of nowhere, and gets all shocked when I recognize that he's
there whisperin' all this shit that doesn't make any sense, with
the lights off."
My own shock must have shown on my face, but I pushed it aside.
"I don't think he digs you like that, big papa." I somehow
managed a grin. "Eb goes through girls the way I go through
"That's just it." Feral looked confused. "He hasn't,
lately. Not since the last time Zorya was here. She hasn't called
or anything. But ... wait." Feral finally realized what I meant.
"No, no, I don't think that either." He took everything
so literally. "But ... he told me once that he wanted to start
a school for children and just ... bend them to his will."
Feral's sea-blue eyes seemed to shine with their own light of fear.
"And he was totally straight up. I was like 'Oh, ha-ha, Eb
made a funny'" The smile was instantly gone. "And
he's just like, 'No. What you got to say?'"
But Feral had moved out. Late one night when I lay in bed counting
Valium, I heard him dragging his shit downstairs and around the
back. Left big, long divots in the carpet. Like I gave a fuck. Feral
never interrupted me again.
I move now through the darkened dining room like a little kid in
a dream daring to run the gauntlet of monsters, the unbidden, frustrated
scream locked in my throat.
The phone rings endlessly, endlessly. That goddamn phone has been
the bane of my existence. I'm the only one who answers it, most
of the time. I could put it on my taxes under employer: Starving
Eb has some weird doorbell amplifier thing hooked onto the phone.
There are two phones, in fact, both split from the same jack. I
had raised an eyebrow about that, but I couldn't have cared less
who was listening in.
I have to venture out to get more wood for the fire, anyway. And
it could be Ken.
The flickering flame plays tricks with the low back hallway, like
there are people walking up and down staircases set into the mangy
old beige shag carpet. Both bedroom doors are whispering back and
It sounds like the phone is ringing faster than normal. Maybe long
distance or something. Great. If it's long-distance for me this
late, it's bound to be bad news.
The door to Juice's old room blows open. For a second along the
molding flush with the floor I see a thin line of congealed blood,
separating back into yellow plasma and blackish-brown mung, welling
downward in jittery streaks. There's a contact lens stuck in it,
and one of those metal-banded hair ties glimmers in the moonlight
on the floor.
Juice had moved out a week ago, probably on one of those days when
I lay in a numb cloud of Benadryl and bass that vibrated the walls,
unable to sleep even with twice the recommended dosage in my system.
Before I moved into this old house, one Benadryl would put me on
I'll come back, I tell myself, not attaching any real significance
to it. Right now, my hallucinations have more functioning brain
cells than I do. As always, I feel 20 years younger in that shifting
darkness, my proximity sensors chilling every nerve ending and goose
bump on my body, and my wavy mop of hair trying to stand up beneath
the bandanna that I forgot to take off at what I thought was bedtime.
"Why didn't any of you" I begin, turning back to
the three shadows sitting before the dead fireplace in the living
room. On the table, a dried bouquet of roses casts odd shadows from
a cracked vase. My candle flame had made it look like there were
three heads chillin' up in there, some old buzzard in a snap-brim
hat, an old woman ... and something small and hunched over in a
Something that did not like the light.
I peer in ... and there is a hiss. Nebulum, the big old tabby who
came with the house, is fighting with Eb's skinny little gray familiar
whose name no one can pronounce. The smaller cat is reared back
and almost standing, clawing at the air with his forepaws.
Weird. Apparently, I had brought the flame too close to my amphetamine-dilated
eyes as the shadows of the roses danced in a strange cucholaris
effect from the backward motion of the candle. Wow. Pretty good.
I'll sketch that into the margins of my notebook later, with the
fire stoked up to Miltonian heights and Judy Tenuta singing love
songs to the Pope.
Most of the doors between the living room, dining room, back hallway
and kitchen are sliding doors. Eb keeps them shut for some reason.
In my scant weeks at "The Place Where Lost Things Dwell"
(as Will the hippie drum-maker who rents out the garage refers to
it) I have noticed no reflective surfaces anywhere. Not even mirrors
in the bathrooms. And the breakers keep going out. Eb is chronically
anti-heat, but that's okay by me with the space heater going. Catch
is, mine takes about half an hour to warm up. So more often than
not, it's a Jack London story trying to get to sleep.
So with all of this pondering and oscillating in my head, I make
my shivering way through the sliding doors into the kitchen. My
vision has been blurring quite badly. There it goes again.
Here we are in the kitchen. Feral is back, looking strangely gray.
There's dirt and cowshit on his face and hands, like he was digging
in the back yard. And he's wearing one of Eb's old flannel shirts,
all hunched over. His shoulder had been bothering him, he'd said.
Must not have improved any since he'd moved out or whatever.
And Eb is there, in his old green L.L. Bean coverall, with his
wavy hair tied back in a ponytail and his dark eyes glittering.
His Fu Manchu mustache, goatee and sideburns bristle on his face.
Eb is doing something in front of Feral's flat, shining eyes with
a glowing coal, muttering.
Then Eb looks straight at me, his voice the low, carrying sibilant
hiss of a stage magician.
"I don't need an audience."
I twitch, making some horrified exclamation ... and it's just Josh,
frowning over the coffee grinder and looking for all the world like
a tall, exasperated younger version of the great actor William H.
Macy. He wears a coverall, too, but his is black and has a grinning
gorilla on the tag.
Oh, my mind is going. Such a relief to only have to stay here
one more night.
Josh turns, running a hand through his graying hair. He must have
just gotten off late-shift down at the docks.
"Hey!" he grins, picking up his scrolled glass pipe and
black Bic lighter off the counter and handing them in my direction:
"Wanna smoke some ... marra-hwana?!?"
I sigh with relief. "Any port in a storm, man. I am seein'
some shit that George Lucas couldn't direct."
Josh frowns at me as I light the pipe. He clicks the lid down on
the grinder and cusses. The juice is still off. The moon shines
down through the skylight. Josh sighs with disgust.
There are parts of this house that are really cool, I think for
the millionth time, looking out the window at the stars through
an exhaled cloud of blue smoke. It just needs some love.
I pause to jot that down.
"Can't ..." Josh hesitates. "Can't you sleep either?"
shake my head and hand him the pipe. At his feet, his lab crossbreed,
Jazz, is looking up at him expectantly, turning to glance around
and utter a low whine.
"You guys wanna go out?" he calls. From the doorway,
his other dog, a little fluffy white ankle-biter Sheltie type critter
named Sula, trots in and wags her tail eagerly, looking nervously
at the basement the same way that Jazz is doing.
"Another night in the funhouse." I mumble sleepily.
Josh hands me the pipe, looking around. "Yeah I'm ... startin'
to watch the classifieds." He looks at the back stairs. "Might
check the breakers, too, while I'm out."
I nod, embarrassed. "How long has it been?"
Josh frowns. "Well, I just got in the door and all the lights
"No." I shake my head. "How long since you got a
good night's sleep?"
"That's a good question." Josh thinks a moment. "Somethin'
usually always wakes me up. Either the dogs'll be howling or ...
I just have these kind of dreams where you have to ..."
Josh spins one hand, tired and starting to feel it, searching for
"Swim up outta there no matter what?" I suggest, and
"It's like something in the water." That isn't exactly
what it's like, but the weed has caught up with me already. "Like
... you ever notice how ... when you go without sleep for a really
long time, you start to dream while you're awake?"
Josh snaps his big, callused fingers. "Perfect, man. That's
it exactly. So you hallucinate. Like when you drive, seein' shit
jumpin' out at you."
"Exactly." The last time that had happened to me, I had
been unbelievably lucky to avoid getting in a wreck.
His eyes glitter, somewhere else in time. "Where I grew up,
the Lakotas always said that that was part of the vision quest.
Clean yourself out, stay up for a few days ... and trigger all the
ass-backwards neurotransmitters that allow you to access that ...
I nod fiercely. "Yeah. Timothy Leary used to do things like
that, too." Looking longingly at the coffee grinder, I will
my mind to keep blank and stay in the moment. Every time it stops
... I start to drift, and see more than the eye of Man was meant
Gotta keep writing this down.
I wobble unsteadily on my feet as I pass him the pipe. "It's
taken my work to new levels, though. Since I've been here, I got
through a two-year backlog."
Josh gestures at the stairs to his attic room, around the other
side of the kitchen door. He has an ancient hollow-bodied Fender,
and is hip-deep in fusion jazz and old-school Delta blues. "I
know what you mean, man. When I get up there and play, it's, like
... hauntingly good."
I smile. "You know, I will regret leaving here, even though
a lot of it was like this nightmarish acid trip."
"Oh, yeah." Josh looks up, his index finger like a pointer
on the air. "That was the other thing."
Out of the basement, there comes a high, ululating warble that
sounds as if no human throat could have produced it, followed by
a laugh that lasts about a minute, and cackling cries of: "Oh
my God! Oh my God!"
Gotta stay focused, and not think about what I see at the end of
the hall. No. I won't say it. The door's there. This is all in my
mind. Oh ... wait. Yeah. It's shut. Time for another hit.
"When you said" Josh backtracks himself. "I
ran into Eb before I left for work. He said he was 'reprogramming,'
whatever the hell that is, and he bought those two ten-strips of
acid last night."
There are noises of breakage from below, and what sounds like a
stepped-on cat. Not that you could swing a dead cat in this house
without stepping on a live one. Just lately, I've been thinking
of putting up a sign over the door and charging the neighborhood
cat owners by the hour. All of them have little, rattling laser-etched
nametags on their collars, yuppie cats every one.
They love the basement, crowding around Eb's door in the back section
that goes beneath the yard ... and when they hang out here for a
while, they all go ...
... They all go feral, I think, feeling like a dream of dreaming.
Somehow, that cold inner sense shakes me out of my daze. Josh motions
at the pipe in my hand.
"You can finish that," he says, turning for the door
and reaching for the black watch-cap in his back pocket. "I'll
pack another when we get back."
And he steps out the back door, and down the stairs. That was five
So now I sit here in my room again, with thousands more candles
burning. I found a box of old Reader's Digest Condensed Books in
the closet of my room, and a can of lighter fluid that I knew was
under the kitchen sink, one squirt shy of full. The sun should be
The fire keeps going out every couple of minutes. I have started
burning old press folders too, and a few shirts I was going to drop
off at Goodwill.
The walls are bending again. Eb's laughter is louder now, shaking
the building. Vibrating the floor. Making all the doors creak open
In the living room, the shadows come and go.
Easy. Easy does it. You're going to make it through this night
and have those old bastards at the galleries on First Thursday quick-drawing
their checkbooks and throwing them at you. You're gonna have Gus
Van Sant VH-1 MTV Indo for weeks and a big old house built sometime
this year straight to the top baby the world is your template just
O JESUS MARY JOSEPH THE CARPENTER
IS WRONG WITH MY
The knock at the door was louder than God just now. I jump three
feet in the air. Just gotta outlast this just gotta keep writing
no matter what he throws at you come on come on baby this is just
a dream you fell asleep
The burning white light shines at chest level as the door creaks
open, pausing at the big furry towel across the bottom to keep the
heat in ...
... and then the huge black steel-toed boot kicks it back the rest
of the way. And the light bobs forward, through the candles. Toward
"Ebenezer Vanian." It is not a question. The big old
crew-cut cop behind the blinding flashlight has cauliflower ears
and a nose broken an unbelievable number of times. "We had
a complaint about the noise, from the McCauslands up the road. That's
your last. We have a warrant. We're just gonna have a look around."
He holds up a very thick white sheaf of paper with yellow carbons
beneath it. "And we ... oh, what happened?"
He grins wolfishly, coming around my side of the mattress on the
floor. "What happened, sir? Are you injured?"
"No, Officer." But my voice sounds funny, like there
is a bubble in my throat or something. I swallow hard when I see
that his gun is drawn. "Why"
And my breath stops. My green coverall is soaked with blood, and
my gesture of negation is cancelled out by my sticky hands.
But I am not bleeding.
"Don't you see?" I lean forward. "There are so many
rooms ... that go on so far. And the back yard" I am
grasping at straws. "My name is Larry Cresswell ..."
"I talked to you the last time, Vanian. I'm through talkin',"
the cop says disgustedly, then arm-locks and handcuffs me before
I have time to blink.
won't let me have paper here. They say that my family has no forwarding
address, though I keep telling them Oakland, Calif., and my last
name. They tell me that the last known address for my father was
Flagstaff. But my father's name is Pete, and he's in a wheelchair
in North Berkeley. His number's not even unlisted.
Any letters to non-family are right out. They are calling Eb the
new Zodiac Killer. The reporters circle this hospital like sharks.
There was the inevitable circus when it hit the papers. They found
Feral's jawbone in the back yard, and a dead dog cut up into filets,
and a bunch of other stuff no one will tell me about.
"Oh, you KNOW," the cops had said that night. "We'll
help ya remember." WHACK. The night
the lights went out in Portland. They were upset.
Eb's flyers are going to be Exhibit A. I hear they even got Vincent
Bugliosi's son to be a legal consultant. Bugliosi was the guy that
got Manson life in jail.
But the activists are out in force, and my lawyer has been calling
shrinks. Governor Kitzhaber has taken a firm stand against the death
And somewhere in Arizona, possibly outside of Flagstaff ... there
is a white male, 6'3", 160 pounds, blood type AB+, 25 years
of age, wavy auburn hair, bad knees and piercings, and a snake tattoo
around his right bicep at the shoulder. The snake's a bad job. A
friend of mine let me use his homemade tattoo gun when we were kids.
Somewhere out there. He might possibly use a cane. He hasn't had
to put up with the knees as long as I did.
Somewhere out there, with the fading sun going down to the barks
of coyotes and the sage-scented wind through the arroyos. Possibly
answering to the name of Larry Cresswell.
Or maybe he has a new name now.
I've got a big day tomorrow with the shrinks. I'm going to play
ball with them, and go for the amnesia angle the way that my lawyer
affirmed once he fed me an Ativan and talked me out of the freakout.
Given the somewhat extraordinary nature of this case and my lack
of a previous criminal record (or so the lawyer said), there is
all the room in the world for an insanity plea. So much less paperwork
than the truth. Hell, there was a crooked cop in San Francisco who
shot the mayor and one of the city supervisors and got off by saying
he'd been up all night and not eating right.
I am going to be a model patient. Hell, I might even get to like
the quiet. I'll use the felt-tip pens they give you so you don't
dig your wrists open. They shade all right if you take your time.
And unlike most things here at the Spastic Ranch, time is a commodity
that runneth over.
In the long, long interim, if they don't let me have paper, I'll
commit the story to verbal memory by repetition. For my work, if
they deny me paper and pen, maybe I might make a quill out of one
of those plastic sporks, take a page from the Marquis de Sade's
notebook and employ the new, uh, "blood and Time magazine"
medium that will make all those fucks at First Thursday stop and
human for once.
They all want to see blood. But none of them want to suffer.
I survived high school. The psych ward will be a breeze by comparison.
Just kowtow to the shrinks and dummy up in my room ... All this
time to woodshed my art. My homies downtown would jump at a chance
got my clean well-lit place. I got my time to think. And I sure
as hell found a new purpose. Besides art, that is. In a way ...
you might call it the ultimate performance piece.
And it may not be as long as I think.
But on that holy day, whenever it might be, that they set me up
in Transitional House Arrest and put me on work-release ... The
second I'm behind the wheel of a delivery van or mopping floors
at Good Sam ...
Eb didn't stick around to finish me off.
I'm already planning a little road trip.