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Somewhere in the 1970s

(excerpt)
Andre Breton’s Half Brother

I am a ghost. Searching for a ghost. Thoughts are memories. If you look into the rear view mirror. You’d better see yourself. Time waltzes. America’s essential puritanical naivitee has been ripped open. Thrown down the steps. Into morning.

A strong foul smelling yellow gas. Has escaped. Seeping into everything that has a hole. I hear ‘little boots’ running through the mob.

Fingers bandanged. Pieces of my nails stuck in the wood. The doctor doubled over. When I was born. The womb laughed. They had trouble getting my horns out. Had to pull me by my cloven hoves. As a kid I remember strumming a 12 string chain mail fence. And at 13 a premature ejaculation. Venus laying next to me. Asking me to be gentle. Every mother on every corner. Asking the same of each of their daughters. I ran down a hillside. In the middle of an avalanche. Of Buster Keatons.

I am the representative from madness. And Andre Breton. How long will the laws of reality bind us. I am a satyr. Put down on this planet. To satiate my cravings. If you want to find the truth. Turn off your television. Tape shut your windows. And doors and burn your calendars. Listen with your lungs. I am death. And I have an appetite. For bigots. And poets. And elevators filled with shutters.