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Tuesday, September 30, 2008

120 Days of Enron


I was sodomizing my accountant on a high school football field when Sade showed up,
bloated like a tick, face blacker than a tree trunk in the March haze. A sable braid uncoiled like a python down his back—unslung as my mistress’ thorns abandoned
her whip-tattered blouse now blowing from the field goal post. “Come,” he said.
“The governor’s been forced to fellate a hundred thousand microphones.” I think he smiled
and broke his cheekbones doing so.


Ten thousand blondes from USC now tremor in mystery as the palm trees of L.A. deflect the moon’s sole light. San Diego es en fuego, I heard one of my colleagues say,
which meant the night had withered immigrants, sifted artists through a dungeon of unemployment and Marlboro Lights, sweating with killers they loved! How hot the HVAC people must have got
trying to make up our megawatts! Heat strokes maybe, who gasped their last as doctors cursed, through surgical masks, the hospital, powerless and wild; all at the moment I blew their life savings on paintings by Kinkade and a yacht I named The Christ Child! To bloodsuckers! To public calamities! There’s no statue we can’t mold back into clay with a smooth enough hand.
And fuck it if there is. I don’t really give a fuck

if the stars leave fingerprints that point to me at midnight. Do you see any child occlude the path to where our centaur fucks his foals? Clinton—that letch—thought he could make us stop.
(Careful asshole!
That pelt you’re sitting on is the last ocelot!
I guess not every man’s a tyrant when he fornicates,
but once men of god taste our unicorn, a trillion dollars a pound,
our finest vintage from the gulf is sure to wash their questions down. Anyway, you can sue the fucking government. Let the smoke and locusts blow.


A halogen full moon left a rainbow in the jet fuel as we left, heads high as the stealth fighter blows
through castle gates of the cumulonimbus, our finest dominatrix.
But it was on private planes we toasted as the governor went down into the sewer. I landed home in time to undress my daughter on a bearskin rug. Sade watched us from the sofa, made small talk about revolution—
then snuck up behind me and turned me so my asshole gaped! I shouted:

“You can’t do this to me. What is this, some fucking third world country?”
“No, no,” he said.
“It’s simple choreography.”

1 comment:

Anonymous said...

Sade's zinger really gets our narrator in the end!