He fucking found me.
I skipped out on the UFC Cage Slam for cutting edge poets. I skipped out on the Santa Cruisers and their righteous tribute to the palace.
& he’s been dead over ten years now. He of all motherfuckers, wasn’t supposed to find me here; out on this god forsaken warehouse pier on the bay.
He stares me down with as evil a smile as ever has landed on me; with an apple in his hand, never breaking eye contact.
He takes another bite.
I look down quickly. A quick glance back demonstrates that this will be of no use.
He’s strolling over with a gleam in his eye that shouldn’t be there.
No one here’s got my back & no one should. They’ve all got his back.
His voice, unmistakable; some kind of hybrid between a growl & a drawl that is, yes: effete; and that much more frightening for that very fact.
“So I hear you’ve been scoring easy points off my dead ass.”
It’s time to cowboy up writer. It’s time to own your shit. I look him in the eye & confess:
“Yeah I did it Buk. I shit in your wheaties. I spray-painted a booger running out of the nose on the Mount Rushmore of the underground. I sold you out to sell a book of poems I didn’t even write. What can I say? Take it personally.”
& he laughs. Laughs loud. Uproarious spittle flies in my face.
Should I go for it?
Should I take a shot?
They say he was the one who took down Papa in a New Berdoo cockfighting pit before Papa went back home to Idaho & pulled the plug. I’ve sucker punched him twice now & now I don’t have the balls to commit to a third. Everything here on out has to be straight up & he’s already looking at me like he knows it.
“Listen to me you little punk ass bitch…is that how you shitbirds say it these days? I don’t know, we never called another man a bitch in my day without someone losing teeth. In any case, I don’t really have much interest in leaving you a worthless, piddling blob of blood, piss and vomit to be stepped on by all these stinking hippies in safari clothing…I just want to smoke this joint and listen to just another band from East L.A. rock my ass off…Listen. I respect what you did. You have every goddamn right to call me a phony, but don’t call me a cheater. Do not call me a cheater, you punk ass bitch. I worked too damn hard at cheating to be stuck with that after I died.”
I realize it is my hang up. I’m the horde. I’m the common man, with the common lust and the common ambition, with the common jealousy and the common envy. I’m the asshole who wants too much from my heroes & he knows it & all the safari hippies know it & by the time I figure this out he’s gone back into the crowd of drunken deliriousness.
I know I’m cursed now because he will never really leave me alone.