Recited while drinking rye at 2 A.M. next to a stand of aspen on the rise of an alpine basin.
I’m in this theatre,
The American theatre,
And it’s a horrible movie;
I’m afflicted with this horrible fasciation,
Like watching a slow-motion car collision—
The casting agent had never worked on a movie before.
She chose her actors as one would be casting into a lake:
Snaring a loose fish,
Dragging them along,
Not caring about the fate of this species.
So these untrained creatures
Crawl about the stage,
Flipping and twitching
With poorly expressed passion.
It’s depressing.
I’d kill myself,
But they don’t allow weapons in this theatre,
Nor can I do it with my bare hands,
And I cannot leave,
I’m too comfortable.
The chair fits me like a glove.
There are no enemies on my wire,
Other than this movie.
And I can’t stop it, and I can’t close my eyes.
So I’m doomed to stay in here—
In the American theatre.
In fact, they’re going to have to pry me out of this theatre.
Most torturers don’t try to make you comfortable,
But it is actually one of the better ways to control folks.
Keep ‘em comfortable,
Feed ‘em shit!
It’s such a stupid movie it’s distorted their brain—
And certainly mine,
It’s hard to think of where else to go.
The sins of the fathers,
Visited upon the sons,
Under the seventh generation.
And my devout, slave-owner, ancestors
Are spinning like dynamos in their graves,
At the thought of their descendants trapped in the Yankee plantation.
There’s no hope for me,
And the only positive thing is—
I’m not dreaming of a Porsche,
Or of being a woman—
She’s dead;
You can’t write to Dear Abby anymore.
I can’t leave the theatre,
So I can’t dig her up.
About the Author
I know if I ever do write a book, people will buy it only to burn it. Better to write short pieces than to stir up any lynch mobs.
Rubbing Out Palefaces
Moral Minority Survival at the End of Caucasian Time Paperback
