Sunday, November 28, 2004

Dear Topher Grace,

There are some many places to see when inside the white man’s brain…why it is that you desire my form and function is marketable, but equally mind-boggling. If I were to meet you face to face I would challenge you to an Inuit ear pull, and then I would get you good and drunk. There would be nothing better for me then to watch you in the throws of a good whiskey-spill.
You are an ironic painting promoted as an idol, and I am pure purring soul. It would take a group of seven darts in the neck to tranquilize my unquenchable thirst for your fame. Yet all I have is jury duty with Pauly Shore as coles notes. When your Mercedes careens down the Hollywood hills in a fiery hell ball, then, I will become your biggest fan. I will mount the railing of some sloshy rooftop patio, and look down upon your disfigured face and cackle. Like faceless children from a Pink Floyd Soundtrack we (the royal) will get our justice…you can only appropriate my essence as long as the Calgary tower stands.
Do not mistake me, I wish the best for any wolf in sheep’s clothing, but you cannot and will not sweat this hunt out Every instance of the word ‘Foreman’ now is like a thumbtack buried deep into my arm. Keep your ‘Teen beat’ and ‘Sixteen’s in a stash under your bed, because when the dust settles I want to sleep in your sheets and whiff your pillow while I read about your latest piss. Let white sand pour through this glass funnel until the last stone falls…and I wait with antici----pation. For you are an hour glass whose lion's share is emptiness and transparence. When will all the fighting end? Our Bronco doesn’t seem to care…lo the canary who whispers in his ear. The sheep will take flight in fear. Cast off their wooly housecoats, and prance in costume of blood and sinew looking for you.

10 p.m. The trumpets bellow


Combine Harvester11:11 PM

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