the first murder in the family

andy pink, gaye, florida —

you only die thrice —

the first murder is always the easiest. it originates in ordinary vengeance and sad boredom. Mine was very easy. I found it surprisingly forgiving, shockingly imaginable, and an utter mistake. In the end, there was no good reason. I was out of eggplant — uncharacteristically — and while i suppose i could have shlepped to the grocer’s freezer and purchased an overpriced but undersold stack of purples and greens, i just decided to kill someone. i don’t think i’ll mention this person because he is dead. in some ways, as a jew but not yet a christian — one day, we hope — i feel the need to keep his name a secret (patrick) who is standing before me, but 10 feet away, at this local starbucks in the midst of a jewish ghetto in the midst of a blowy atmosphere in the midst of an economic resurgence in the midst of a cut hard-on in the midst of an uncomfortable case of the blue balls in the midst of the mist of a can of soda in the midst of an unfettered and unkempt location — here —

i was working on the academic book earlier — i’m stuck on “dear gone,” my magnum opus of polished suicide notes — but here i am, face to face with blond and nose and cheeks, a soft comforting voice of good parents and a hard lot — but he wants nothing more because he knows: such is the world. this is precisely what i feel, though not earlier on the subway when, in bemused but angry confrontation with some Larouche muckrakes, I made the calculated mistake of yelling: “hamilton was not a good guy!” i suppose, one central bank is enough, really, and if we need to have banks — well isn’t it nice that one is so close, with sparkling eyes, no shame, heavy worries that he takes not as a christian cross but as a buddhist meditation — no, not yoga, despite the massive forearms which i can only deign to find in my life apart from his — it is impossible not to work here because he transforms my work into play, just listening to his voice, imagining a presence that i no longer need to fathom from the depths of haldol and the wings of lithium — here he is — must i wait till jupiter on february 20 — this is my year, it’s been decades since jupiter has bothered to round the bend, first star on the right, straight on till blowjob. my only fear is that he is uncircumcised, but i suppose — out of love, which this so markedly is: not crush, not obsession by calvin klein, not comedy by richard klein — he just mentioned “packets of honey for your tea” — he need not even do that because of his beauty and potential for snowboarding. i say to my mother, who is stepster: why bother invoking muhammad when a terroristic ball-sucking will leave this boy bound to his skis? — and ice on his ear tips, without patriots hat, without life-preserver, without strawberry preserver — without life, that’s what happened: i blew his head off.

let’s all admit, once and for all, together: a hardware store is the coolest place to work. imagine the inventory scripts!

i would post this now but then it would have to end, to be departed from him ills me and i feel already lost in his presence. i wonder if the ulcer pains will wind out, and i hope that my aorta will still pump and mime while i am giving him cpr as his brain oozes cum and blood, when his ventriloquist hands jerk off his limp dead cut penis — and there i am for him: i will drool over his balls, i will ravage his ventricles, i will cut his hair, i will make him perfect for a funeral that i will give the final lecture at — and then: i too will make him blow my fucking head off — and he will — to die, they say, will be an awfully impressive croquet stroke indeed.

i can actually type while watching him though i find it hard to make eye contact with him; i have no idea what color his eyes are but i bet they are brown — they are — i have no definition of his eyebrows, though i am sure that his ears are perfect and i would nibble on them at the gravesite but i fear i would possibly bite them off, more blood and cum, bones and boners, crutches and snow — to do a line with this man — why: serotonin is overrated when you’ve got a beautiful boy’s penis down your esophagus — they are blue, lightly.

if you want to comment: dude, you’ve got to get laid. i will admit: i have no interest in such.

pony show, andy

postscript: i made a few childish errors in my description of him.