Willie Smith


                The roaches were approaching total encroachment. High time to broach the subject of poison. Some opted to send them back where they came from. Others to bomb the freaks to the Stone Age. When it was pointed out they came from the Stone Age, an impasse was reached. Jocasta toyed with her brooch.
                A vote was cast. Tactical weaponry approved. Soon bombers roved in droves over roach territory.
                Despite the slaughter, the vermin – mounted only on skateboards – proved impervious. Arithmetic handcuffed us. We merely subtracted. They – wizards of geometry – divided and multiplied.
                Debate raged whether to strip the linoleum, bacteriophage the flooring, irradiate the studs, nuke the kitchen to its foundation; or all of the above.
                Ajax asserted the surplus of jobs obliteration would create. Pyrrhus submitted technology would carry the day. Ulysses ordered on the sly a pizza; hold all horses, except kingsize Trojans.
                Corporal Punishment arrived, carried in a basket. Jocasta fed the gadget reams of data. We awaited on pins and needles computerized wisdom – conventional arsenal exhausted.
                Out burped an answer: Since we possessed a nuke – use it!
                Jocasta was last seen sucking her baby’s input. Ajax hung himself, rather than succumb to the fumes of his own brain. Pyrrhus to this day can’t figure what failed. Ulysses uselessly struggles – brain in a bell jar – to slurp slices.
                Empty bombers, like swatted flies, tombstone the field. The kitchen is gone. Studs eradicated. Foundation cratered. While the roaches, determined as ever, now ride in coaches drawn by monkeys shrunk to the brevity and the ambiguity of ticks.


                No acid test to distinguish dream from reality exists.
                Dissolve to Linda Lovelace and Richard Nixon caught in Waiting For Godot. Stuck at the bus stop. Watches stopped. Jingling change. Constantly at odds with themselves. Uncertain who killed Cock Robin deep inside Grant’s Tomb.
                Linda lights a Virginia Slim. Titters, “Just to make the bus come – you know?”
                Nixon grunts, “Nobody ever does anything to make me come. The fuck stops here.” Then bitches how impossible these modern times to public speak. No sooner memorize a lie than – due to information fluctuation – whole paragraphs inoperate.
                Linda, blowing smoke, asks if he needs help getting anything down pat?
                Nixon waves a hand at the smoke. Frowns down at the pavement. “Young lady – would you mind blowing the other way?”
                “Sorry.” Linda drags, looks away from the aging sadsack. Sighs. Says to the frigid air that she herself is currently involved in memorizing a song, it being her goal in life someday to sing Happy Birthday to the President of America.
                “Monroe already did that.” Nixon idly squishes an ant. “For that cocksucker Kennedy.”
                “Oh, this wouldn’t be for Monroe,” Linda shoots Nixon the wide eye. “He’s dead. He was President, you know, during the Era of,” she leers, leaking smoke at Nixon’s ear, “Good Feeling. Now, I wouldn’t mind,” she sucks on the Slim, “if the President gave me a good feeling!”
                “No voter,” Nixon grumbles at the tiny corpse, “ever expects anything less.”
                “My trainer beat me with chains.” Linda tosses her butt. “Trapped me in a chain of events leading to the Feminists, who abused me worse yet.” Folds a stick of Wrigley’s into her mouth. “Just ‘cause I couldn’t act they ruined my career. What’s wrong with reality before the camera?”
                “Couldn’t agree more.” Nixon scuffs at the corpse, mashes it into the concrete, till the ant appears never to have existed. “They threatened me with jail just because my men set up a recording studio in the wrong building.”
                Linda pulls out a baloney and mayo. “Sometimes I wonder,” with her left hand she picks the gum from her teeth, sticks the wad inside her purse, “now America has stepped on the moon…” she eyes the new crescent slipping behind a Wonder Bread billboard… “is moonlight any dimmer?”
                “Let me make one thing perfectly clear,” Nixon frowns reflectively at the concrete. “The trash we left on the surface was highly reflective. If anything, moonlight strengthened. Under the watch of my administration the very heavens brightened. And yet,” he winces, as Linda bites into the white trash caviar, “I was forced to resign, nearly impeached.”
                “Was there any,” Linda asks with her mouth full, “sex involved?”
                He shakes his head. Says never in his life did he fuck. He just likes to talk trash.
                Linda gulps the half-chewed bite, licks mayo off lips, says, “But a man old as you – you must have children?”
                “Done in a lab. They put me under. Extracted fluid. Shot the stuff into Pat. Sure, I had kids. But I only did it…” he appeals into her baby-browns… “for the image.”
                Emotion sweeps over Linda. A cocktail of pity, greed, lust. Here stands a man in need, a man deprived, a conquest for the asking.
                “I could make you come,” she whispers. “Right here. Right now. We could step across the street. Duck behind that billboard. We’d see the moon again…”
                “Don’t be preposterous.” He sneers back down at the pavement. “Sex to me means nothing. My interests lie in securing power, control, leadership.”
                “Haven’t you ever wondered how good sex feels?”
                “Sex is no good. Period.”
                “What I’m talking isn’t really sex. I think the President of America will one day testify to that under oath.”
                “This a gag?”
                “No. My trainer taught me to control that reflex. Through his leadership I acquired the power to swallow even the biggest.”
                “I know a couple whoppers I bet you can’t swallow. How about: the insurgency is collapsing, we are winning their hearts and minds, the war will end by Christmas.”
                “Don’t be silly,” she titters. “That’s all hot air. Besides, America never lost a war; not even the Civil War; the moon is our fifty-first state. Don’t you ever masturbate?”
                “I don’t speak Greek.”
                “I don’t either. They beat me with chains to make me do it in the movie.”
                Nixon buries his head in his hands. Sobs in frustration. He just can’t understand why the bus won’t come.
                “My technique,” Linda chomps into the oozing sandwich, “is no different. Think of it as nurse-assisted masturbation. America’s gift to oral culture.”
                “You are poisoning my mind!” he garbles into tear-puddled palms.
                “That’s what they always say about pornography.”
                “I suppose your trainer,” he glares up, “warned you about porn?”
                “Chuck is a genius. America’s most artistic pimp. He could run for President, if he just wasn’t so intellectual.” Linda chucks the rump of the baloney-mayo into the gutter, belches daintily. “OK, now I’m well-fed, let’s hop across the street, take care of that little matter. Nobody’ll care, nobody’ll even see. Here, gimme your hand.”
                “Explain first just one thing,” he hands her a fist. “How did blow come to mean suck?”
                “Simple – in my trailer park we useta say: suck below. Hey, baby – you wanna suck below? And that got shortened to: su-below, then s’b’low, and finally how we come to know the word today: blow.”
                “I often wondered,” Nixon muses. “I asked Pat once. She slipped on her cloth coat. Fell to her knees. Pressed lips; blew. She blew hard, too; till her face blued bluer than when she blew the candles out her fiftieth; cyanosis, I believe the term. Anyway, both of us shrugged, gave up. I spent the rest of the evening struggling with my income tax, and she failed once again to conceive. Thank God for that laboratory. We truly are the nation that stepped on the moon. No revisionist can take that away from me – those bootprints are forever. I guess Pat – through no fault of her own – simply blew it.”
                “Don’t take it personally, Dick.”
                Nixon bristles with suspicion. Halts in the middle of the road. “How do you know my name?”
                “Because now I got your d-d-dick,” Linda quips, although, she’s such a lousy actress, her timing stinks, comes off in a stutter.
                Nixon ignores – paranoia dulling awareness – the flub. Looks around for the Secret Service, forgetting he’s trapped inside Waiting For Godot.
                “Take it easy, Dick,” she hooks an arm through his elbow, leads the rest of the way across the street, as we hear, offstage, the bus approach. “C’mon – be my friend, I might let you come in my face.”
                “We don’t want…,” a befuddled Nixon thinks back to the tapes. “We don’t want to… piss in anybody’s face.”
                Linda chuckles. Kicks off her heels. Edges barefoot over the gravel around behind the billboard, dragging along the dead President. “I suppose we could try.”
                They slip into deep shadow. The moon dodges a smokestack.
                Linda kneels. Gropes. Bobs. Dick sees himself underground. In the event, tosses over her permanent onto the sod.
                “Oh my god,” I mutter waking up inside a bus, pants wet. Resigned to Nixon, vowing in heaven to vote Linda.

Willie Smith videos can be found at YouTube
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