Taken From upcoming Book, The Portable Andrew H.Kuharevicz
Out 4/1/2013, Hardcover, Paperback, and Digital Download.
West Vine Press
Over and over the carts went around on this conveyor belt. I stood on this balcony above with a paper mask and rubber gloves. They gave me a yellow overcoat but they only had extra larges, and since I’m as skinny as you can be I had to wear my jeans and white t-shirt.
Inside of a stall I waited. It’s all you could do. Less than ten minutes later the T-1000 walked in (that’s what we called the vice principle, Mr. Paulson, a buzz-cut who was an ex-marine)
He looked at me and said,
“you know where you’re going right?”
“Where?” I said
“Hell. You’re going to Hell without a handbrake.”
“What?” I said. “What does that even mean?”
Chill out and shape up and move on out to that good ol’ San Frannnnn Ciscooooooo, and lil south you’ll find that Big Sur that Mr. Miller talked about before anyone really arrived on the scene yet. Big Sur is a place I’m told where the writer can write in peace and dream on his back looking further on up towards the stars, and below is the city, where the poet transfers ideas to paper, and as you scribble your madness society claps and hushes itself down for you to chill your soul out. Everything just goes the way it goes and nothing is ever questioned. Form and syntax and let’s edit your shit, let’s go with another rewrite, and how long you been at it? Oh man, see what you gone and done? You made me miss it…
Looking suspicious for loving life, and I was only being happy and chewing on sand-grass, taking pictures of the last rose alive. These types of things are suspicious in this town, and that’s why the state of Michigan won’t change. Most of the people here subconsciously don’t want the war to end; it’s genetic and passed-on from this out of control patriarchy that has had far more negative influence on our country than the words capitalism and socialism ever have. Most of these people have already forgotten about the recession, that is, while they’re at work. And much of what I’m saying are well yeah, generalizations, and sure I’ll admit that I could be wrong, sometimes, but people around here are as straight as the lines that make up the three dimensional squares that I draw all over my notebooks. And I think it was raining. I also think it was October. People were doing some dance, and man let me tell ya’, I had it up to here with whatever metaphysical superstition they were conducting like witch doctors, and yeah, they can do whatever they want, but come on, these people were ruining my so-called, experience. But that never counts for anything. Never has. Never will. It’s all about, them. HA! Later on in the year these same hippies were at a costume party, and they had fake beards and Budweiser in their hands, were laughing, saying, “death to America”, and, “jihad-jihad”, while their ballerina zombie girlfriends were giggling and asking me what was wrong with my eyes, asking me, if I was, “Asian.”
“What I said? Polish… I think, and nope, I’m just wearing glasses darling.”
A guitar is played. Sax-a-phones and slow down and then it heats up again like the engine that my father looked at after he spent all day working on and under the hood, and without supper and with grease burning on his hands and shit I tried to help I always tried to help, but man that glare, that angry look of destiny in his eyes when he fixed one of those old Fords or Hondas or whatever they were, was the look of a god of a man of a giant man who just destroyed everything and then put it back together again with his bare hands.
Remember to look at old pictures of favorite writers and the places they write.
The last typewriter, the sears portable, that one I had to leave in Florida because they wouldn’t let me take it on the airplane without giving them more money that I didn’t have. So that tap… tap… tap of a machine sits in the sand in Saint Pete, the city where that old beat Jack died, the place where his heart beat at last flat lined.
Saint Petersburg Florida, great city, really a Midwest City down south, a town which also happened to be the same city where the Salvador Dali memorial was built. I’m not sure about Sal, but Jack died unhappy at 47. I will never die unhappy.
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