With Gusto

Rough Draft

What I’d do to the Moon
Lucid dreaming, such a fantasy. I’d love to question Sam, a dream-character. Ask Sam Sam’s meaning, then twease Sam’s unibrow, give Sam some exfoliage cream. Then I'd pick Sam up by Sam's underpants, then fly Sam to the moon, which would always be full. I’d get to the moon fast. I’d reach out, grab the moon like a donut and reel the moon in. Once there, Sam would choke and die, Sam having less power than me. I’d want to rescue Sam, lend Sam some fashion sense, but I’d let Sam be the first body for my first mass grave. Then I’d fly back to earth and pick Stacy up by Stacy's underpants, then suffocate Stacy on the moon. Then back in dream-city, I would work up a sweat then sneak into Vanity Smurf’s bathroom and break his mirror and rub his underpants with my wet groin. After that I’d fly up Island and slit the throat of a barge captain, let barge captain's blood slide over the wet smell of dead trees, then I'd pick up barge by barge's underpants and haul barge to the moon.
Soon I’d believe, after the psychosis of murder set in, that each pair of underpants embodied a usless memory up for grabs. Like the time I wiped the counter, or knowing that the guy from the drum shoppe probably saw me steal his drumkey but didn’t do anything about it except talk about free chopsticks around the drumstick shelf. I learned a lesson my friends learned in High School, back when my friends and I shoplifted. I was the only one who didn’t get caught and banned from a store. The memory is that shoplifting isn’t bad, shoplifting is embarassing.
What if I killed the drumkey instead of the plaid cloth streaking the counter free of the counter's crumbs and grapefruit rinds. My brain could present me with a matador the size of a football field and with an ear for sitcoms. I’d kill matador, for sure. It wouldn't matter what matador meant. A matador would be a disgusting prize. I’d tell matador to get out of my city, then pick matador up by matador's underpants, sneak a look at matador's braided pubic hair, then fly matador up to the moon. Another body draped in a crater. What if matador embodied the metaphysics of the drumkey? What then! What if I trusted the brain to make the right decision, not knowing that brain has selfish pursuits and needs for real estate.
Sooner or later, I’d take Carl Jung up to the moon. Carl Jung’d be surprised, of course, as Carl Jung's so invaluable. I’d choke Carl Jung long enough to make Carl Jung question Carl Jung. Then I’d stuff Carl Jung into a television and leave Carl Jung alive in there on the moon, breathing up against the screen. The fog marks would make Carl Jung look unclear. Then I’d make a ritual out of killing off memories. For the last two moments of a dying dream-character, a dying dream-character would watch a blurry Carl Jung pressed inside a television.
Eventually I'd demonage my dead characters to two gargantuan craters and paint all the characters mauve. From earth, these would look like eyes. Then I’d paint more bodies into a smile. And during those bare-foot moments on my patio before bed, I’d stare at the smiley faced moon with a mug of low-end cabernet sauvignon in my hand. The rest of the world would look at the smiley face and wonder where the bodies came from, and who painted them mauve.