I can feel it coming. The dead weight in the phone book proves that I’m not working enough. I’m looking at you with my finger on delete. You… yeah, you know who you are. Your number represents the lack of individual rapport and personal concern. Oh yeah, and you over there with your “can’t return a phone call” ass but pop up smiling like an insane clown when you want something or sniff money in the air.
Authenticity is what I used to want out of this phone book. But honestly, I’d rather be too busy working instead of looking for the purge. I have many people who I keep on the list just so that I don’t mistakenly answer their call. I told a homegirl who I hadn’t spoken to in a year to be regular or be out. 2 times a year. Make certain a mofo ain’t contracted hoof-mouf disease, knowhatimsayin?
I saw the end of Pulp Fiction recently. I want to bust out a jheri curl and tell a fool I have gatted up, “but I’m trying to be the shepard”, Ringo. My left hook is getting vicious. I’ve noticed that my footwork is getting a bit more glide. I’m getting to fighting weight and my flying guillotine is out of storage. Man, my words are still coming out while my mouth stopped moving seconds ago.
Mind, body, spirit. Balance, breathing, precision. I had some good teachers. I started in Judo, moved to Kenpo, until I came across Master Shaheed. He prepped me that I would have to the fight the all-powerful evil eunuch then disappeared into a bank of Los Angeles smog.
It was August 14th, 1978. I played basketball all day in the 102 degree sun then raced up to what is now a sports bar and practiced sweeps and weapon blocks surrounded by pictures of lynched and burned men from the 1930s and 40s. The dojo smelled like incense and funk. James Brown had just gotten off the radio. My fist was the infinite arc of doom. My Shogun Warriors told me that the Emperor had fallen and to only trust my training.
Now, you… yes you know who you are will never know enough to care what any of what I wrote means. Your weave will comfort you in the murky days of self doubt and the ravages of gravity. You will never forget that your soul is the focal point of the original exploding singularity because you will never know it as you clip your toe nails on your Elvis Presley memorial rug while Cartoon Network compliments your choice of mixed drinks.
My ions burn for re-evolution. There is the isotope of conquest and brute force in motion. I’m deleting your numbers because I’m not working and you are a facsimile of a copy of a fraud. Yes, you. All you you’s. I have bill collectors. I have relatives of Neanderthal. I have Satan on speed dial. I have target clients. The chi is flowing. The humor is sanguine. The eunuch provides an excellent set of the benefits for those in his employ. I must purge the fakes and rid this silicon of extra imperfection.