Day 130: Write a letter to your local newspaper…

“…to achieve a high profile in your community.”

I’m not sure how much good this is going to do, but this is the letter I sent to my local paper:

I am standing barefoot on a wide expanse of grass. I can feel the grass growing; I can feel worms churning the soil; I can feel the groundwater flowing, trickling through rocks; I can feel the roiling and tumult of the molten bowels of the earth.

I am rooted like an oak, like a willow, like a stalk of wheat.

Pour me another cup of coffee, and don’t spill any on the table this time, you clumsy oaf. Where did you get those ugly pants? You smell like vomit. Who vomited on you?

I am standing in a field. I am naked, I am covered in honey, I am covered in ants. Vultures circle overhead, and I shout obscenities at them. I have soiled myself; I am standing in a pile of my own feces.

I am standing in the supermarket. I take a jar of pickles from the shelf; I open the jar; I pour the contents on the floor. I am standing in a pile of pickles. A young child starts to cry. You ask me for a hamburger, but I don’t exist. There is a picture of a hamburger where I was standing, soggy with pickle juice.

You people are all sheep, fools, rubes, bastards, fornicators, worthless clods of meat and sex and violence, sweaty and smoking and filthy. I am your god. Sacrifice your excrement at the altar of asphalt: piss and shit in the street like animals.

I am standing in a field, surrounded by a ripe crop of wheat. The thresher is approaching; the farmer yells; I pay him no heed. I am mutilated by the machine, bloody and dismembered.

I am on a train. You are with me, all of you. I am the conductor, you are the passengers. My blood is full of cocaine; your blood is tar, mud, cheap lager. You are cockroaches, multitudinous and indistinguishable. I am the exterminator: I will crush you, blot out your lives, return you to the mud from whence you came, and make you whole again.

I am standing barefoot in a wide expanse of grass. I feel the earth move under my feet.

I am the mystical baker. I bake the bread that gives birth to the universe.

I’ll let you know if I hear back from them.


One Comment on “Day 130: Write a letter to your local newspaper…”

  1. Becky Clary says:

    Oh thank you so much for that! I laughed loudly, and am still grinning. I’m sure the editor will get right back to you. Or he’ll send someone over to chat. Either way, you’ve certainly done something to your standing in the community. I know your mom will be proud!

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