The Blue Nun (A prose version) - dec. 99
by: Jay Miner
                       

     I decided to read at a reading tho sometimes a pain in the ass is better. The audience just loved me wanting to tear a new one. They called themselves advocates for a coherent reading. I called them soul suckers inhaling the balls right out of me thru my eyes. I was a suspenseful kid in a candy store until they handed me coffee and cigarettes and whiskey to enable me to crawl back into the womb to hide and bleed and wait. Ya gots ta cover up yer imperfections somehow while ya wait for the ever eclipsing bullshit sunset. The dawn, the divine, Janis Joplin fire dancing on water. It's all over rated.
     Government approved politically funded literary public community groups. Soft singing for the yuppie corpse carcasses who like their tasty bland. Either dig it and do it or drop out. But don't tune in or turn me on unless you mean what you say. A poet is not a poet until he she or it can eat the forbidden fruit and like the way the razors taste.
     I was sent to a treatment program with woman, animals, and children in the audience acting all cool and casual causing my deeper downward spiral you dig. I mean, here I am: an animal living breeeeething and dying thru my skin. Stretching the bounds of what is fake and/or real. And these bastards only cough, clear their throats, and look like a deep fried version of boring and slightly annoyed at my presence. As if to say, so what? I poured myself out. They only cleared their throats some more while the nun with crutches lick smacked her lips similar to the half psycho cobra of West Africa, but what could I say? What would you have done? You wine swill, you sit in deep thought judgement but have no clue what I endure. Look out and see the season change. The nun wisked me away. She was after my cigars. As soon as I shit canned 'em down the drain she took off. Holding her hand now I hold regret. I wanted catharsis to pump some life into her hindbrain and question her loyalty to the royalty such as buddha jesus allah. Or why choose the convent to begin with?
     But days and mornings and nights are washed up while she hobbles up the road staring at the sky. The fruitcakes in the audience drop their ski masks and ask what's up? The captors of my mind stand over me with pitchforks and chant my demise. Wake up in a pine box, 6 feet in length and about 2 feet deep I would say. And as the sound of nails being driven through perspire through the walls, nothing left but to pound on the bastard with my wailing fists and wait for whatever comes next. "This is it. This is it goddamnit! Goddamnit son of a bitch jesus christ this is it!" while all eyes in the audience roll back from the orgasmic rush of abuse. Yeah.