Teddy..

When I was about 13 I bought a Teddy Ruckspen from Good Will. The bear already had a blank white tape jammed in it. I walked past the bucket- O-crutches that always had a mop in it. I saw the man who would use the mop as a crutch. My eyes got wet. I shook my etch a sketch; the image was now only a permanent pock mark. I waited in line in terror, counting my money. I never believed I would have enough money when I got to the register, the possibility of humiliation would suffocate me. To this day I count change in my pocket like beads on a rosary. I exited the store and entered my domain of no money and places to hide. In Saint Louis no one could ever catch me. There is a C S Lewis labyrinth woven into the city. Its threads were ancient Indian forests, sewers, and the backs of buildings and houses. I was brier rabbit. I went into the back of the store to find what wasn’t up to Good Will’s standards but perfect for me. Naked umbrellas, mounds of sopping wet mildewed clothing filled with centipedes, roly-poly’s, and daddy long legs, the residue of souls. In the corner of my fever dream eye a saw the confused monster that would wear five left baby shoes. A mattress soaked in urine leaned against the brick wall. Hung out for every grey back hajji hard on, to prove a virgin. My sympathy struck again up my left side, I prayed to it like the wailing wall, please let the weak inherit this world or give them another. I dug through this filth like the zombie child I was. I dragged my anti-Santy Claus find into the woods. Mother Nature was my fence, and I always came in hot and would pop out 8 blocks away scot-free. This time I went deep enough for the overlapping trees to cover the man made world from all sides. I climbed into an abandoned tree house (a few boards and a truck tire in a tree.) I poured out the toys, Teddy Ruckspen hit the floor, his eyes moved up and down. His tape began to play. It was not teddy’s voice but a frantic sounding man, He said:
“I took a picture of you. Why? Maybe I did it preserve your logo haircut or your milky white thighs. Now what do I do? Throw it away, tear it up, and Cut it up into a collage. I am an agent of the third law, every thing goes away. That’s it, thaaaaaaat’s iiiiit, art must purge the parasite, artists. They must go away; we don’t need them any more, never did. I eat I sleep, I shit, I’m not an eatist, sleepiest or a shitist. I am a post qusi semi neo plastic futurist; I am the last words of butch Lane. I am the last rites of the indivisible individual, art before artist. Two boys crossing their Piss streams, I can hear the planets grinding through space, this is the same miracle. Artist are art filters, bodies are food filters. Stop eating, pass out instead of sleep, hear colors, no words, rhythm, no objects. They don’t make art they make mistakes misinterpreted, the suffocate miraculous in jam jars. They spork feed us to Cronus. Break some fucking glass, Rub your face in it, you made a new dimension, for you. The glass belongs in your face like love in your heart. It always should have been there. Show everyone you meet as your power skipping down the street. Give them a shit eating infected grin. Say “Oh oh look at me I’m an experienced experiment, I remember back and fourth, I remember the maker, even if he forgot me. I remember when I was will be you. Did I have a bar mitzvah, drink the blood of a deer, spin a bottle twist a tit, so how do I know am a Wereape?” And when they hold you down on red and white sheets picking glass out of your face say? “I don’t belong to you I don’t, I don’t belong to me, I don’t belong. This is not injustice this is art. Pay more attention to me and my moon phase’s bloody martyr, bloody murder, bloody Mary. Love is not in our bones so, fuck it. We are not over ripe brothers, don’t eat, repeat, life is a drug dealer it wants you hooked. Don’t sleep. Just pass out and piss and shit where you want, when you need. Turn your nerves to light bright, not a meter to measure your fear of monsters. You are a monster factory, this is not new this was always the way. I did not find it. Don’t get hooked on life it comes with all your worries. Life is worse then heroine, porn, Jerry Faldwell, David Koresh all in one needle. In the end the old bull couldn’t even kick it, he was begging for his man, but he could find his man. His man was not in the book of the dead, not in L. Ron, not in honey Dijon, not King Kong. By life I don’t mean that vague bullshit dandelion seeds. I mean nut sack to lung sack, I think therefore I’m French. Why wait to see if you come back. It’s not worth being afraid of loosing your job, getting your ass kicked or prison raped; the eyeless black dog will lose his grip on you. You are Übermensch you are beyond governments, pain, mint ice cream, you are art. You are the pound looking back at narcissus, instinct. The id wants us to live like a vacuum, or toaster to fuck him and die. I must calm down. I don’t know if this is what I mean. Lets start over this could be a matter of how I feel because I missed the bus; are you still there?
What do I have to do with my fingers? I shouldn’t be saying this now. I just don’t feel like talking nor do I think I’ll get my point across. Not that what I’m going to say is important oh God OH God! Honestly do I sound like the vision of someone shitting themselves in a pool? You might as well read hills and hills of shredded newspaper. But I’m here you’re here. It’s more like kissing then talking, we’re feeling each other up. My problem is that I’m here and your not. My problem is I can’t size you up and guess what you want. I can’t look at your U2 shirt. I don’t know if you’re a republican, democrat or fag. I’m speaking to a prison camp light. Antennas pick up grunts and ugs .I’m praying and begging. I see you on a pile of twitching leprosies, St Louis leaning his weight on his sword, a dainty lion cock whose seeds navigating the glowing lines of a telephone pole forest. I’m praying with that this little death will bait the big one. I’m tired of myself. Are you tired of me? Are you tired of earth, Jealous of kids that will be able to go in rocket ships? While us we are stuck with daydreams, 12 bit fiction. Head of Orpheus you’re all I got. You’re a friend who tries his damnedest but I am through my organs are rejecting you off my shoulders. When your mom knows your not going to add up to shit she says “he has a wonderful imagination.” She’s saying he has built in anesthesia for the bad times to come.
No object I’m ready-made. I’m ready made for you. Don’t you see a specific shovel, don’t you see what could be. No object just do op do op. I say Lord I’m leaving my blue phase no object I decomposed. If you dig up my bones nowhere in them will you see I was loved? It doesn’t stay in me. I’m a shovel you’re a coat hanger we’re ready made. I’m all there is. Just call me Liz cut off my pink tentacle wear it as a wizard hat.
I’m vague I’m self-centered in the Dao. Our bones don’t have love in them. My eye jelly can be eaten by my cat, those eyes won’t miss looking at you or prefer a cat’s colon and after all they don’t belong to me. I don’t belong to me.
No no no no no I draw letters I draw words the words matter their definition does not matter. Flip the words upside down. Or better yet or better yet. I’m listening to all my records and tapes. Cause I don’t got any one to talk to about something besides the weather. I’m gonna listen to the bad ones, the embarrassing ones. If I got Tiffany I’ll listen to it twice.
Can you be my finger? Can you be mine? Can you be mine? Is it your choice? Is that your voice or is it POP? You’re indivisible to me. This is the “you” I didn’t think I knew. I know we’re the same machine of my memoirs. Time is not for us. Time is for staying up late or missing a date we are ready made. Every freckle, scar, every brick you throw, or don’t, Every shit you take, every car that screams “Fagot!” George is dying from cancer, homos are feeding on cancer. The man who sold the world should have got a receipt. The honeysuckles do what they please as excess drops on sexy moons of broken legs. Dogs on the side of the road maggots in a healing wound, open all night. I can’t have 400 broken dogs, cats and raccoons in my apartment, that’s what’s wrong. That’s what went wrong I want to help shhhhhhhhhhhhhhh. I can’t heal I cant give last rites. All I can do is pretend to listen. well I’m so happy you’re here and this is what I’m trying to say
The atmosphere is getting thin
Jews and Gaza can’t be friends
Mass dead in Srebrenica sucken on bullion cubes
And you have two TV’s two VCRs so poor. This is me trying to speak your language, its hard, I never spoke before.”
The end of the tape shocked me, I heard some slamming of doors. Screaming and yelling crying. I picked up the bear to see if he would say more and noticed his back had popped open. I saw no batteries. From Teddy someone else spoke " Get up, tell us where they are.” A pause “Tell us where the Mellons are.” Better yet tell us what the Mellons are." Then the old voice on the tape said "damn you!!! Run Kid fucking run!!!!!!!!!!” The Tape stopped, I felt exposed and watched. I ran through creeks, hopped fences, I was Paul Revere with a primal scream as a warning, the last and only warning.
It has been 19 years; I just heard the voice from the tape.