have you been to the sea since it’s turned into obsidian?

by dschapman

would you please leave the door locked at night, and dare not peek through the curtains? would you please hang garlic from your doorknob and shove a towel along its base? would you please write me a letter, draw me a stamp, and send it through the daily mail? today is the day for different and better things. i’m loaded. i’ve been taken pills since sunrise. i can’t see straight. i’m cornering my neighbors and whispering poetics in their ears and they may not forgive me come tomorrow. god, things are spinning. the window is wide open and shivering. the window is shut and i’m sloughing the sweat from under my pits away with a sock. i’ve already taken the television out back and shot it with my beretta. i’ve already gone hunting for beavers in the back woods but only made it to clerk street and found myself in a beauty parlour. i hung my rifle on the wall and settled in for a shave.

a few handfuls more and the doctor is out the door. it seems like i’m finally getting dumber, like i’ve finally beat my painful sharpness into a tender, sweet lump of ignorance. it was hard work. you wouldn’t believe how much it takes. ‘drinks all day,’ if you will, but not me. my ways are more subversive. i look back on the list and frown. coca cola up the nose, cacti, catatonia k, black tar, a three-green blend, amphetamines and meth and meph and mescaline and lysergic acid… he’d lost half the list somewhere, and couldn’t remember for the life of him what it might’ve said. anything goes; ‘go for broke,’ you’d hear him say, and you got to watch while he dove right in. he never even took his suit off.

the first step is believing in your self; next comes an intimate understanding of god. and god is sitting on his rock, and i am sitting on mine, and we are face to face. two thinkers, one gazing east and one gazing west. i am mine, and he is his, and from here we do no harm. i’d like to see him try to outthink me, bring me down. i’ve written my own scrolls, you old bastard. and they say nothing of holiness, except that holiness is and we all are. i’ve never met more holy men than those that inhabit america, in that neverland the south, where they live amongst the ruins of a fabled place of myth and marriages and bayonets where great mansions housed chivalrous, lazy and tragic men, who perched atop their epoch of civilization and built upon the backs of glorious, beautiful black men and women, boys and girls, who not only built the complex maniacal world of the Whites but also their own heart and soul civilization, built from the dust up, scavenged from the broom handles and bottle caps, a divine and luminous culture as high as any other man has ever known.