Hell, I’ve got the dumbest phone in the neighborhood. And today my Subway sandwich artist must’ve been influenced by Jackson Pollock or something. I’ll take the brie, bruh. You know? You feel me? No. Wait. Please don’t. Fit to be whooped. I tipped his holiness for a marinated-mushroom martini and made a ceremonial dash for the outermost circle of hell. Shit, breh. We’re living in a vat of beer. Cray as crying over a malt-and-rhubarb spritzer gone flat. Woke up to the sound of afternoon’s vituperations, sirens and so on, and then fell off the edge of an ironing board, and didn’t cry. “Let!” Screamed the sousaphone seller. I marveled at the winces and cringes of the crowd that didn’t gather so much but more like dawdled around, almost tipsy with cow-patty-flavored oxygen. Shalom, Ankle Nibblers. I’m partaking in the hardest pieces of falling asleep without amaretto in my glass. Serenade me awake again, Bully Pulpits and Brandywine Nuns. Shit. I started smoking these things when I was just a toddler. And now? Forget it. I tell it like it should’ve been. God, my nuts are in a bind. Chop-Shop transmutation is near. A frozen road apple for your has-been luck. Fuck this dressing-room pay-by-the-minute dreaming I’m involved in. Come as you were or are. The bathrooms are for each and all, just don’t forget to lock that there stall door, Stalin. Keeping your eyes to everybody else? Change the channel, bro. Go ahead. I could use some time to be something besides down. Don’t trust me? Well, faith’s just a plead to the unknown for safer answers to dangerous questions. You could find that out at any pool hall or magazine rack or perfume counter or cop bar in town. Ask the Big Telemarketer in the Sky, or you could just call (646) 851–0347. You’ll get your dime’s worth, Canary. You best believe it.

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