The Hunchback of Washington DC
 
There are idiots, then there are idiots. The difference is which one’s a simpleton and which is simply a fool. Charles Laughton was the pope of fools, and Esmarelda rang his bells. Women are like that I suppose, always driving men crazy. But it’s like I always say, it takes a village to raise an idiot and an idiot to raze a village. The president falls down a flight of stairs and launches missile strikes on Mississippi. What a moron. He thinks Hugo was just some hurricane. He’s never even heard of Baudelaire, though he once ate a breakfast croissant. Personally, I find the French quite stimulating. They invent theoretical systems of self-destruction. They go on strike and riot over wages. They lost every war they’ve fought. I think they think too much. Some things even an idiot can figure out, like Brigitte Bardot or that Citroën I once drove, sailing across the level earth on a cloud. 



Postcards from the Deep End
 
I’ve been vacationing on the far side of my mind. The vegetation is thick with green thoughts. The roots tangle and twist into straws that draw deep water. A leopard, or is it a cheetah, rips the still beating heart from a young gazelle. I can smell the iron in its blood dripping from the postcard I bought in Nairobi. Except this is Atlanta and the menu is fried chicken. And though I’ve never been to France, I’ve wept hearing the little sparrow sing. The world is a jungle of scheming predators, most of them human. In the dark places, the teeth of murderers are infallibly white. Once, in Manila, I was hungry and willing to eat the worst of things. The intestines of an animal curled in a steaming bowl of dirty broth. The worms that dug into my gut were a curse that grew with time. Even now my protozoan lover consumes me in his madness. Sometimes I think I’m losing my mind. But that’s all I have to say for now. Having a wonderful time. Wish I were here.