with nothing but the tele' waves
and groans of bored kitty cats
and shave my head for God,
leave the house with alms hands
and circumambulation cries
and live Brahmin-like in alleyway insights.
Tomorrow,
I'll contrive a great concerto in your sorry honor,
I'll buy a bus ticket to Kathmandu and save all the children with my crooked teethy smile,
I'll walk into the flats of my id junkie compatriots and detail a holy litany upon their slowly crashing souls with their eyes upon my lifting voice
and I'll lick their tears dry with my unthoughts.
Tomorrow,
I'll unify the field theory into a great unyielding diety and strong arm the frankenstein complex, with a primal spit on the ground and one well placed figure,
I'll dynamite all the mountains to hell and shake hands with my neighbors with a hidden referendum for a cerebral holocaust just to move relations along,
I'll follow politician's paths right to the devil and I'll bring a spoon and we'll make a picnic out of it.
Tomorrow,
I'll seriously consider changing my clothes, combing my hair and baptizing thousands in my own blood,
I'll make noise about injustice cavaliers who take biographies from book files and burn them post-haste in city centers for the bad words lying within,
I'll throttle them with torn out pages ripped from pseudo-sex trops, and I'll give them the bank's lollipop holdings,
I'll put some sugar in my coffee, light a cigarette, and second-hand smoke you all to a gagging, clawing, teary death, at your assigned grave sites,
I'll take my chainsaw to the rugged mountains and cut down all the trees without a red X, without a last meal, and without a manifesto.
Tomorrow,
while you're all sleeping I'll lead a one man march on washington in protest of brain-washing boredom and first-class stamps,
I'll show them the great magical trick on network T.V. of sexually pleasing myself,
and I'll overdue it like hard-porn and ruin all your children,
leading the ruffian band to St. Helen's to pee over the side and finally quiet the anxious son of a bitch,
I'll crusade against the loud racket in congress by beginning the first naked-in
and I'll start a new religion that's rites include digging up past dead prophets and dancing wiht their dead bones,
freeing their inner-selves to start universities, prisons, and shopping centers.
Tomorrow,
I begin my master plan of stealing all the shells from all the beaches and monopolizing the sound of water entertainment market,
I'll instigate a cavity search of the earth martyring myself for the right of sodomy,
tomorrow,
I'll walk into the nearest jail, ask to see all the prisoners, remind them of those that put them there, and outline a revenge plan called: "The Justice of Liberty in Individual Psychosis",
I'll confess all my sins to the highest paid tele-evangelist and we'll head up a coup d'etat of God's bedlamic chambers, only to find him naked in bed with Aphrodite
and we'll realize, He really should be in charge,
tomorrow,
I'll pack my bag and head out safely on Highway 2 with my girlfriend and get lost in the everizon,
I'll find the world's lost socks and cat toys,
I'll develop an unholy prodigy novel, written in the third person of three people, all dead with migraines,
I'll exsume Horatio Alger's body and give it to the communists,
tomorrow,
I'll spend my day in a tavern, drunk,
I'll take over the perpetual reigns from the cyber-soul and find that Lysergic Acid is a mold on wheat and that Salem sighs deeply because of it, that May has a monarch because of it, that I can fully enjoy music television only because of it,
and I'll close all the insance asylums with the clapping of my solved one hand.
Tomorrow,
I'll read my eulogy to the skin cancer dead Apollo and the failed liver of Dionysus,
I'll have a grande carnival in the street of every dead city and erect a burning Christmas Tree where millions will swear holy oaths that they saw the Virgin Mary finger-fucking Saint Anne in Christ's iron belly womb,
tomorrow,
I'll hold nothing sacred except for Silver Cows, loose change and a lack of punctuality,
I'll gather all the delegates from the world's smartest nations and lobotomize their sanctions,
tomorrow,
I'll find a seat beside Belacque,
tomorrow,
I'll bear the anti-christ but she'll die in the toilet,
and tomorrow,
we'll embrace the mayor of Sodom, and we'll all realize in unison, like the late joke that it really was, that it all has nothing to do with happiness,
that stolen pears have nothing to do with naked Eve partaking of a good fuck while Adam was off developing the ideal of his maker who constructed the illusive soul out of irony 'cause he knew what his wife was actually, honestly up to,
and tomorrow, I'll seriously sit down and consider your apologies.
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"Tomorrow", copyright Christopher WunderLee, 2002
First published in THE SPLEEN