I Was Fucking Him Then He Died

So. Like. The dude under you just died. You have permission to leave Dodge. I would just go. The movies would have you rolling the body up in the dining room carpet. I hope you got paid. I would never look for a dead mans’ wallet. I don’t know what a credit card is. I do know that leather costs a lot of money.

I was fucking him. Then, he died.

Dirt bike town. People ask me where Dirt Bike Town is. Dirt Bike Town is a town I painted not unlike the one I do call Dodge Dodge, but the marquee has been removed. You can always get out of Dodge. But can you return. Will we want you back. Your cowboy hat looks a little worn. Maybe Dodge is all you know. From the Civil War brick facade. To Flannery O’Connor (who was originally from Dodge but she never talked about it unlike Truman and his copperhead snake in the mill pond). Flannery lives in her imaginary trailer, and what do you think, Mr. Hanky Panky, lives on the banks of the River Ouse. It’s in Georgia. Guilt. Blood. Design. We talk about life. Even the ones we never had. Out on the porch and in a spoon.

I was fucking him. Then, he died. It was a tragedy, but trgedy or no tragedy, I just don’t like cops. Sunglasses. Wearing the same drag too long attracts a lot of literary types, and they all have sweaters made in Mothball Iowa. It’s the exact same sweater. Flannery had a cane. I have a cane. Mine says: Drummer Magazine. Mine whacks literary pit bulls set on high attack times ten. Faulkner should have appeared on the cover of MACH. I would have turned it into a dirt bike shoot. At night. The Big Mud. With William Faulkner. I still like the Honda. Bill would have done a great interview with Diane Sawyer. But now all I do is clean the toilets. I wanted more toilets in MACH. I was a toilet in MACH. Billy Bowers and I did Brian on the cross turned upside down in Key West. I never kid. It was one night at a time.

I was fucking him. Then, he died. Che Guevara should have been put in MACH. Every town has an Irish writer. Flannery’s treatment of the disabled was a commentary on disciplines and wars. Yoknapatawpha is mine. Joe Christmas is a County Circuit Judge. There was a hardware store. That hardware store was a highway whore and they travel. You can, indeed, kick the gay out of us, but we can run because big girls from the Blue Ridge are fast. Jack Daniels is a bit tame for us. Real whiskey is clear as water. 

I was fucking him. Then, he died. Do not walk around Ireland and say my name. It is the name that must not be spoken. It’s not brain surgery. I’m a guy with a camera and all my stuff comes from there. My whole autistic neurology zips by the mescaline haha’s on a Peyote binge of vacant minds and books of fire and faith. If sex used to be a political act, what was writing about it, a dabbling amount of photography, okay, a dazzling moment of photography, I bitch because I am a bitch bong cactus in the bunny night. Snakes out here get most rabbits.  

I was fucking him. Then, he died. Writing is not pornography. But book publishing is A Pornography. And pornography is not quid pro quo. I didn’t write porn to feed you. I wrote porn to feed me. I am still writing porn to feed me. If you make less than a couple of hundred dollars a year, the IRS says, Go Away. You are not worth their time. No, they are not publishers, kinda, maybe. Have you ever seen one. Like in a parking lot. Publishers only emerge to feed at night. New Orleans was not enough at least historically, New Orleans is enough because it has to be. Twenty-five years ago in the age of Even When what publishing has created is not unlike a monster on his chain. Publishing insiders are innocent is there anyone who really believes that. I am that chain. And I am that monster.

I was fucking him. Then, he died. I never really quite knew what sex work was. It’s called denial. Some people have a nice house. I had kids. God help me. What does your dad do. He’s a prostitute. Who is in publishing. I was once, too, a book editor. What does being a fucking whore have to do with why chickens cross the road. I live on the other side. The Dark Side where the fog rolls in and I write about it. I have never read a magazine in my life. I have no clue as to what books mean. Still, there are men who want to spit down my throat. I want to write in ways Robert the Bruce took photographs and kept asking people to schlep his lights. They did.

I was fucking a trick. Then, he died. I think he had a stroke. I didn’t want to be on top but he threw more money at me. I counted it. I am a card counter. You do not want to know. Don’t say Vegas. Publishers do not do this, but tricks do. Writers do this for pizza. I am not sure I can even articulate how a writer might fuck. I wondered though. But the year I found out, I had to get out of Dodge myself because getting out of Dodge is my favorite cliche. The cliche of the monster and the chain. I have no idea what sex is. I’m supposed to turn you on. Maybe scare you a little bit, but since people are always rubbing the shit of reality in my face, Baby, welcome to my house party. I am autistic. Go ahead. Ask anyone who ever met me if that motherfucker isn’t very strange. I have no idea what people are talking about. What book. Oh, he’s strange alright. You have no idea. Endings. I create a lot of endings because I have lived them. Writing is more difficult to survive than sex work.

I was fucking him. Then, he died. All tricks are chimes at midnight. Writing is the eroticism. There is no plan. It only is. Photography is the eroticism itself. Other people and other writers paint different scenarios. Autistics do have sex. The beholder has many eyes. Of the things I see in writing — are images — I do not see words. I do not write. I am a camera ObscuraBondageCoorordinator. It’s all moving images to me. Possessing the swords of trains and the dragons of antiquity, there is a sense of reckoning, the offending souls where a lack of imagination has wrought them a lack of imagination. Tongues down imagination’s throat. If opposed by day, outlives rent. Show me kings. Show me princedoms. Show me without defeat. The carpet with the dead guy needs one of those high steam carpet cleaners. It doesn’t work. You look like some dude going down the stairs carrying a body wrapped up in a dining room carpet.

Dirt bike town. People ask me where Dirt Bike Town is. Dirt Bike Town is a town I painted not unlike the one I do call Dodge Dodge, but the marquee has been removed. You can always get out of Dodge. But can you return. Maybe. Maybe Dodge is all you know. From the Civil War brick facade. To Flannery O’Connor’s saddle  (Flannery was originally from Dodge but she never talked about it unlike Truman and his copperhead snake in the mill pond). Flannery lives in her imaginary trailer, and what do you think, Mr. Hanky Panky, lives on the banks of the River Ouse. It’s in Georgia. Guilt. Blood. Design. And Jack Daniels. If you are someone who should not drink Jack Daniels because for some stupid reason it doesn’t mix well with cactus, all you need is a juicer set on stun. We talk about life. Even the ones we never had. On the porch and in a spoon.

I was fucking him. Then, he died. Wearing the same drag too long attracts a lot of literary types, and they all have picky sweaters made in Iowa. From sheep. It’s the exact same sweater. These guys drink Scotch. Flannery had a cane. I have a cane. Mine says: Drummer Magazine. Mine whacks literary pit bulls set on high attack times ten. Faulkner should have appeared on the cover of MACH. I would have turned it into a dirt bike shoot. At night. The Big Mud. With William Faulkner. I still like the Honda. Bill would have done a great interview with Diane Sawyer. But now all I do is clean the toilets. I wanted more toilets in MACH. I was a toilet in MACH. Billy Bowers and I did Brian on the cross turned upside down in Key West. I never kid. It was one night at a time.

I was fucking him. Then, he died. Che Guevara should have been put in MACH. Every town has an Irish writer. Flannery’s treatment of the disabled was a commentary on disciplines and wars. Yoknapatawpha is mine. Joe Christmas is a County Circuit Judge. There was a hardware store. That hardware store was a highway whore and they travel. You can, indeed, kick the gay out of us, but we can run because big girls from the Blue Ridge are fast. 

I was fucking him. Then, he died. Do not walk around Ireland and say my name. It is the name that must not be spoken. It’s not brain surgery. I’m a guy with a camera and all my stuff comes from there. My whole autistic neurology zips by the mescaline haha’s on a Peyote binge of vacant minds and books of fire and faith. If sex used to be a political act, what was writing about it, a dabbling amount of photography, okay, a dazzling moment of photography, I bitch because I am a bitch bong cactus in the bunny night. Snakes out here get most rabbits.  

I was fucking him. Then, he died. Writing is not pornography. But book publishing is A Pornography. And pornography is not quid pro quo. I didn’t write porn to feed you. I wrote porn to feed me. I am still writing porn to feed me. If you make less than a couple of hundred dollars a year, the IRS says, Go Away. You are not worth their time. No, they are not publishers, kinda, maybe. Have you ever seen one. Like in a parking lot. Publishers only emerge to feed at night. New Orleans was not enough at least historically, New Orleans is enough because it has to be. Twenty-five years ago in the age of Even When what publishing has created is not unlike a monster on his chain. Publishing insiders are innocent is there anyone who really believes that. I am that chain. And I am that monster. Ask anyone.

I was fucking him. Then, he died. I never really quit knew what sex work was. It’s called denial. Some people have a nice house. I had kids. God help me. What does your dad do. He’s a prostitute. Who is in publishing. I was once, too, a book editor. Tell me it isn’t so. It is unfortunately so. What does being a fucking whore have to do with why chickens cross the road. I live on the other side. The Dark Side where the fog rolls in and I write about it. I have never read a magazine in my life. I have no clue as to what books mean. Still, there are men who wanted to spit down my throat. I want to write in ways Robert took photographs and kept asking people to schlep his lights. They did.

I was fucking him. Then, he died. I didn’t want to be on top but he threw more money at me. Publishers do not do this, but tricks do. Writers do this for pizza. I am not sure I can even articulate how a writer might fuck. I wondered though. But the year I found out, I had to get out of Dodge because getting out of Dodge is my favorite cliche. The cliche of the monster and the chain. I have no idea what sex is. I’m supposed to turn you on. Maybe scare you a little bit, but since people are always rubbing the shit of reality in my face, Baby, welcome to my reality. I am autistic. Go ahead. Ask anyone who ever met me if that motherfucker isn’t strange. Oh, he’s strange alright. You have no idea. Endings. I create a lot of endings because I have lived them. Writing is more difficult to survive than sex work.

Both are unforgiving.

I was fucking him. Then, he died. I don’t know who he was. They are never who they say they are and I am hardly one who is going to complain about it. Writing itself is the eroticism. There is no plan. It only is. Photography is the eroticism itself. Other people and other writers paint different scenarios. Autistics do have sex. The beholder has many eyes. Of the things I see in writing — are images — I do not see words. I do not write. I am a camera ObscuraBondageCoorordinator. It’s all moving images to me. But it moves too fast. There has not been enough time. Possessing the swords of trains and the dragons of antiquity, there is a sense of reckoning, the offending souls where a lack of imagination has wrought them a lack of imagination. Tongues down imagination’s throat. If opposed by day, outlives rent. Show me kings. Show me princedoms. Show me without defeat.