Aug 9, 2007

In-House Bazooka


Morgan Freeman is watching us. He has on a blue suit and a red tie. No paisley, 'cause that shit is for SMASHBIRDS. He is the size of an elephant and growing. Also, he is growing more impatient as the night wears on. We aren't entertaining him. One can hardly blame us. We are writing down nonsensical gibberish, wishing we were asleep instead of watching hybrid advertisements fed to us from cable network feeds. One would wish that upon no man. Morgan Freeman stands like Lincoln.

He has grown to the size of a building. He is careful not to step too hard for fear that we might hear him behind us. If Morgan Freeman had a ray-gun, he would destroy it. It's that fucking simple, killer. Morgan Freeman is a man of principles, not a ruthless killer like us. He is good times. We are SHITBIRDS who have run out of beer.

In fact, we'd venture to say that Morgan Freeman could be president of all creatures taller than buildings if he damn well wanted to be. Not like us, we couldn't fly if we tried. Morgan Freeman doesn't have to fly.
If Morgan Freeman had a broken collarbone, it wouldn't matter so much. Someone would just fix it. Fix it right up. Not like that Jon Voight. Motherfucker. He's a motherfucker, brother. He, of course referring to Jon Voight, not Morgan Freeman, who descends upon downtown Manhattan like an ostrich with slick wheels. He has on shoes, but no socks.
His socks, unfortunately, were left at home. It's no matter. We're boring him so intensely that he lets out a window-shattering roar. It's monotone clarity is like the first teacher that ever made you care about a quandry-- be it mathematical, scientific or post-modern. Roar. Cover your ears all you may, you bitch. We're gonna let the sound glide through us as though we had rubber soles lining the inside of our skin. Like we were rubber-made and Morgan Freeman was the glue that kept us whole.
Morgan Freeman chose not to destroy us. Don't get it twisted. Don't. Do not. Otherwise, he will reach down and hold you in his sweaty palm like you were a clam removed from it's shell. He won't eat you, but just study you. Watching, he will pity you, you that forgot why you don't believe in love; you that held onto a key for years though you had moved out of that house and weren't all that happy there in the first place.
Nobody believes Morgan Freeman, except maybe us, but he meant no harm. Just hold still and he will place you down on the ground now covered in shattered glass where everyone lay motionless like bums on late-night city trains. Just hold still.

1 comment:

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