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| May 4th,2008 |
| How many demons
can Lambada on a Hyster rake? How many mornings have I come awake to the sound of garbage trucks on an otherwise peaceful street?—the groan and grind of heavy metal, hydraulic squeal and white noise combustion like magma and bile re- gurgitated from the bowels of the earth? Of course, once you’ve heard these garbage trucks, early in the morning, there is no hope of getting back to sleep, since they tweak a raw and primal adrenaline nerve; it's the way they shake up a one-ton dumpster like a rag doll, like nothing at all, and their steady pulse of air raid bleeps spitting one - two - three from stealthy speakers jammed up in the high-rider cab… Once, in the mid-1990’s, I spent a night in jail for sneak-dumping a Hefty sack of sodden Playboys and used tampons into the side-street trash receptacle of a Korean convenience store. Mister Lee, you see-- he had me dead to rights on misdemeanor video cam camouflaged under the eaves by plane tree leaves. After bailing out of stir, I paid a hefty fine, but still, for months afterward, official letters from the Garbage Commissioner kept reaching me at all my new addresses— these letters said they had their eyes on me, and next time things would likely not go down so very easily. I would scan these Garbage letters, scoff, rip them up, and flush them down the toilet, but they left a residue, as jackboot footnotes invariably do have a way of piling up like handbills from a storefront abortionist who’s rent has come way Past Due... like the voices in my head going ‘round and ‘round with officiously sexless nasal robotic female squawks from a cop’s dispatch box, all those handcuffs up in there with Houdini locks and Plexi-glass on Darth Vader dashboard—well out of reach but can read your thoughts anyway--your thoughts, dirty and in- consequential as dun seagulls circling a steamy Camden landfill in the middle of fucking August. I tell you the absolute straight-up fact, that 9 out of 10 times, it’s Fear that gets us out of the damned warm and musky sack in the morning... Courage, on the other hand, is coming up with the bad-ass Hershey Squirts from some rancid strawberry jam and too-strong java, it's that god-awful shit-stench between your rubbery legs, late for work and absolutely no T.P.—but still you go on ahead and bravely improvise some unnatural wipe from an unanswered jury summons been lying around the reading room close at hand for far too long now, anyway. |
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| Truth Serum Is a Tetanus Shot |
| by Dennis Mahagin |