Sunday, June 13, 2010

The Terrorist’s Meth Lab on Sesame Street

Also Published at Paraphernalia Quarterly

I’m wearing a wet suit with a scuba mask in a crowded subway
Out of breath because Big Bird just chased me six city blocks
Screaming obscenities and brandishing a sawed off shotgun
He refused to tell me how to get to Sesame Street

In the kooky subway carriage, a doomsday cult of ventriloquists without dummies
Tell knock-knock jokes
and quote Ginsberg sporadically
Emphatically poking my ribs with used vibrators,
They attempt to sell me yesterday’s lottery tickets
I politely decline their solicitations but enjoy their unique interpretations of “Howl”

Nobody in the crazy car asks me for change or identification
Not even the homeless homophobic circus clown who keeps on farting
Or even the cross-eyed mime wearing a rainbow afro wig and only one shoe

When I get out at my superfluous stop,
I meet Martha Stewart on the pitch-black platform
Her head is revolving like the “Exorcist,” and she’s dressed in a 1920’s purple polka doted bathing suit
She asks me how I am in Chinese street slang, vomits, and offers me stock tips
She tells me I should run sideways into oncoming traffic shouting korma recipes and
Quickly waves goodbye with a middle finger, dancing the “Running Man” out of the revolving door
See ya later, alligator!

Walking out into the suicidal street lacking empathy,
I see an eclectic electronics store with a large window display of TVs
24 hour news cycles are euphonic in fast moving imagery and perfect alignment
Talking impatiently in interruptions about missing white teenagers, sports scores, and celebrity gossip
As brief crawls regarding the genocide in Congo pulsate, I try to remote control click away pedestrians
Where’s a TV guide when you need it?

Walking past an asinine alley,
I hallucinate the Tooth Fairy holding up Cookie Monster at gunpoint
Cookie Monster incoherently mutters something in a Cuban accent about:
“I ain’t got yo money, mang!”

A commotion soon ensues as Paul Wolfowitz runs down the street on all fours, nude, disoriented
He barks like a dog and bites random people; ruff! Ruff! Ruff! Ruff! Ruff! Ruff! ERRRRRRRRR!!!!!!
Foaming from the mouth,
He squeals a profanity laced tirade against the liberal commies that want to take away his
Alpaca farm full of Iraqi children chained to radiators in his basement
Whilst doing a partial handstand, he whispers like Brutus in my ear,
“Pūrṇam adaḥ pūrṇam idam
Pūrṇāt pūrṇam udacyate
Pūrṇasya pūrṇam ādāya

Pūrṇam evāvasiṣyate.”

Nearby, in front of a foreclosed on church…
Seven Hooter’s waitresses gather for their weekly support group…
Though they aren’t there for personal reasons…
It’s all about the fire hose enemas, bad coffee, and “Mattlock” reruns

A group of German tourists walk up next to me
I yell “Fick Dich” to them so they feel welcome

When they ask me where I’m going,
I tell them I’m on my way to see the Terrorist
He lives in the Meth Lab on Sesame Street
It’s between Washington, DC
And New York City
Eerily east of Essex
North of Bangkok
West of Sydney
It used to be in Caracas
But now it’s just a few blocks away
The last time I went there, I drove home at 90 miles an hour in reverse on the wrong side of the highway for seven hours straight blasting Celine Dion from my distorted radio in a constant loop
This time I’ll come back on a Segway or a rickshaw instead!

Auf Wiedersehen! So long! Goodbye!
We part and exchange hostile text messages

[woleb rorrim eht nI
eotletsim eht rednU
stimrep tuohtiw stimreH
timreK dna yggiP sM kcajraC]

Walking to the spot, I enter the goofy ghetto sponsored by Bank of America
Pompous posses of gangly gangsta rappers on every street corner have gay sex
While smoking banal blunts rolled up from Florida 2000 butterfly ballots
They spit at me and throw gold chains and urinate in my direction
I thank them and perm my hair with pepper spray
This sure isn’t Mr. Roger’s Neighborhood!

On the next street hopscotch a pack of crack smoking girl scouts
They calmly riot, throwing Molotov cocktails and
Smashing windows and pumpkins, too
I ask one named “Betsy Lou,” why the upheaval? Why the evil?
She tells me that their jobs selling cookies have been outsourced
To coarse robots controlled by girl scouts in New Dehli
Like a jellyfish,
the little bitch
kicks me in the nuts, struts, and steals my subway ticket and runs away yodeling
Flailing her arms like a windmill, but still,
I thank her and brush my teeth in the sewer

I finally arrive at the Meth Lab
To get in, I have to give the password to Oscar
He’s the grouch who lives in a garbage can out front
I noisely knock on his lid, da-dada-da-da-da-da!
He pops up reeking of cheap whiskey and the perfume of an Asian hooker
He belligerently inquires (in a voice that sounds like an angry black man), “What, muthafucka?”
I tell him “Karl Rove’s Rectal Exam” (the password)
As he opens the door, I ask him why he is such a grouch
He says, “You’d be a grouch, too, if ya lived in a garbage can, bitch!”
I concur with him and walk inside backwards doing the Moonwalk

Inside, Elmo smokes a bong and collects money from a prostitute with three tits
Bert and Ernie watch “Will and Grace,” bake a quiche, and talk shit
Snuffleupagus watches snuff films and sharpens his knife
Talking about how he’s gonna cut up Big Bird and make fried chicken outta his wife
I ask a psychotic 6 year old girl sorting powder like Scarface if I can see the Terrorist

She hands me a mirror

Newamba Flamingo gets abducted by aliens a lot.


  1. I dig that documentary cinema-verite style.

  2. fuckin a' man.. i really enjoyed was much needed therapy after 7 hrs of straight nightmares...i really liked translating:

    [woleb rorrim eht nI
    eotletsim eht rednU
    stimrep tuohtiw stimreH
    timreK dna yggiP sM kcajraC]

    adds to the ending quite well..the mirror image..

    kick ass..smoke poetry..snort prose!