last sunday (part V)

dear internet
Aug 28, 2017 · 8 min read

I. a bad, stupid man

please forgive me this is all I have to offer

this emotional

oatmeal

i don’t have the answer to this problem

the insight or comparison

i’m just a bowl of oatmeal against the screaming

I wish I were a fighter

that this was the jungle

but I didn’t get those fists

even if I wanted ‘em

i like when its quiet

when it all slows down

and the patterns on the ceiling

but since the fall

no time for that shit

here’s your stupid war

no quiet no more

we had lots before

but now he at the door

i’m sorry, dumb bad man

i don’t know how to defeat you

i have to try and understand you

even though i don’t want to

so here go

II. Two of Us (ten beliefs donald trump and i probably share)

1. the nuclear capability of fried chicken

2. you gotta grab what you want or else it’ll get away

3. fast is sure which is better than slow which is more good but no time

4. religion is for wimps

5. everyone out to get me

6. not me, but war

7. mind if i take another one?

8. font makes right

9. there are a bunch of monkeys at the edge of town looking for a fight

10. no four-star general in the world is as dangerous as the woman you give yourself to

III. Sorry bro

donald trump, i’m sorry our bodies ache

that every morning is a campaign

that we have to prop ourselves up

with narrative hope drugs

that our bodies are battlefields

that every day we lose ground

hurder. aulder. slowier

we remember when there was

a joy in the movement

we see them on magazine covers

tan skin cocky and careless

and we buy them to rip them up

because we can’t remember

swinging our arms

walking down the street

when there was a song

a beach boys song

that you heard and thought,

“That’s pretty good! I like that song!”

You thought maybe you could write a song someday. That someday you might be happy enough.

You felt your hips move. And your feet in their shoes.

It was 1983 and Fifth avenue buoyed you along like waves.

The hairdos of beautiful women

crisp grey doormen with their moustaches

the stone cornices of apartments

the importance of tradition

you took your place

in the parade of success

gliding down the avenues

the rest of the city was drunk begging stumbling

but you were a corvette

cruising down the street

fueled by inevitability

and the city opened her legs to you

and from her

you drank deep

as long as you could see your tower you were safe

and you could see it from everywhere

there was nowhere you couldn’t go

the east was easy

the west wasn’t wild

central park was your front lawn

“i can still see it from here”

as it grew darker

i can still see it

only five blocks away

i can still

those blocks seemed far though

see it

the sun went down

still

where we now?

whoop

get out of the forest

whoop

they’ve found you

whoop

you’ve never walked faster

whoop

you start to run

whoop

you’re stumbling

whoop

you’ve never been drunk

whoop

but you felt drunk now

whoop

where is the tower?

whoop

where did it go?

whoop

where are the lights?

whoop

here they come

the leaves shook down

as they swung through the trees towards you

they can’t touch me

they can’t touch me

as long as i can see it

and they descended

they brought you war

these fucking monkeys

in the dark

you were thrown to the ground

pinned to the ground

these pitch black beach boys

come to sing you a song

they found your weakness

found their way inside you

they took over

took you over

the darkness

took you over

for thirteen minutes

thats all it was

thirteen minutes

in the dark

and that dark

was yours forever now

whoop

and when it was over

you crept down fifth avenue

the same tough street

like one of the drunks

no joy at all

your feet dragging

mannequins in the windows

leered at you

blank faces

fur stoles

that would never get old

that would never shut up

the tower kept staring

it saw you everywhere

and back on the 58th floor

high above the park

you took off your jacket

this is shit now

after the darkness nothing could soothe you

the tower was empty and black and stupid

they’d ruined it for you

you wept that night, remember?

you shook

your whole body

as you stripped off your clothes and climbed into the bathtub

you wanted to disappear

but you had this piece of shit body dumb this piece of body that you always have to deal with body

you shook

and wanted all of Manhattan to shake with you

as long as you had a body

that body could be hurt

as long as you were a man

that man could be broken

you picked up the phone

“Fire all the black doormen. I don’t care how it looks. I don’t wanna see them anymore. By the time I come down in the morning. Polish fine, Italian just fine. Get rid of the blacks.”

no body

was going to hold you down

never again

IV. Despite my enthusiastic performance.

Despite my enthusiastic performance, Donald Trump wasn’t fazed at all.

I thought I was pretty convincing. Impassioned, argumentative, dramatic.

But it didn’t earn me a rise out of that fucker.

No weeping. No apology. No concession.

After I’d finished my speech, he just lay there, calmly on the floor of my living/bedroom. His big ass was pointed up in the air. His hands still strapped behind his back, his face against the wood. He was smirking.

He didn’t argue, didn’t put up a fight. I didn’t know what else to do.

“What was it?” I asked “What happened to you?”

He rolled his eyes.

“Why the fuck are you like this?” I asked.

He nodded his head. He seemed like he wanted to talk.

“No-“ I started…then realized that he was right. I’d had my turn. It was time for me to listen to him. It was all that was left.

“Okay,” I said, “you’re not gonna scream, right?”

He rolled his eyes.

“This is Flatbush,” I tried to joke with him, “Nobody would notice anyway.”

He nodded his head, as if to say, “come on, let’s hurry this up,” and I obeyed.

As I decided to pull the duct tape from his mouth, I felt like a scared little boy. My hands went limp. My testicles shriveled up inside my body. It reminded me of the first time I had to shower at summer camp. I wanted to run. I wanted to abandon all of my ideals and expectations of who I was supposed to be, leave Donald Trump in my apartment and escape from the whole situation I’d created. But I knew I had to finish what I’d started.

He didn’t speak at first. It seemed like he wanted to wait until I had freed his hands. He sat and kind of pouted while I was undoing the bungee cords. It was like he could have spoken — he was smacking his lips — but he wouldn’t let himself until he could use his hands. It made sense.

Once I had cut free his restraints, I saw that he was wearing a white t-shirt and pants. He had sweated through them. He reached up to fix his hair, and then combed the air, as if it were still there. Once he was arranged, he stood across from me, pulling his pants up over his belly, and spoke.

“I’m gonna tell you something, you little fart queen. And I’m gonna tell you something important before I get out of this pathetic little apartment. But first you’re gonna get me a towel.”

I stared at him defiantly.

“A towel,” he repeated.

And I just did it. My legs started moving before I could resist…as if they knew it was no use fighting him any longer. I brought him back one of my roommate’s towels.

“You wanna know? You wanna know why I’m like this?

“You know — you can say what you like about rats. But they have their run of the city.”

“Rats?”

“Rats. for centuries, we’ve tried to poison them, exterminate them, wipe them out. And the rats are like, ‘who cares?’ What? I can’t go to that corner anymore? What do I care? I’ve got 15,000 other corners I can go to. You kill one…there’s 1000 more where that one came from.”

“So someday when all of us are in heaven- or hell — I don’t know — if you were to burn New York City to the ground, and believe me, I love New York City — but if you were to burn this whole city to the ground, the rats would be here five minutes later to lick up your whole life like you were soft ice cream. And that’s pretty impressive. You have to respect that.”

“So you’re a rat?”

He smiled.

“Nope. I’m the king of the rats.”

“How long do you think my buildings are gonna last? I’ll tell you how long — For-ever. Forever. So you can do whatever you want to me. You can smack me around, punch me in the face, you could’ve shot me, if you had the balls. But it wouldn’t have mattered. Because this-“

He grabbed his belly and shook it.

“- this isn’t me.. All of this — “

He gestured towards the window, towards the world outside.

“That’s me. I’m everywhere. Everywhere the rats are.”

He straightened his tie and tucked it into his pants.

“Now I’m gonna get the hell out of here,” he wiped his head and his neck with the towel.

“And here’s what I’m gonna do for you right now.”

He threw the towel on the floor. Suddenly there was a man in my living room.

“I’m not gonna tell you what I’m gonna do. I’m not gonna tell you whether or not I’m gonna send the entire united states military after you. You’re gonna go about your business, eating tofu or wearing dresses or whatever you do- and you’re not gonna know whether I’m sending the entire United States army to come bust down your door or not. Or whether I’m gonna send just one man — and tell you the truth, I’ve been doing that for years — whether I’m just gonna send one guy to come pop you in the middle of the day…maybe you’re having a picnic with your boyfriend and all of a sudden there’s just a little pop- just a little pop that comes from behind a newspaper, and that’s it. I’m not gonna tell you what I’m gonna do. So just enjoy that.”

He headed towards the door, rubbing his hand over his skull.

“So good luck, little boy.”

As Donald Trump closed the door, I saw him smiling. And then he was gone.

)
dear internet

Written by

letters to the global brain from the one in my apartment

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