Willie Smith


                My dick lands a contract with a pirate station. Starts dribbling predictions:
                Clouds move in at four pee-em. Rain starts at six. After midnight, as the wind from the southwest picks up, Trump picks up Donald Duck. Kidnaps Donald back to the Trapezoid Office. Strips and ties up the victim. Administers a hummer.
                After Donald climaxes in Donald’s mouth, Donald, in the interests of national security, has Donald beheaded. Through press leaks Minnie Mouse gets wind of the scandal and she too wants a piece of that juice. Holograms herself onto a microchip. Goes viral. So when tomorrow Trump boots up, Minnie leaps out. Skewers and roasts on a straightened coat hanger Donald’s weenie.
                Mickey, in the back booth of a Georgetown bar, gulping Mickey’s Big Mouth, finds out. Hits the pavement. Bolts down M. Cruises up the Mall. Kicks down the door. Employs a cattle prod to trump Trump’s rump; then has with Minnie sloppy nanoseconds.
                Trump, although nearly unconscious with agony, manages to press under his desk the button. The local redneck chapter responds, assault rifles at the ready. Peppers the room with slugs. Most of which Trump swallows. But a ricochet catches Minnie’s third eye. She’s dead before the exit wound manifests.
                Aghast, the shooters back off. They had no idea Disney behind Trump. Trump spits out the slugs. Sits back in his swivel. Shakes his head. Sometimes Trump just can’t believe how stupid people are.
                Fortunately, the networks, secretly backing both Donald and Mickey, before any of the above gets broadcast, cut my dick off.


                This story is not true. Nothing happened this way. Instead, here is what REALLY happened…
                I write a reality check. Sucker bounces. Imagine my chagrin when the stream of human commerce, grinning skullishly, throws me ipecac-like up onto the bank.
                Wander through a lobby of nettles, pitcher plants, poison ivy. Till a desk checks my progress.
                Snatch a fountain. Kite another check. Whose reality floats up through the stratosphere clear to Diana. Drifts down – Paul Anka mooning “Diana!” – into a cave on Pico, where Ariosto must’ve stashed Orlando’s brains, judging by the slop I step in.
                Furious, I kick to shit the knight’s thinker. With a vengeance then check reality; if you care thus to dub some fusty epic by a five-centuries-dead epicurean wop jackoff. Myself a Kraut-Brit son of a bastard. Nobody knows the identity of my mother’s mother. Which division by zero pisses me infinitely off.
                Hold it. Let’s do a reality check:
                I hold, in brief, no brief for the Italians; nor the English; nor even the murderous duty-bound Teuton, of whose noble venom my own blood is verifiably 50% comprised (my paternal grandmother was English (meaning, if you go back far enough, some sort of Germano-Celt mestizo)). Only race I hate are these thoughts that inside my head race. So with rapier speed I cut another check, using for desk my pommel, as the Hippogriff blasts me off the floor of the Sea of Rainbows to a downtown alley in my native Hoboken.
                While from the journey recuperating inside a dumpster, I reminisce to myself about the junket I took from Pico on past Archimedes into the rocky uplands of the Swamp of Putrefaction. With much difficulty and several marijuana cigarettes I at length locate the prize I have so long longed for: the rover Scott and Irwin abandoned in July of 71, when the astronauts split back to earth, taking with them 170 pounds picked off the right eye of the Man in the Moon.
                Takes about six hours slaving under the hood to fix the junker. But back where I come from they call me the Black Hole Mechanic. Should anything matter I can crush whatever in a matter of nano-seconds to a point. I was born with a spark plug up my butt, muffler around my goiter, wellknit trunk and a solenoid heart.
                Head out for where I figure ought lie The Fallen Astronaut. I’ve always appreciated the hell out of art. And I figure that little sculpture Scott left behind ought by now to have appreciated into the neighborhood of a couple cool billion clams.
                I’m grooving along the Hadley Rille way out toward Eratosthenes, thinking, to kill time (lunar scenery boring as a wood borer in a steel foundry) of the Sieve of Eratosthenes – holding in mind the studly prime 37 and his femme fatale of a square Thirteen-sixtynine – when quick as a blade under my index’s quick slices the course correction: Scott dumped the aluminum doll no further than a meter more’n the length of his peter from where he junked the rover! How could I forget? Am I getting, like Ariosto’s hero, unbalanced?
                So, of course, I do a you-ee. Damn near tumble to the bottom of the 600-foot rille. Fire up another doobie. Floor it for home (or however one might style Jump City, when one is from the get-go homeless). Reflect, on my return, on the mirror inside my skull: when I think to myself whom do I think to? Exactly how many Orlandos twist and warp through this Florida of a funhouse?
                Cut through a wormhole back to that hitch-hiker in reality still moments over the horizon. While I’m relating the theft of the rover, formulating off the cuff GTA Theory, he’s sitting there ruffling with his fingertips his forearm, eyes glued to his eyes in the side mirror; in a parallel universe thinking he’s called Pico. Named after the Renaissance Man. Himself something of an eclectic humanistic mystic. Born too early, however, for Ariosto and his brainsick hero. Pico wasn’t here to tell me anything about what I might have stepped in up there on the moon. Fell to picking his nose. As if to say – who knows?
                Just a little guy. In my futuristic memory shrunk to about one big toe less than a foot. Garbed head to toe in a mylar body suit. Save that left forearm apparently deliberately left nude for him to ruffle the fur. Maybe it’s Halloween and he means to crash a party – maybe out in Reno – or even back in Hoboken – costumed as The Fallen Astronaut.
                Lay a little rubber. Do a couple wheelies. Spin thought like thread out a tarantula cloaca.
                Activate my cell, selling myself the idea, once on the web, GPS can tell where the hell all these rubber checks melt. Net starts to resemble a sieve – what physicists call the foam of time. Orlando, foaming at the mouth, staring off at the lip of Archimedes, might call all this bull – whispering into the ear of the Hippogriff – my grandmother’s whore of a ghost’s colander. Maybe she a wop herself; drained a lot of pasta. The eagle-horse mestizo (get of a mare and a griffin) thinking: “If my lot is suffering, must it be a lot of suffering?” Eratosthenes, like that mirrored prime 101, rolling over in his grave, straining to determine – Ante Sputnik – Earth’s girth.
                Archimedes eases his moon into the bath. Water slops over the lip of the tub.
                Get bored driving this nail through the palm of today’s date. Ink yet another check.
                Barreling down 101 between Redding and Eureka, pull off on the shoulder – kicking up extra points of gravel. Pick up a hitch-hiker.
                Stows his gear in back. Squeezes in.
                Peel out into all but invisible traffic. Announce right off the bat I done stole this vehicle. Hope he don’t mind I drive lickety-split down Highway 69?
                “Keep an eye peeled for Law,” I keep half an eye on the double-yellow, mylar-suited runt waxing nervous. “I’ll give ‘em a run for their money. But if they call ahead a roadblock, ram us off the highway, cuff us, take us downtown – we split the charge. Each probably get no more’n six months to two years. Small price to pay for the thrill of the chase, expert stunt driving, the shootout. Say nothing of free room, free board, free medical/dental. Plus leisure to catch up on all the latest popularizations of particle physics, cosmology, Hollywood rape, incest, murder, bigamy. Some of these state prisons contain state of the art libraries to rival the New York Public. You wouldn’t happen to have on you a spare marijuana cigarette?”
                The kid all the while staring out the passenger window at the slow lane rocketing past. Waiting for any the least slack so he can jump out without maybe losing too many limbs. In the rearview I spot a mirage of squadcars paranoid with cops. Yank my foot off the accelerator.
                Kid bangs his forehead off the dash. Jerks instantly – like the asshole in alcohol – out of his syncope. Throws open the door. Bolts onto the shoulder. Spins around. Flips into the arroyo. Pops out of the ditch. Sprints hell-for-leather into the wilderness.
                My foot relocates the accelerator.
                Continue north on 101, wondering – smiling to myself ghosted in the windshield – what junk in the trunk I just inherited? Sancho off for an off-on-the-horizon windmill. Bladder bulging with grist, just about, like a ship about to sink, at the end of her list. Suppressing thoughts of the overhead fan in a rest area loo.
                Recall Lew Burdette, useta pitch for the old Boston Braves. Brings up the Washington Redskins, Cleveland Indians and that dumb dago Columbus’s initial mistaking Hispaniola for Bombay, or some such warhead delivery system. “Mumbai,” poor dead bastard Mummy corrects inside my skull, just as I picture screaming into the heat-waves, “Let sap ruffle elf fur pastel!”
                Poor sap. Just trying to cop a ride to piss away his life on a crap table. Ruffle my dreambody. Loop onto Exit 1369. Speed for the nearest state-sanctioned lupanar. Figure – once I relieve myself – try my luck on a local. Judge not lest ye come down with scabies.
                Burdette from West Virginia. High school football coach Monroe Parker from that identical state – Wheeling, seem to recall.
                “Reach back ‘n gitchee sum!” Parker’d growl, when the chips were down in the 4th Quarter and defense needed to sack the opposing quarterback, before sucker completed another bomb, putting the game hopelessly outta reach.
                Hallucinate – tearing like a bat outta hell into a sudden bridge abutment – rabies. Rat cutlet – hold the mustard – on Wonder Bread. Launch through the windshield into space.
                Land like Orlando on the Hippogriff – spaced as Leary on a million mikes of Owsley. Gallop – hooves never touching sand – off into the sunset, gritting to myself, “Reach back ‘n gitchee some!”
                1369 spells jinx lickety-split. “Let sap ruffle elf fur pastel!” echoing in the mirror of my watch face. All my life to these racing thoughts’ last leg but a footnote.


                Dead is falling into bad odor. The boss creating a stink about his decaying habits. Bitches Dead losing the will to work. Logs on in the morning, then bump-on-a-log sits there – still as an empty till, eternally taking five, till packing up at five.
                The boss smells a rat. Attempted today to drag out a confession Dead on drugs. Dead bitter about now no raise.
                Mum keeps quiet, knitting in her lap a booty.
                Dead starts to smoke. Remembers the heart. Forgets it. Packs the butt back into the pack. Cracks open the paper.
                Air strikes continue. Unions hit hard. President urges calm. Military winds up terrorist watch. Senate ages. House training itself to piss away less on more. Yet another multiple shooting star.
                Dead can’t stand it – oxymorons, low pay, no tar, no nicotine.
                Dead stands. Demands to know why the living room silent as a tomb?
                Mum clears the oyster of her throat, spits, needles clacking, one pearl: “On the way to the void, let nothing bother you; because nothing will.”
                Dead hits the ceiling. Dead’s name is Will; so the will states, willing all to the baby.
                Mum looks down, her neck cricking, at her booty. ‘No way to,’ she completes the thought, ‘avoid a void.’
                Dead peels off the ceiling. Flops back down into the overstuffed. Dead – deadset on aborting fingertip maggots – lights up. Tosses the dead match into a clean ashtray. Snatches the paper. Returns to the dirt.
                Mum silently farts, fretting about the baby, born today nine months still. Sniffing, behind her digestion, the dyed wool of dead sheep. ‘If mine is a lot of suffering – knit one, purl two – must it be a LOT of suffering?’
                Dead winces. Remains mum about Mum passing gas. Loath to discomfit either occupant of the room.
                Pervert booted from office. Actor vows to detox. Boy still in well.
                Dead’s eyes narrow. His breath, hogo thickening, shallows.
                Angels drop doubleheader. Tumble into cellar. Worse than ever stink.
                Dead regrets forgetting the details of – closed eyes afterimaging ‘stink’ – that article revealing – waste fouling their home – egrets on the lake extinct. Dead hates birds; but loves to give humanity the bird.
                Mum frowns at her lap, resenting forced to give up – Will dead – any chance of a future through her being sent.

Willie Smith videos can be found at YouTube
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