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.)
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
No comments:
Post a Comment