S. Foster’s pissant patience died yesterday at age 55, of iodine and mercurochrome and basil and thyme and telephone pole notices and pig bristles and acrylic and porcelain and Rand McNally deserts and sheeting rattled by the wind. S. Foster’s weak and minimal patience died yesterday at age 52 of dimethyl perchlorate and flame resistant foam and persimmons and symbolic swans and asymbolic bird life and random enumeration. S. Foster’s last patience died yesterday in Burbank or Glendale at age 57, or age 46, extruding glistening framework, extruding gleaming intestinal blood, frothing a hollow distance, having suffered some extended languishing glissando of plush frenzy. S Foster’s petulant stripped patience died yesterday at Chortling Avenue and Gargling, aged 144, up till that time the oldest living patience wholly charred from the inside out like a burnt out Bakelite radio awaiting a signal, empty exoskeleton.
I dreamed that I wanted to interview S., but how would I get in touch with him? He’s dead, I remembered even in the dream. You can’t email the dead. Some other way? I half-awoke, considering it—then the phone was ringing.
Hurry, I must get from point A to point B on the straightest line to death, we shall waste no time going directly toward death, no time to waste rushing toward death, what’s the point of all this dreaming and sleeping on the way to certain death? Get out of my way, you snake—don’t bother me, curved branch that looks exactly like a snake, why are you in my way? We’re busy, we cannot lose a minute on the way to death. Time is running out when everything leads to death, stay awake all the way as lines and shapes collapse into death, the black stink bug walks butt in the air on the trail to death, he’s walking slow like he’s old and about to get stepped on and he’ll stink in death, the doves coo on the telephone poles of death and who is calling as the crow is laughing, which way is the best and fastest, our most direct route to certain death?
Don’t bother me when I’m texting, I can’t read those tiny screens. My music is blasting—I don’t hear you, your face looks like Part Systems Failure. Certain death? And what of it? I got stuff to do. See, this shit tells me what to do. Supposedly you think you know me, you know something about me, something I need to know? Really who are you? I can’t even imagine. I can’t quite put my finger on it. Why are you bothering me, High Tension Lines, what’s it to you? WTF. This is how I drive in the snow flurries outside Gallup.