Buried Next to the Richest Man Alive

Written by James Edison 


Daddy wants to buy his boy a belt before he goes. Damn sciatic nerve – damn discs marching up Michigan, because I’m running out of shoestrings. Hell! If I can’t keep up my pants,

          what’s his legacy?


          What a patient victim of the plague!


                     What an unabashed technocracy!


               A technology more harmful when it redefined our pleasures?


          A pleasure more harmful when it redefined our unabashed


the way rained on grain must have when a very very poor, weird person took their tongue to the leachate oozing from a moldy granary and discovered booze?


                         But the belt’s not inevitable like these things.


                    More evitable than a genius debtor getting crafty in the coliseum.         




           There’s always a hitch to good sacrifice.


                                         Hang from my words. I’ll tell you why,




Yukio Mishima says

Don’t date men for their smarts.


My flat chest! My flat chest!

My weak jaw confides disturbing kindness,

but what he doesn’t know:

the veins in my throat are showy.

What he doesn’t know of the rhetorician’ done sold him his finicky Honda!

But he knows in Alabama, a fan works at Denny’s,

has light desires, and louder fries in their basket.


Had a friend who swore the ghost of Crockett kissed his neck in the garden of tomatoes beyond the scream therapist’s mansion –


     So many weird ways to admit you think you’re smart.


That’s fine.


It’s also fine that I’m alone, and that the rarer I become, the more I desire a clone,

so when I see my dad, I make sure that he thinks I understand him, or that, at least,

     the spaghetti of our DNA steams at the same temperature, or odor, or rate of cloud-formation – or rate of dissipation, or rate of tagged graffiti fiefs on the Dolmen we trespassed, hand-in-hand on an obscure island, when the rocks began to glow, invitingly bluish during that vacation we’re planning on having before the u.s. dollar gets worthless.

I’m bored again, and things are locking up. The stores always seem to be closed, and the thrill of a new belt loosens its grip on my spanking professional kakis smeared a ’new in Catsup.

I thought I’d have a beard by now – that I’d use it to control women – that I’d stash objects in clearings the longer strands withheld from your view, like Boo Radley and Scout’s tree. At church, if the children wanted gobstoppers, they’d have them, and the director of the choir would begin to sing in tongues, when I made my soul-patch flick at her like the taster of a blind Komodo Dragon

                                                                                 who isn’t scared of humans?

My room-mate thinks I’m his son, so he can replace his dead dad with himself, and he and his girlfriend are bringing me dinner, and me and my dog are paupers who dig through their trash, and I have self-respect. I’m willing to do that, and I have self-respect, because I’m animal – willing to sharpen it, and willing, I’m willing, and willing to be crowded on a bus full of out-of-work cartoon characters wielding erasers – lashing out at all the described space that their denied. There goes Bullwinkle, and Carmen Sandiego, gnawing a plain, plain sandwich, because the dispossessed think that stone-ground mustard is trifling.

            A yokel drives out further than ever, tosses his couch in a ditch. The camera pans to a weeping Texas Ranger:

“Oh look! It’s Lester Long-Pig, relocating a family heirloom.”    

                                                                                                           A LICE BREEDER!

                         Plain and simple – my legacy ate the dog-groomer.

Blood is icky. Can’t stand a gory movie,

            but if someone wants to torture me psychologically,

            I’ve been awfully bored.

I love my sensitivities.

            They make life more like film.

            I wish my tears could butter this popcorn and the light

bluish on my face, as I watch my dad’s expressions

            at body-parts and language

            once hushed-up –

eat bloody steaks at I-Hop, considering mom’s away,

            and when I think of the James that I’ll become,

            I lick my lips. My favorite flavor, salt.

            What’s this A1 sauce that’s made my life delicious?


Read more by James Edison here.