WEBVTT

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Here's one that might be a
little tough on the ears,

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but here it goes.

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"New World Gag Disorder."

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I walked straight
into the wars--

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One more time.

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I walked straight into
the war cabinet's office

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and demanded all gaggers to
put their hands in the air.

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This is a citizen's
arrest, motherfuckers.

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I was a real Charles Bronson.

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The room was empty and a
vast stillness surrounded me

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like a bunch of
slow motherfuckers

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who'd just got caught
in a game of freeze tag.

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Up with those arms.

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Ya basta con las
armas, but nobody.

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Nobody.

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Before I left, I heard the
sound of high pitched men

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counting blood currency and
foreign weapons arsenals up

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for the renewal.

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Before I could say, "begone
gaggers," a large chandelier

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fell at my feet and
the new Apple Watch

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I just bought on eBay got
popped by a sniper hiding

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behind a rainfall of
heavy burgundy drapes.

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"Damn gaggers," I shouted,
"the price for admission

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is the motherfucking
price you'll have to pay,"

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so I relieved myself on
their fancy Sotheby's rug.

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The warm mouthed gaggers laughed
and whistled from the ceiling

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where they clung like bats.

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I heard the repulsive toenails
scratching all those gaudy

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fucking ceiling
fixtures above me.

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They ate cantaloupe and stroked
their dicks upside down,

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drippings fell on my head.

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And in an instant,
I found myself

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tumbling from a
68th floor window.

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Gaggers, I quickly learned,
possess the uncanny ability

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to draw a precise outline of
the human body milliseconds

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before they kill your ass.

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Preemptive cartography.

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Erasable public art.

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An outline of my
gasping stature somehow

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sketched by the time my
body sacked the pavement.

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I was so much smaller that I
never imagined myself to be.

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The sound of my body's impact
was a nervous man's gulp.

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Snug as a condom, the
chalk line held my body.

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Between the womb and the tomb, I
wish I could have had more sex.

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Maybe even a child or two.

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And this is what
saddened me as I

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sat like a small heap of
costume jewelry splattered

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across the avenue's
sinister imagination.

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