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Easter EveTo Eric Smiarowski's previous piece     To Part IITo Part II

Pulled Pork Manifesto

Jesus Mary and Joseph- there is no fucking heat in my apartment-I'm sitting inside at 1:50 in the morning on Thanksgiving night smoking a bowl with matches and drinking Heinekens which I don't even have to put in the goddamn fridge because it's a balmy 39 fucking degrees up here -Christ sake, my winter jacket and heavy shirts aren't cutting the frieking mustard. Here it is-found it while the getting's good because its only so long until the lights get turned off the phone cancelled and the car insurance lapses and the registration lapses and the inspection is 3 months over due and the poetry begins to descend onto my brain like some great clear eye in the middle of a shit hurricane to offer itself as the only reasonable explanation for the sun possibly existing beyond the idea in our collective heads as the source for all growing things to be seen on this green brown blue mesh of clouds floating above perdition as a purgatory for the eternally blasphemes energies on TV
Who am I-Kevin fuckin Spacy in Usual Suspects reading the story from the walls of some police officer's puke green office over cop's hemorrhoid coffee jittery brain
bouncing suspicions like a schizophrenic's worst nightmare which is believing
those voices some call intuition some call
son of sam

Picking my nose hurts when I see my breath but the beers are cold and lonely
- so light a match and cuddle under my nose over a bowl of weed as green as the
green next to the black of her eyes where I float as deadweight behind her evolution out of the sea where mercedes will devour her innocence holy shit I'm getting dizzy and dizzy in the fog of this creatures charms of design and for if one more second I type about she
I will vomit a comet straight through the great clear eye of the toilet spun sky.

you know what I mean do I need another beer at 4 fifteen? But the spins and the cold and the cold spins out of control from smoking that adjectively incapacitating sweet romantic digging a hole to bury alive the voodoo doll of my soul next to a creek overflowing with the Blood of Christ speared by contemporary soldiers of a mislead Babylonian army about to eat their own citizens because they're easier to catch than rabbits in the winter or a cold from sleeping with your brother -shit might as well have that cigarette as a last request before retiring another numbered square of the live long day


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