Dead on Fort CrookDead on Fort CrookDead on Fort Crook by LettuceEat
The radiator plumes.
I've overheated, it seems.
I flip on the hazards
and sit while ablebodied
cars and trucks shark
and minnow past. The senses
are heightened in times of forced
immobility. I notice, for one thing,
that the street where I've died
is called Fort Crook, that the sign
is crooked, that forms do not persist
when you are dead in traffic,
they appear and vanish like hand
tricks, irrelevant and new
forever. I light a cigarette.
Cigarettes, too, share
this newness and irrelevance
when viewed from the present.
Where did they all go?
Stalactites in my lungs, frog hops
in my chest. The radiator fumes sweep up
the cigarette smoke, then they spiral
together and become air.
I could be here all day. I don't need
help. Let me be the eyes, watching
this new irrelevance born, fading, reborn
but always fading.
Farewell TourWe are Skullstryke and we won't stop rawkin.Farewell Tour by LettuceEat
Man, playin Chicago tonight, still one helluva city even after you rawked there two fuckin billion times. But I feel blue as hell for some reason. Oh. May 19. Occurs to me that it's been 21 years to the day since Skiv choked to death on his own puke in the shitter of a Shoney's in Sioux Falls. Pour half my bottle out in the sink and then take a few swigs myself. Fuckin rawk, Skiv. Look in the mirror and my makeup's running.
Thinking about Skiv makes me think about Dieter, makes me wonder where the hell he is. In '83, he didn't show up for a gig so we had to cancel. Detroit was pissed. Went back to the hotel thinking we'd find him dead in the bathroom like Skiv, but he was just gone, and he didn't even take his stuff. Turns out he talked to Buddha and caught a plane to Russia or someplace to find him. Kinda sad to lose Dieter. Fuckin rawked hard. Hope he's happy, wherever he is. Hope he found Buddha.
Thinking about Dieter makes
Coyle's DreamCoyle was wearing a tweed suit and a strained grimace as he slogged from the restroom to his table for two. It was draped in brown cloth, veiled in pale sunlight, embellished in the center with a frumpy beige tulip drowning in a shallow plastic vase of green water. The table was propped up against a window looking out onto the Plaza and was set up such that he could peer morosely out at the streets without looking like a recluse, so he would seem momentarily miserable without looking like a long-term loner. He wanted to come across as ditched, stood-up, not as some freshly divorced deadbeat drunk nobody.Coyle's Dream by LettuceEat
He threw down a slug of wine and watched the dopey men in ties and creased pants pass by the window arm-in-arm with their flowery-skirted wives. Everyone was summery. In July, this place stayed the same midwestern shithole it always was, but people satisfied themselves with the delusion that the growl of traffic was really the soft whisper of the ocean, that the blue-black grackle
The Apple ThingMy only problem with the girl was the way she ate her apples. She would always skin them first, with her teeth. Sometimes it'd take her ten minutes. What's the point of even eating an apple if it takes you ten minutes to skin it? She'd peel the whole thing naked and leave these long, red curls of apple skin on her plate, which was disgusting enough. But the noise it made, Christ. It'd make you cringe to hear it. Other than that, though, she was really something. I never brought up the apple thing.The Apple Thing by LettuceEat
She took work off for a few days and drove off to visit her folks. I stayed around the apartment like always. The first day, I fetched the paper in the morning and sat up in bed with a sharpie, circling some jobs I could do without having to kill myself or anything. In the afternoon, I rode my bike downtown, just to get out. It was raining, but I rode anyway. I've never had a problem with rain.
The second day, I got the idea in my head to clean the apartment. The girl always use