60 more days
· 14 March 2005 ·

*this was an e-mail that i wrote to Colin to inform him how many days until i would be returning and then add a little crazy name. Well the crazy name i was creating began to grow a life of its own, and as the letter is in such a strange format, i’m going to call it poetry.

60 more days my rubber nipple lacerated undulating lubricated petrified hair-ripping pencil-chewing zebra-fisting wasabi smoking tyrant of a dirty two-toothed playground see-saw scabby prostitute whose distressingly offensive smell repels parasites that cling to masticating dentures fixed to the soggy swollen gums of an overly-senile octogenarian politician picking the sores on his pistol-rubbing backwards ingrown dumbass mutt of a poodle and shar pei on a summer full of such un-bridled open kanine sexual frustration that the entire poulation of the south side of that shithole city of Burlingame, California took their farmer-tanned thrift-store-duffel-bag-toting frizzy-haired vibrating cup holder society through the sweltering heat of the 1974 city hall crusty brown fake wood doors stuck to the building’s shriveled old foundation ontop of a of an ancient aztec burial ground of mescaline-chewing virgin-sacrificing penis-mutilating burnt-neck cracked brained spiritual shamans whose dirty fingernail scraping on the floorboards of your suburban cookie cutter urban sprawl slandering fork-tongued wacked out evangelical pillsbury doughboy rolling Oprah moms living-room complete with wall-to-wall carpeting and a framed picture of Ronald Reagan that hangs off skew to the spider-infested kid’s room upstairs strewn with secondhand ratty old dolls and plastic toy soldiers with missing legs and toy trucks missing the little wheels off their tiny fake chrome made-in-china superficial quality rims that gleam in the dull glow of a thick light-swallowing dusty yellow and orange plaid curtain duct taped to the side of the peeling flower and bunny schemed Wal-Mart wallpaper rolled on by a ragged old spaced out hippie named Frankie living on the 3rd floor of a seedy apartment complex in west San-Fransisco that he bought with money he made selling opium to 17 year olds in the sickly summer of 75 out of the back of his exhaust puffing brown and red 1972 Brubaker Van which he bought from the same man who bought the famous thunderous back-firing gas-guzzling red-hot demon from whatever kind of automobile hell that exists here on earth, the man with the balls to drive that un-tame-able 1975 Datsun 260 Z was none other than that crazy-eyed samurai sword-waving chocolate milk-chugging magnanimous mad-man, Mr. Colin Fucking Bean

60 more days…..

Written by Patrick Holahan

seperator