Gizzi at the Nation

Someone comes up to do something for once, gut the house out, to do something where someone went without telling us about it afterwards. Crummy word day settles up and relieves somebody, someone we knew revealed to Desert Storm its defailance through windows cut in winter and installed by little kids. Nausea sets in, hunts someone down, tracks them down to the Westin Hotel where you are Skyping across continents in a little suit of mylar. Now comes hurt, and devastating news, the kingpin in his missile firing the awkward untimely staff. He kills someone for something. Somebody pleads with him but it is too late. Poetry, language, thought are all procreative, now hardwired for confession a la Linda Tripp. We had a housewarming party where minority candidates were welcome to kill also, but defiantly given the past and its beeline for the door. Our answer was kill someone else. Somebody had done something else. We certainly knew what we'd gotten ourselves into, a desolate icon sitting in a chair all by himself, strapped to a desk and a sheet of browning paper, maybe craving vitamins and fluoride, in need of those things, but gently cringing at the floor for the way he had gone about submitting his ideas. Oh well. Someone dies and another person kills. Somebody lets go of herself and the other comes round again, giving up on drugs. The idea is not so much that somebody will one day set the record straight, reel in the evil axis and do good for once, but rather that someone has already set up his pieces in that manner and their just sitting there with their heads blown apart and their faces caved in because weapons treat the body as moldable material, a moveable container, unrested flesh. Your pen is a mighty penis sword.

[Ad: Congress has little realistic choice but to fund the Iraq War via email and ensure that the right people are in a position to do the right job, given the excesses of opinion and agitating behavior of the moment. As such, be prepared to die.]