#Fuck2016
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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