If anyone needs me I will be trying to achieve literary greatness. Or conjugate a simple sentence. Something to crudely hype the music boxes with. Something to make even the Aunt Jemina bottle in your cupboard dance a new step. Something more hostile than Frasier when Sam snipped his Visa up in season 6, when things were still good. Something that might choke you out or hug you, you never know. Something. Anything, but this. If you need me I’ll be blitzed, like last year on 14 hits, and shit, I might even be across the street, The Ritz, or the adjacent alley, anyway. If you want me I will be tethered to a spike, a chanting feral-child army around me, ready to burn the heretic for good. You’ll run into me in the bottom of your cities pocket, a roman numeral stapled to my head, acting like a watchtower clock, those same kids spiking the earth on the hour’s cue. I’ll be beating a dead horse back to life like Powder. I’ll be under the mattress with the hand gun that solves nothing. In space with the last women, sealed up in a tomb. Convincing myself in bathroom mirror that my lover is not an android, and if she were still loving her. Sealed up in a knotted, still twitchy Hefty bag, coagulating with the offal’s of a heifer and a moose, contraband tossed over some cheap boat, nearly burst open on the side of a passing pontoon. Pursed- lipped at the theatre before Hitler and his men go up, inside the celluloid oven, taking time-traveller Polaroid’s and rocking an AK. Committing mass sacrifices to the meta-God “Maximus Referencious” – blasting Dj Bl3nd on George Street out of an authentic “Do the Right Thing” ghetto blaster, dressed in his designer hideous mask with a squirt-gun loaded with vodka and cran, dancing like an epileptic program ruptured robot freak. Outside Natalie Portman’s house blasting an authentic, John Cusack-style love song like March of the Pigs or Hurt. Compiling a top hundred movie references that could get better with a simple “Jesus Wept” followed by someone’s head exploding, or being ripped apart by chained hooks, for that matter. Believing in aliens and greed while tossing a few dimes in the fountain and wishing for real, violent revolution. Communicating with the singed eyebrows of Richard Pryor. Parading down Main Street singing the entire Exile album huskily and removed of most, if not all, of my skin. Proving the Ginger as Demon mythos. Saving the odd cat up a tree. Training it to steal white powdered bags that go tch-tch-Tchaikovsky all the way home. Living in a van of harem scar’em witches on sunshine coast in Vancouver, breaking hearts and smoking darts in Sin Jawns. Braving the crazy streets of mescal-induced hysteria, climbing the same two steps out of the K hole for an hour in the rain, finally understanding the ether binge quote in that moment, sinking fingers deep into wet ground, sensing electricity and madness at the once. Blasting a few zombies away with a plasma gun, for a kick not an achievement. Scouring dirt from an eternal pan, slicing an infinitely re-growing chop or loin, re-shelving a mystically shelf-hopping book, ripping up Harlequins and screaming “Fuck You!” into a make shift mic. Making out with madwomen on trapeze wire hair line highway nights, opening a bottle of blueberry wine with a swiss army knife and chewing before spitting out the cork pebbles in eyes of a stranger. Pissing off a car of angry Mexicans, a couple of bikers, a shocked crowd of old women, that kid in grade three who stabbed me with a pencil, still carry the perfect, still have that penultimate, still bear that little black mark. If you want to reach me I’ll be reaching for it, to grip it, to scratch and scrawl and scatter a few more ashes on this bridge, this broken bastard page.