My friend Jeremy in high school drove his car through homeroom.
It was a protest of some kind, something about the nature of pedagogy
though maybe he just thought it was funny. For years my parents
referred to him as Crash Test Dummy. Crash test boy can’t get his life
right. But to me it seemed he had it exactly right. He listened to music loud
and one night, when he came to my new town to visit, went home with
someone to my place, and through thin walls I heard their kaleidoscope
chorus of—what?, don’t call it eros, call it an end to symphony, forty bazookas
launched at a bummer god. My parents said you must choose one of
three things: steady work, artistic freedom, or head of hair. Food, maybe,
in your stomach was a fourth. Stage 1: become professional. Stage 2: stay
professional. Stage 3: die. It’s a brief play in three acts that involves
obeisance to speed signs and emails that could have been meetings.
But the days I think I’m at my best are when I channel Jeremy;
there’s something that requires my attention, and it’s going to be messy,
it’s going to take every bone stupid in my body not to think and just: let it
rip. So howdy insect on the hood of my car that has blades for wings
and for all I imagine glows in the dark! Hello, one of a million messages
beamed in from a future where we’ve all gone our own ways, sans
category or apology. For the sake of something perhaps as defining
as a soul, better blow that gum into an ostentatious pink balloon, steer
your car through the big city alley promoting every trash can to bowling
pin. There’s a parade tomorrow celebrating the things of this world
if you want it to, and it’s going to take all of your life to understand
the sound of chickens is currency. See how green the land they roam,
stopping on one foot to holler like they just remembered god’s name.