ToBS R1: Chapbook blurbs vs Facebook-based political ‘activism’
[Matchup #24 in Tournament of Bookshit]
Facebook-Based Political ‘Activism’
Active is a funny word. Also the word, Like. You know Flannery O’Connor never asked a damn person to be a Christian, she just wrote these badass stories where all the phonies got their fucking heads blown off and their families slaughtered and then maybe some “Agent of Grace” would go and seduce a fat ass and steal their fake leg. That’s the way to do it. Seems to me you got a mirror problem. Or you spent sixth grade with an eye-blinking tic. (They called you Blinky.) Or photos of your own head or your severe-or-doughy offspring’s head all J.C. Penny glossy on the beige-ass walls. I bet your palms smell hot and funky. You’re white. Tuck in your shirt and have one of those little cases on your belt for the cellphone and a little ripple, a little soft, soft, soft fish-belly over the top of the waist of the jeans. Keep four pill bottles in a neat, black case stuffed in a Nike shoe, in the crisper drawer of your refrigerator. But what do I know? Nothing, except that to ask if I’m happy every day is a goddamn insult to the other 98% wondering why the light bulb keeps flickering off…Hey Slaw-Cheeks, Facebook groups, Pages and Events are as helpful for your enemies as they are for you. Only James Bond villains tell everyone their plans, and see what happens? Sharks, de-railed trains, suffocated by octopi, shot by Bond/shot by Bond/shot by Bond, oh my. Or: I keep getting this vision of sweaty you in the Toys “R” Us parking lot masturbating to a conjured image of a yellow cats, smiling yellow cats running circles along a Go-Cart track in Rhode Island…You don’t tip bartenders for shit, do you? That nagging feeling, it’s your head rolling about a black cart rumbling and clanking iron-wheeled down a dark road, to the dump, all of this an honest image of the shadowworld, your soul, a knobby goat (most likely pulled the cart—that’s called honest work, you Enormous Fuck) gnawing at your eye socket, then to the elbow, the pale, calloused index finger of your Liking. You hose. You greasy hose.
Yes I will. Yes I like it. No I never said I wanted two copies, one to roll the joint, the other to burn to light the joint. One to shoot with my shogun, one to shoot with my bow. One to eat, the other to wipe up all this vomitus. Or whatever you have there, or mention you have there, that I “said” on your phone. Yes I will. Yes I like it. If you do me, I’ll do you…this sounds like a lawsuit, no an ass-whooping, no a trading of weedy underwear, or worse a marriage. I like the word gossamer. I like, moon. Also when We and It are juxtaposed…Hell, I like the whole damn thing, every Black on White, these accumulated pleats or pleads reminding me actually of low-level ghosts (like maybe an expired credit card number or the vestiges of gas) and these specters floating through the air, then a damn hummingbird pierces the ghost! Or a dime is cut from the belly of a carp! Only less cliché than that…When is someone going to finally fight off all these tree limbs? Can’t you see them? I keep signing my own forehead in tree limbs. I’m joking, no I’m joking. They are more than tree limbs. I apologize. I’m so sober right now I’m drunk. Wait until I’m drunk, I’ll recant all this. Yes I will. Yes I like it. IF! No, no just jesting. I’m a jester, with a residence. Send it to: HANDKILNED BRICK PATH TO MY OWN, NOON TRAFFIC, INDIANA. You? BLOG-WAX BLVD, GOSPEL SHIT, ARKANSAS. Cool, I guess we have a deal, or shall we say a deal-dough? Ha, ha. That’s funny as old people. Remember, send me two copies: One to shit on, the other to wipe my ass away. Coils. And coiling. Let’s pray.
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WINNER: Facebook-based political ‘activism’