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art by Esther Brown

Guest Post by BARAKANOEL

Fuck You —- : 1984

 

“…oh well what ever never mind”

 

*listening to an ex lover cover the body fails, i keep getting up to leave the room and wash my face; which

is really fucking annoying. i’m drinking bourbon – my friend —- died. i was in love with

her. we used to

tour sometimes, by accident. i was a good influence (i don’t shoot up). last time i was

living in oakland,

i went out to see —- in vegas. oakland has been getting whiter; but i still can’t send mail

from the closest

post office. and my friend died. the open mic at the pedophile- owned bar shut down.

everyone i know is

sick and exhausted, sick and tired of this election, spinning out in agitated orbit. seeking

liberation, parallel

in the struggle – sharing contagion.

 

—-‘s dead.

 

i tend to complicate shit. count my hours by the bottle. self medicate. someone said i

needed a therapist. i

told her nah: what i need is adderall, community and a manager. everyone i know keeps

building up an ark

against the flood. as Oakland slathers on Madame CJ Walker’s bleaching cream. so now

i’m looking more

dangerous with every frame & don’t think i don’t see them cops noticing. thing is – i don’t

want to die any

less than i did before i heard the announcement (as if it was a wedding or something)

everyone thinks my

friend died today & i can’t tell if i’m the crazy one. which is what they always tell me.

great artists are ass

holes. so you gonna stop reading bukowski? quit watching movies? i’d rather be fucked

up than mediocre.

 

to recap:

 

oakland is too fucking white, now. and i’m too loud with my mouth shut. i told myself i

wouldn’t leave pdx

until i’d burned every bridge. i weigh the benefits of mortality on a daily basis but

everyone is saying my

friend died and i’m sitting here trying to believe i know better. any body can disappear in

the information age.

 

families, political candidates and parties, entire cities – difficult to know if anything is

real. i haven’t seen an

obituary, so i’m cross legged in bed waiting for the credits to roll, looking at the other

shoe that just dropped on

the floor. she texted me to say that she was dead and then she was. like Hip Hop. like

Oakland. we all saw it

coming and just couldn’t get out of the way.

 

this is the essay i was writing when i learned that my friend died.

this is the essay i was writing when i learned that my friend died.

 

i don’t remember why. i don’t feel sad that —-‘s dead. time spent with her was like time

spent with her. we

only hung out once, every time. i don’t miss —- any more than i did an hour ago. i wish

she had told me. no.

i wish she hadn’t had to tell me so many times. i wish i didn’t agree with her decision. had

more to offer than

our mutually assured destruction. we could have gone out better than that. god damn it —-.

you didn’t even

make a decent record. sitting in the desert with out someone to exploit you properly. i

fucking hate you, —-.

 

fuck you —-. you wasted your life fucking the wrong people and forgetting how the

drugs were meant to

mean something. fuck you. you didn’t even write a novel.  why the fuck did you have to

call your shot?

 

not you and i my nigga we gots to: a)   get this fuckin year over with before somebody

else gets hurt. b) she

wanted to join the military c) —- told me she was from oakland.

 

she told me a lot of things. the last time i spoke with her father – god damn it —-. there’s a

lot of better places

you could have gone. you fucking idiot. you fuck-up. you barely made it out the desert.

you ruined everything.

 

because of you, i can’t breathe. i may be going blind or deaf. you fucking idiot. suicide is

a hack move. you’re too

old to be a rock star, —-. go home. i guess i should pour out some liquor for you, —-, but

you were an alcoholic

and you never shared your heroin; so i guess i’ll keep it to my self. you’re a fucking hero.

and i hate you. forever.

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Broke-Ass Stuart - Editor In Cheap

Broke-Ass Stuart - Editor In Cheap

I've been called "an Underground legend": SF Chronicle , "an SF cult hero": SF Bay Guardian, and "the chief of cheap": Time Out New York, but to those familiar with my work, I'm just "that douchebag who writes books about cheap stuff and drinks a lot".