Here Comes Ferris Again

Tiredness, taking shape as the growing curse, wrapping from my throat and into my sleeping schedule, sucking on the back of my brain and gnarling its tentacles through my sinus cavities.

“There’s insulation in my throat! I can damn well promise you that!”

Looking around the room beneath my throbbing eyebrow, “Who in this damn Hell is going to believe me? What’s it take to convince people something is wrong? Too many presidents died of pneumonia? Can I honestly say I’m better than them? Uninsured and with what all to live for? Children? a new mattress? more books? more words? flashing pictures? day after day of further masturbation sessions? friend envy?”

“Don’t worry about what there is to live for,” says the master. “Just live for it. It’s an easy solution, not thinking. Do your best to give not a fuck all. See how free you can jitter. How fast can you squirm. How loud can you scream, and will the shout sound more like your thoughts? Can you tell me what’s going on outside your window without getting in the way of yourself? Be the failure for me baby. Be there for them all, their messiah. Can you tell me what the lady you saw only ten minutes ago was wearing down to the small details? How about letting your head slip into madness? Not everybody can, you know. How about being the dishwasher for an Italian restaurant? or a cab driver? Have you ever thought about cutting up animal corpses? What about digging graves? Somebody has to do that. Not all things are done for you. You are not pumped with royal blood. There is a duty to society which you must pay. A pound of flesh is due from all.”

Now, don’t get upset… This isn’t me talking to you. It’s the master of me talking to myself. I wouldn’t come out here and preach to you like that. There are quotation marks around that rant. It’s a Miller Sagitack; the Ferris Bueller get-up-and-go. I’ve never been much for the running around, biking under the sun business. There is something I enjoy in the insomnia: that shaking of the head, with pain; bombs; lights flashing; epileptic seizures revealing the touch of god only a mouthful of paint dust can reveal.

I want a motel room, changing day by day, with the varying hot coffee of a long duster and a flip out badge. Give me a mystery and a brain capable of solving it. Throw in a bit of that zentuition which makes all the young men squirm, and a brain constantly beautifying itself while destroying it. I wanna walk these godforsaken streets with a body that can be boxed and battered without fear curling it to pill-bug patheticism. Give me the agility to ingest drug after drug, drink after drink, smoke after smoke, fuck after fuck, bashing books against your ears and laughing eccentrically.

“A real mad-man that one…” they’ll say, watching me from behind their curbside boundaries.

Like I’m Ferris himself, atop that parade float, dancing.

“Oh, the world is mine to play upon!” I shall shout. “And bullets are just fun slugs for practicing death around; and jail, well that’s just another place to go crazy in!”