A false harrisonian memoir and a true kippenbergian auto da fe

I have failed to keep apace with these turbulent and enervating times and to keep my readers abreast of all the sundry and magnificent developments in my personal life that have kept these pages blank - happiness writes white and all that. I have no readers and no magnificent developments and no personal life. A cipher, a Pynchonian courier, a bard of Oxnard, Slim with Tilted Brim, except not a million megapixels of the Pyrex. Don’t flex, etc etc.

I can say that love found me and I abandoned it, wrote it a dear John letter, sold my artistic ambitions for a two stall garage and the staccato dispensations of the automatic sprinkler system, and found dog in the gnostic planes of dyslexia.

(Tom-Tom, snare, crash).

soon enough my progeny will abandon me and the sixteen hour days and the cot sleeping and the bleary eyed magnetic purposeless avaricious swagger will return. And having lost myself I will lose myself again in digressions and spastic pseudo poems figuring escape from cirrhosis as escape from Alcatraz.

A post for another date: percival Everett as homo sacer.

Also this, by way of metonymic callback to the figuration just invoked: