Who gives a shit about the war? It's over 10,000 miles away. I have more important things to worry about. It's all for the glory of America anyway. It's fine-fucking-time that we became the empire we ought to be. It's a disgrace we haven't started conquering sooner. I mean c'mon, for crying out loud!!! The Romans could do it, the British could do it, the Spanish could do it; why can't we? I want an American empire, damn it. With all the fine culture and philosophy to boot. An empire of democracy!!! Beautiful.

Seriously though, the only thing that bothers me about the war is that it's good money ill-spent. But the protesters are so phony that I almost feel inclined to support the war-mongerers. Where the fuck is the moderate anti-war movement? Why are the only people organizing the rallies extremist socialist fanatics? Can't we get some moderation here? Fuck it. I'm not marching against the war unless someone starts getting much more subtle and slick about it. Breaking police officers limbs? Go fuck yourself. That's about as slick as fucking your mother and not knowing it.

Besides, every Iraqi knows that he wants Saddam out. Like I said, the cause is good, but the money is bad. But were money not an issue, I'd have no problem with the war. It's just that our priorities are a little FUBAR at the moment. I don't want Saddam in power, but neither do I want a school system that could sooner resemble the illiterate dogshit that emerges from our presidents lips. It's pronounced PeNINsula, you fucking turd, not PeninSHUla. And we can't have a "gooder" economy when your vernacular resembles a senior citizen giving a 4-year-old a blowjob. And amphibious piece of shit that crawled out of a jackrabbits behind.

She's crying. John doesn't cry much, but today she's making up for it. He usually doesn't allow her to cry. He is usually very proper. Not that he necessarily detests tears; quite the contrary. He just doesn't cry. I think he'd like to, if he could. So she crys for him. She doesn't mind.

Her hair is a slave to the 4 oclock wind. A slave on the run. The slave-master is chasing her, chasing her North, through the Kentuckies and Virginias of the park. She is too proud to ask for help. There is no underground railroad fine enough for those black hanging gardens. Black like a crow, like oil, like a starless night. She doesn't mind.

Her fingers are at war with my curls. They are young curls, but she attacks them mercilessly. Twisting, tying, pulling. Her left thumb is flanking my left ear. My hand grabs her nose. She retaliates by pulling my hair. I ram my head into her stomach. She lets go of my hair. But she isn't smiling. Her eyelashes are clashing. She gazes off, wondering. She never minds.

Kill me. Not me, just my laziness. Lynch it, so that my pride can see it hanging. Let my vigilance revel at the sight. Let my creativity be the one to bury the body. Let my curiousity lead the procession. Let my longing rape the dead body. Let my obsession cremate it. Let my imagination set the ashes loose in the wind. Let me breathe the ashes, and let me exhale them on the cold ground.

Fall. Bridge. Tree chair. Sandy wind. Windy sand frogs. Frogs wearing glasses, sipping french cocktails in an Italian cusine. Don Corleone shinning my shoes. An ugly camel is eating my abdomen. There are poppies flowering out of my ears. A man is starving. I love it. I go a-sit by him, a-start cutting off his limbs. He loves it. I call on seargant Heartman to gouge out his eyeballs and skullfuck him. The pile of butter is jealous. The paintings on the wall have called a cease-fire.

The Mona Lisa has been the cream of the crop in my search for Renaissance S&M. I'd sell my soul to the devil, were it not mortgaged. Her thighs around my head, squeezing with controlled pleasure. Her back arches, her fingers spread. Her eyes close, as she slowly enslaves me in those orbes of power. Her breasts stand pround in the air. The source of her power, her two buns of beauty, tighten up; her underwear sneaks between them. She exahles slowly, as I pass out with tears in my eyes. She sits on my face, wisdom and pride in her strength.

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