Two months since my order and the Ed Gein ringer-T shirt still flounders in the mail. Flounders? Founders? Be sure to look that up. Took Timber to the Sink for open mike night. "Cunnilingus at 3 A.M." went over OK. No one noticed I’d stolen "jellied fire" from Nabokov. Mike Gravseth was there with another story about the time he made absinthe from a mail-order kit. I hate that guy. I hate that I told him I was writing a poem about Jesus standing trial for impersonating Himself, and he went and wrote a story about Jesus standing trial for impersonating Himself. Jerk.

There’s a camera on me. Look intense, Jason, look intense. Lalalalala. Intense intense intense. I wish they’d shoot in black and white; I’m more intense in gray. C’mon, Jason, write. Write write Jason Jason Jason. What kind of rebelartistseersage has a name like Jason, anyway? I wish my name was Ravi Sedgwick. Or Suggie Sedgwick. Or Beautiful Billy Smalls.

Oh shit, just looked at the camera. That camerawoman is pretty cute, actually, though I’m trying to nudge my libido toward the brimmingeyed Mexicanmadonna paradigm. That’s resolution #4 on the list. Or is it #5? Wait, #5 is the Big Sur whorehouse weekend. #4 is to make it with a Hispanic chick. Latina, I mean. Latina. Resolution #4: Fuck a Latina. Blondes really do something to me, though; that camerawoman looks so sexy in her floral pantsuit. Is she looking at me? I think she’s looking at me. And not just in a doing-her-job kinda way.

Okay, c’mon, gotta write a poem, Jason. I wish I could get that bastard Gravseth outta my head. Last week he read a piece critiquing bourgeois complacency using soda brands—had a great line about the cans being red, white and blue. I’d never thought about that before, about the cans being red, white and blue. Only Pepsi cans are, really, but it was chilling anyway. That guy’s a real poet. Timber was all over him last night, whispering in his ear and telling me later that they were "planning their next piercings." Well, he can have her. He can find out for himself that she uses Not-Socks as female condoms, that she likes Garth Brooks, that she glues googly-eyes to sticks of dynamite and mails them to Charles Osgood. I will never understand her problem with CBS Sunday Morning. Okay, Jason, c’mon, write a poem, write a poem!

give us this day our daily bread.
what do you mean, "no bread," America?
i know you’ve got bread, i see it, i seen it
i see it drive by in audi, volvi, lexi
while your breadless masses be dodging drivebys

don’t you hand me no Wonder Bread, America!
your Iron Man and his Country Pride
can’t put me in no Brick Oven
stuff me in no Cracka Barrel
put that shit back on your Safeway shelf

America, you hear me? America, you listening?
don’t want no cookies from no tree not full of no sweatshop-starving elves

(got my Keebler, gettin’ feebler
Dinty Moore, American whore
Betty Crocker, plastic knockers
i ain’t gonna work on Pepperidge Farm no more)

Pretty good for a first draft, I guess. Gravseth’s "In the Supermarket Screaming Candy! Candy! Candy! Screaming War! Snacks and Crackers! Screaming No to the Goo Goo Cluster Bomb" was better. God, she’s sexy. Sexier than Timber, for sure. Maybe I’ll just turn and wink into the camera, give her the eye through the lens. I look good now, I look intense, I can feel it. That "breadless masses" line is really good. I’m a great goddamn poet sometimes.

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