Commissioner Gordon listens to Wes Montgomery on YouTube.
He gets the feeling he should do some work.
He calls Batman with a big light and waits outside in the fucking Frigid-air.
When Batman arrives the Commissioner straightens up and puts on his glorious mustache.
He explains fumblingly, " There is some fetor, some smog, some ..heavy vaporous cloud enveloping the city! We got back the unit search module data on Organic CCTV! You've got to breathe it for us and spit it out like fire! "
Batman said,
"Commissioner..
Heavy vapor, my ass."
[Batman has had some heartbreaking memories.
Then and Now
He's rich and debonair.
He's poor and gruff.
He's a super hero but no one knows him.]
Batman asks the dark night,
" How am I to have a Thought outside of my head? "
Batman leaves without a word, making easy friends.
One of his friends is Wes Montgomery's King Pixel form.
He and Batman enjoy playing Final Fantasies together.
At times they don't even realize their Quest is for VI Dragons.
They imbibe comfort from Heros whom lie to himself like Communion Wine.
The Heroism which seemed like Home to them was really a Black Habit.
Batman was called on at the local upside-down-Abbey.
He hates the bald cenobites that Implore here.
The Abbot was close-by though, so at the outset, Batman didn't mind those other Flip-Side-Bros.
But the Abbot to Batman, he said some disturbing things,
"Gotham has a long history of not respecting artists or intellectualism. We're seriously f*cked up as a country, at least culturally. That's why utter dogsh*t like The Joker rules the charts and airwaves. We hang on to every word of Bruce Wayne and his ilk, as if they have anything profound or important to say. Money is worshipped [sic] in this country, and it's somehow been twisted around where if you are very wealthy, you're also somehow perceived as "smart". That's beyond pitiful."
Batman always says the same to Abbots,
" Oh god, Abbots, they just don't like the psalms you sing. You ask for repentance and all you'll get is cash. You gotta keep it real with the peasants, represent what? My nuts! "
Wednesday
Purply Lemons
notice a looking man, maybe lonely, eating some purpley lemons,
sitting at a writing desk bench.
I observe.
The sheen of the plastic-finished desk is a light brown.
Its scratches are 50 years of scribbles and carvings to a loud noise rock solo.
It sucks.
It seems he's colored his lemons using some frustrating dyeing process.
He perhaps loves flowers.
He perhaps dislikes yellow things. His hatreds are perhaps rerouted with dye.
His hair: it looks the color of dusty red stained glass!
Perhaps this haircut, perhaps this lemon: these are his altars!
he prays to the sour fruits borne from bushes,
he colors his golden calves purple,
he purposes idolatry towards reverse idolatry!
Preparing to kill him:
I draw him a picture of a lemon.
I draw him a crystal calf and his creator--some jackass artist.
I wrote him a note,
"I see that you like idolatry and disgusting chemicals.
You select ugly writing-desks on purpose and you like unnatural food.
You're a nasty plebeian. You hate yellow.
You've got an anti-intellectualist agenda!"
I walk to his place at the table,
and offer him these observations.
As he considers the materials, I see a kinky orange smile emerge on his lips.
He turns his head as slowly as a noble owl.
Although he can't reach even 180 degrees--
He smiles. Crows feet betray his weakness.
He says,
"I see you're a very perceptive kinda guy!
It's not everyday I meet someone so willing to share
their most vulnerable thoughts!
pause.
Would you eat a purple lemon?"
I accept.
sitting at a writing desk bench.
I observe.
The sheen of the plastic-finished desk is a light brown.
Its scratches are 50 years of scribbles and carvings to a loud noise rock solo.
It sucks.
It seems he's colored his lemons using some frustrating dyeing process.
He perhaps loves flowers.
He perhaps dislikes yellow things. His hatreds are perhaps rerouted with dye.
His hair: it looks the color of dusty red stained glass!
Perhaps this haircut, perhaps this lemon: these are his altars!
he prays to the sour fruits borne from bushes,
he colors his golden calves purple,
he purposes idolatry towards reverse idolatry!
Preparing to kill him:
I draw him a picture of a lemon.
I draw him a crystal calf and his creator--some jackass artist.
I wrote him a note,
"I see that you like idolatry and disgusting chemicals.
You select ugly writing-desks on purpose and you like unnatural food.
You're a nasty plebeian. You hate yellow.
You've got an anti-intellectualist agenda!"
I walk to his place at the table,
and offer him these observations.
As he considers the materials, I see a kinky orange smile emerge on his lips.
He turns his head as slowly as a noble owl.
Although he can't reach even 180 degrees--
He smiles. Crows feet betray his weakness.
He says,
"I see you're a very perceptive kinda guy!
It's not everyday I meet someone so willing to share
their most vulnerable thoughts!
pause.
Would you eat a purple lemon?"
I accept.
explain your friends
while usually i love your ideas,
staying up late
lately i think you're merely a pretty meaninglessness.
let you help me,
explain.
since it will make it easier, I'll pretend you're someone you don't understand:
a man with three arms.
a man with three thousand friends.
(or a woman, with these same constraints)
he waves to me on his way to class with three arms.
at parties she blows me three kisses. each just kidding.
we once spoke and he recited an anecdote about grape problems.
occasionally, she posts three comments in one hour on my wall:
one link he likes, one comment, one like he links.
her arms tick the time in rhythm, never missing a beat.
what don't you understand? me.
me's so self-centered, actually.
since it will make it easier, here's something about me:
i have three arms,
and i have three thousand friends!
staying up late
lately i think you're merely a pretty meaninglessness.
let you help me,
explain.
since it will make it easier, I'll pretend you're someone you don't understand:
a man with three arms.
a man with three thousand friends.
(or a woman, with these same constraints)
he waves to me on his way to class with three arms.
at parties she blows me three kisses. each just kidding.
we once spoke and he recited an anecdote about grape problems.
occasionally, she posts three comments in one hour on my wall:
one link he likes, one comment, one like he links.
her arms tick the time in rhythm, never missing a beat.
what don't you understand? me.
me's so self-centered, actually.
since it will make it easier, here's something about me:
i have three arms,
and i have three thousand friends!
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