In True Stories some character wanted slack.
Did I imagine that? J. R. “Bob” Dobbs?
The Church of the SubGenius?
Why do I imagine him in a Tom Landry hat?
the CIA, and Oschner Clinic. The atom-smasher
at Tulane. The good news is you don’t have polio.
The bad news is you have simian immunovirus (SIV)
and an epidemic of soft-tissue cancers.
You don’t have slack. You have
the Mall Builder culture.
Strainers. Strain at
a gnat and swallow
a camel.
Opt out.
Don’t resist, just stop
giving a shit. Raise up off
your own neck. If you disintermediated,
you don’t come under their rules anymore.
The do-it-yo’self (DIY) ethic.
Do it or not. It’s up to you.
I did it. I’m doing it. It did me.
I am a by-product of who I am.
I am the maniac responsible.
I am the poor boy at the party.
Take my bongos and go home.
Nobody cares. Nobody knows.
I know. I care. I know but
I don’t care. I care but
I don’t know. I let go.
Flaps, like a worn-out blind.
What is the sound of one end flapping?
It sounds like a machine. Ballet mécanique. An airplane engine.
A balsa-wood glider.
Rubber-bands. Maybe a wire and
silk one, made in
The Mechanical Bride. Endless mental rutting. The folklore of advertising.
Cut me some slack. No, cut yourself some. Who is putting pressure on you?
The Tooth Fairy? The United Fund? The March of Dimes? Mother Teresa?
I told Al there was no money in
Lenny Bruce on Albert Schweitzer.