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SLUG INCARNATION
I injected the drug. Got reborn as a slug. But took so long, I almost
bade goodbye.
My eyes wound up slugs - dead television screens.
Squeezed both into a slot. Yanked lever blind. Took a chance on seeing
anything besides lemons. Although in truth I possessed zilch with which to
catch whatever pot; only appendage - rabbit ears perched on a head merged
into an endless neck terminated in an anus.
As in real life I had a job. I had to cross the sidewalk. Before the
sun killed the deal. Or a poor little boy appeared with a shaker of
Morton's. Or the wheel of some cycle got lucky.
Less than half a percent into the day, I ached for everything to end.
Considered shooting or stabbing or slugging myself to death. But such
escapes required the mechanism of a fist. A concept alien as the scent of my
own egg; that is - metaphorically to unravel - the dope I amounted to before
the needle pierced the vein.
I persisted in my I Ching across the concrete. Owning nothing save
unshakeable faith in the vanity of itchy-foot belly.
Persevered till the trail of my essence trailed but to a desiccated
bacon.
To be born again by breakfast in some further hell. Agony inevitable
even overdosed in the laps of seventy-two molluskan virgins.
Despite the dizziness of no hatch out, trapped in an atom cut to the
chase - the revolution of eternally at it - I made it to - without it first
coming up - lunch. For slime loops the slug to the type, binds the nose in
the yoke to the smell of the white.
I shot the drug. Squeezed both it and me into a slot. Across the
screen scrolled grave after grave, tomb upon tomb, crypt below crypt; till I
came to - head kissing tail - symbolize the zero the apple of my eye shot
through.
TAXMAN
Like a Bible in the night the taxman paid a visit. Busted out a back
window in broad daylight. Climbed in. Scoured the pad. Exited with what
suddenly belonged to him.
When I that evening returned from overtime at the salt mine, twisted
key in lock, entered oddly drafty home to see so much less of mine, the
truth got hammered home: Possession is nine points of sanity.
I stood, thoughts racing, in the middle of the living room. I saw
across the drywall red. I'd get going, I'd get even, I'd get somebody quick
into a tomb.
The ticket materialized: Possession of a firearm would set me free. To
pursue happiness, I needed the heat to keep me equal.
Hopped into the heap. Headed downtown to a shop. They were open late
Saturday night; lest a fight break out, the deer attack or the wife won't
listen.
I pulled up. Leaped out. Dove in.
The owner worked the counter - help off around town packing.
He looked up from the cop show on the portable. Smiled at the wrath in
my eye. Treated me like a brother. Wound up cutting a deal on an automatic
used by a little old lady just to suicide in Pasadena. Tossed in a box of
bullets. Winked they were dumdums. Make a helluva mess.
He even spent the odd moment - nobody else in the store, he'd already
seen the NYPD before - helping me get loaded. Explained the safety on this
model sticks. Better off off - never know when; town thick with snakes.
So I leveled the mouth on his throat, blew him away with the
valediction, "Don't fret - death is just that last big fucking mess you
won't ever need to clean up!"
I took the air, taking care to pocket first my forty ounce passport to
paradise.
I had paid my taxes. Armed myself according to the law. And now I
wasn't gonna chance the jungle getting on me the jump.
Cruised up First, possessed with random dumdum lust. My heart no longer
beat the humdrum. The trees swung my valves. I had discovered fire inside
the cave.
Now I too could suddenly own a life. I felt at peace, eyeing for the
next windfall the Avenue; piece in hand.
Are you sure you paid - in my mind - your taxes?
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