If you were the Houston Astrodome, you
would speak in colorful slogans like "we must
crucify the opponent," "begin the knifestorm,"
and "the revolution will not be televised."
A courageous mother would have given birth
to you in 1965 at the jaw-dropping
hospital cost of 35 million
dollars. Your heart would be Astroturf,
your face a mirror to the lives of thousands
of corndog eaters. A canary dying
in the snow. Once, you were championed
as the eighth wonder of the world, built
in the image of God. In the room where rich
white guys are deciding what happens
to me next, there's much discussion
and many platters of mouthwatering shrimp.
There's argument — make him suffer more,
he's had enough, kill him. There's laughter —
look, he can't find parking near the art
museum, he's crying and it's blizzarding.
A man removes his shirt on Yonge Street
to do pushups in front of a Starbucks
a block from another Starbucks. If you
were the Houston Astrodome, you'd be nearing
obsolescence, Mike Schmidt would have
hurt you in 1974. On the island,
a nude beach, several pre-teen
boys hope to see breast — but alas,
find only phallus. Amber and I
rent bicycles, we are in love. Rich white guys
decide I should drink something fruity near
a university. According to Revelation,
God is an enormous indoor stadium with a heart
of Astroturf who will one day
suffocate us with the insides of millions
of unbelievers, leaving confused sports
fans to riot in the streets. Rich white guys
send me to Citytown to circle the capitol two
hundred times and return home.
A flock of birds flies in no particular
direction, then descends upon my outstretched
arms. We're warmed in the autumn sun,
we lose ourselves in the forest. A man tells us
that a certain Norwegian chocolate bar is like
a certain American chocolate bar
which is nothing alike. Rich white guys
know how to make it cold outside, make it
empty. According to Jean Rhys, this happened
and that happened, then came the days
when she was alone. Why must life be always
so violent and suspenseful? So bright and tropical,
full of vibrant palm trees? Rich
white guys are constructing a stadium in heaven
with many luxury skyboxes that I can't
afford to sit in. Rumor is
Jesus may come out of retirement. My heroes:
Ian Curtis, the Houston Astrodome,
Robocop. God's heroes: Walter Payton,
himself, Mel Gibson. In the room where rich
white guys are deciding what happens
to me next, there's much pandemonium.
I'm sitting in my car in Chinatown
eating a custard roll, listening to Warsaw
after three hours with the ophthalmologist.
It's ten degrees outside, the sun is shining,
I've never felt so completely alone.