Where’s the worm in the bottle of tequila? Drenched and bloated. I understand that but I don’t understand why they take your sight from me. I sat on the dock for what seemed like 5 minutes but what was really 5 years. 5 years. And then 3 more. There are times when tequila sounds good, still I feel as though there is too much hype for my taste. There’s too much hype spiraling around what I see and lay down before you. It shouldn’t make any difference; what I create should be buried at birth or swallowed whole like a worm on Xanax. I don’t understand. I just don’t understand…

And when I do understand, I freak and run. Enlightenment requires anti-depressants. Or, an overly standard dose of Funyuns whereas, tequila will be needed to antisepticise all the mouth lacerations. And the worm will once again require a one-swallow-sliding down the back of the throat. There are pieces… pieces that get lost in translation and burn bits like a pilot flame. It doesn’t matter though. Don’t let it.

There’s nothing in the shadows. I’ve looked, analyzed, foresaw, and determined. Trust me? The only shadow that concerns me is the shadow of the tequila worm. Damn that fucker. It moves very ominously and you know how I hate that wonderful feeling of dread and licking. I cut it off at the knees with an ear of corn and wait for the hype that will surely ensue in the morning. Yes. They will create all kinds of dream drama for me with visual castration seeming like probable cause. There is something to this... it’s nothing.

And I digress as I progress. I’m trying. But I’m a fuck up. I’ll never fall into line. I’ll never cut the heads off ducks. I just won’t. I can’t help it. Somehow, I’ve wandered into an odd portal that turns every step forward into reverse. It turns every worm into a tequila drenched, dead bloated body awaiting consumption. There are missions here on Earth that I’m supposed to conquer but I won’t. I’m not fooling anybody or even trying to. I was sent here to create hype. And my mission is to deny. I hate tequila. And worms are simple creatures merely looking to create holes. I can deny their existence but I can’t deny their shadow. Morning speaks volumes and distance really sucks. I wish I could talk to you so I could figure out my next step. But since I cannot, since I have been denied, beaten, and marked an anarchist, I’ll just smear bloody tequila-lined vomit on the hole created long ago. Perhaps I’ll get through, perhaps I won’t. But I don’t have time to second guess. I love you, want your hands on my tits, and so I’ll keep strumming invisible strings until they break because I know… this isn’t a game. Nobody knows that better than I do and you can fuck the off switch if you want to but you know you started it. And I’ll just continue to wipe the vomit off the worm and offer it to you until you tell me to fuck off.

©Jen2011 12-25