Can I have paradise on a Monday when the church bells are too hungover to be rung? I want to see a starlit harlot, put her in a jewelry box, and let her sing the songs she hummed while horse thieves were hanging. My own patron saint has deceived me. He got busy wearing a suit and tie; now he hangs his head out the window and screams, Fucking Wall Street! No big deal— he just watched The Exorcist on repeat; now he sees Damien Karras while shaving in the mirror. Tarantino said it was a perfect film, so who the hell am I to think twice on what is crystal clear? I’d fear for my life, but I already lost it in Egypt looking for the remnants of a king who got slayed by some mystic goddess he couldn’t appease. Mortality against my will, I must accept. Not by standing still or before the great freedom fireworks in June, when the bald eagle rains hell on earth for liberty, and Congress declares war on red balloons. O say can you see! Some feel so satisfied they cannot smile and say things like “Good god, look at that mighty ocean— it makes me feel free.” Yes, it is ugly, I say. That mighty ocean is all talk, and the mountains that fall into it are screaming violence and theft. So let the novelty be bereft. With the ghosts of Christmas Past showing me my tomb, I shall learn that to resume among mice and men is true: no plan can withstand what happens when God closes His hands. So, in the interest of keeping myself out of sight, I'll sink in quicksand— let it spit me out across the universe. It can't be any worse than bleeding out the freak at church.