The Faux Pas Press #70

The Faux Pas Press #70

By Jason Fresh

22 November 2010

My world is clear, cleared of weirdness by embracing it. My word is shear, sheared like haircut goodness fucking it. There’s always more beneath the surface though. I have become invisible. My parking spot is always open, cleared like haircut goodness. Clearing the house of spirits foreign to me is easy. Clearing the spirits that I know is a life-long process, a process worth all the hard work I’ve put into it.

You can’t leave any vestibule to the related world a ghost possesses. No picture. No Ouija. No portal. Yes. When you decide to shut them out, it is permanent. (But I guess nothing is really permanent.)

Now, after the terrorists have been exiled from your consciousness, you free to think and breathe as you must. You’re free to find a nice chair and read Walt Whitman’s Song of Myself. Yes, read that piece and then try to pretend you’re not gay. You won’t be able to unless you banish Whitman for the Universe too. Banishing is not easy but it is worth it. (Even if you do question your sexuality I wouldn’t banish Whitman. He is a fine companion on the road to perdition.)

The Faux Pas Press #69

The Faux Pas Press #69

19 November 2010

By Jason Fresh

Sucker

They won’t ever tell you if you’re a sucker,
won’t tell you if she is banging another.
But, for sure, above all else,
they will call you out when you need to be preserved,
call you out before dinner is served.
They’ll say some ignominious shit, brother.
“Where have you been, brother?
And why have you not called?
Have you seen your Uncle?
He straight went bald.”
“No other person on this planet will say for you
what you can say for yourself,”
is the predictable response that I give.
But I’m in limbo between past and nowhere.
So, it’s just limbo really.