This is brand new, so probably a complete disaster.
[LAUGHTER]
It's called "Love Note to Self and Others."
"In the midst of this everything,
I have only my savvy blue heart, with its wings, to console me.
And though I want us, loud and clearly, to hear me,
the word on the street is insensible.
Thus, I return to the possibility of heaven,
only to conclude that wishes are for babies.
Sounds screeching.
Disconnection.
Strawberries.
Somebody call the dogged paramedics.
Somebody call the Carabinieri.
My psychiatrist has an emergency number,
but I don't think I have it on me.
I don't think very much about anything.
Ever.
At all.
I live at the mall, where I can go for a lobotomy.
It's all in my mind it's like sinking awake.
Oh so subconsciously, I put on my honor, my gavel and robes,
my boxer shorts and sky.
I swear to tell the truth, but can only barely remember it.
I say a lot of architects' names,
and sound the whole time lost in a world of someone else's
deconstruction.
Every resource, torqued tornado, whooping cough wallflower,
uncle sanity.
This is the moment I recuse myself, saying, dear
little man with the lemonade stand,
please get out of my brain.
I am not here meaning to address you.
What I really mean is a golf club.
What I realize now is to hurt.
Now that the costume party is finally breaking up,
somebody falls to his death in an armchair.
The dancers smear the reindeer that
are bored for most of the year, and it smells.
Then hot furnace flashes its breasts, and I have to say,
you're fired.
Fuck television.
I'm on vacation.
But as for the party's aftermath,
another dragster crashed, killing six.
This is my love note.
And this time, I really mean it.
I hate me for the plethora I've become."