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Bruce Speaks (In the Age of Mechanical Reproduction) | 2009


I do not practice, I preach. I come with the words laid upon me by my

frightened forefathers, from the unholy mouths of babes, from

house-wife earth in all her majestic decay. I come with the words, I

leave with the money. Come on. Take the money and run. Until the

voices stop. Until everything stops. The sound. The air. The cars and

police barking at the doors of the impoverished.

What happens in the art world stays in the art world.

 The earth stops and our stagger stances do nothing and we fly off the

face of it into the atmosphere. We are angels. We are one with the

heavens. The miserable heavens. Made of colorful garbage and dead

aliens and mysterious grandeur.

Art is what happens to you while you’re busy making other plans.

I take out my words like rusty weapons, like a lonely politician in an

airport bathroom, like a cheerleader starved for fatherly attention. I

take them out one by one and distribute them among the newspaper men

and the academics and the huddling masses yearning to be bored to

death.

All I know is what the news knows.

All I know is that you: my friends and enemies, are just as sad as me,

just as broken as broken bottles, dirty underwear, fingerprints, the

sound of a familiar voice, a misguided sense of self-importance, an

unbalanced checkbook, who does the dishes, how will it all end, drunk

again, watching home movies, watching your weight and enjoying life to

its fullest.

You’re one in a million, but that just means you’re lonely. It’s

lonely at the top and smelly at the bottom and there’s no place to eat

around here. So I eat my words. I chew them, swallow them whole. I

shit them out like a heroin smuggler. Lips drenched in shit. Shit

drenched in the piss of anger, the heat off the back of struggling

artists hunting for hope, dreaming of communist pot luck dinners in

heaven. I fish in the morning and write theory in the evening and in

the middle of the night I cry out in despair. What now brown cow? Why

have you foresaken me? Why does this always happen to me? How many

angels can I fit in this body bag?

Misery loves a company man. God bless the child who’s got his own set

of steak knives. Should I bite the hand that starves me? Familiarity

breeds contempt.

My work is eternal. My work is the sea. My work is a boot stamping on

a human face forever.

Life is a tale told by an idiot -- full of sound and fury, signifying nothing.

And so, my fellow Americans, ask not what your country can do for you;

ask what you can do for your country.

 

It’s a lie, that story about the musicians playing as the titanic

sank. They didn’t play. Who would? Let’s be serious. Let’s be childish

and free. Let’s change the world. For better or worse. Far worse than

that. I’m sick to death. I’m hungry like the wolf. I’m mad as hell and

I’m not going to take it anymore. Except from you. You are the light

of my life, my friend, my alpha and romeo. There is nothing in this

world that I ever wanted more than to feel you deep in my heart. You

shallow son of a bitch. More is less, more or less. Stop breathing for

me. I can’t fight this feeling deep inside of me. There’s gold in them

there hills. Diamonds in the rough. Dirt in the diamonds. A cry for

help mitigated by years of listening and reading and struggling to

understand the nature of existence. You poor son of a bitch. Suicide

is painless. It brings on many changes. Turn and face the stranger in

the corner weelding a knife, gritting his teeth, thirsty for blood,

bleeding heart liberal limousine cocktail-sucking shit swindler.

Preaching to the choir. Singing at the top of our lungs. Breathing

black air from the farts of historians. The insurgency begins with

you. Two paths destroyed in the woods. My words are chosen to

simultaneously reflect my deepest self and to make sense to idiots.

And that has made all the difference. I was born into a world without

walls, into a world with headless suits and Citibank and vending

machines and macintosh computers buried in baby brains and a

skyrocketing birthrate in debilitating poverty and a plummeting

birthrate in the land of milk and honey. Babies shooting up and down

in the atmosphere like apple blossoms floating in the wind. Floating

like farts in a room. Silent but deadly. I am a snake amongst the

weeds. I am a gardener on a jetliner, cultivating indifference. You

are my rhubarb of impossibility. Life is for the living. Get started

dying. Choosing my battles. Cleaning the bathtub. Drowning my fear in

alcohol and unhealthy relationships with the opposite sex. What

exactly is sex the opposite of? A small death hurts worse than a big

one. I’ve got a lot to live for. Seize the day. Kill a commie for

mommy. Do it for yourself. Get onboard. Believe in yourself. Love the

one you’re with. When I think about you I touch myself. The first rule

of fight club is shut up and kiss me.  There must be order in the

universe. There must be condoms in the sock drawer. There’s a place

for us, somewhere a place for us. Peace and quiet and open toed

stilettos marching in block formation through the strip malls of

Southern Jersey. Packing heat. Stealing the show. Educating our youth

so they can have the opportunities that were denied to us by our lying

parents who told us to chew with our mouths closed and be nice to our

brothers and worship an unjust God and tie our shoes and ride a

bicycle and sleep our way to the middle. Because we don’t need another

hero. We don’t need no education. Because I’ve got to have faith. Like

a rhinestone cowboy, so are the days of our lives. Waking dreams, wet

dreams, particle accelerators imploding useless universes in our

brains. And all the while, the rich get richer while the tough get

what’s coming to them. The mouths of babes stretched over the long

cock of the law. Justice is blind from too much masturbating. You’re

nobody till somebody fucks you from behind. You can check out anytime

you like, but you can never leave. What happens to a dream deferred?

Maybe the dream just goes away. The eyes are the window to the soul.

I’m a funk soul brother. I feel good like I knew that I would now. I

don’t want to wait for our lives to be over. Let’s end things right

here, right now, in this dirty motel room, both of us with our pants

down around our philosophical ankles. I owe you the truth in painting

and I will tell it to you. I owe you my life, my liberty, and my

pursuit of whatever piece of ass walks through that door in the next

five minutes. In the future everyone will be a foundation. In the

future everything will be different, better, brighter, full of light,

full of themselves with a stupid cowboy swagger, chewing tobacco like

Saturn devouring his children. Spitting it on the ground like

breadcrumbs to oblivion. The higher I go, the further I stare into the

abyss. The bigger they come the more they enjoy it. Don’t trust anyone

over thirty. Fuck the police. Here comes the judge. God bless this

mess. Give me a break.