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The Sidewalk Artist

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"I've never been a Catholic-Christian so this could get pretty heavy and temper-flaring." he warns me among the disheveled crowd he used to play checkers with whom in forgotten instances of Parliamental meltdowns and Japanese sins "I am of the race who sings in torture: the Declaration of Independence has no effect on my morality or judgment, see, it doesn't hold grounds against my spirit. " A bite of his poutine, a slight against morality. Damned man came across here an hour ago, just sat down thumping his knee up-down up-down, like a raving sane man straight out of the tepid hallways of inhibition. Not trying to hide what he knows, whether he's assassinated for speaking it openly or not.

Shopkeep orders another drink for us and he continues on, dragging his fag along his fingertips: "The Constitution serves better as my toilet paper than Queen Elizabeth (the second)'s soul used as my ashtray. I am a brute, you see? These people are doing wrong by the name of their humdrum, dissatisfied soul. I'm a beast, personally, but I may be saved by The Sidewalk, if The Script calls for it. I've ingested The Script into my Intestines and you'll be seeing their regulations shortly enough, see? People like Them are false niggers; savage, grasping madmen. Tradesmen and bank clerks dressed up as poet are not niggers, no matter how many times they sigh and whine about their humdrum trumpets thumping their crayola thumbs."


He lights another cigarette, ignoring his new plate of coffee soaking up his laptuous streams. Wonder where he came from or how many times he's been divorced. Maybe he's a millionaire's daughter kicked out of school for not thinking nonsensical enough.. unless he's escaped from the Sane Asylum.

"Statistics-readers and popularity-mongers pretend to write fiction, see, for the generalised parking meter snails preferring their tales told in a non-fictious way, see, they aren't niggers and never hold the salt of the sweating porch." Go on. "Diary-journalists masquerading as The New Deal on the Internet, man, as artists? They aren't niggers. I'm a nigger of the sidewalk's gravel, for I've in my soul ingested the cobblestone asphault of truth, and have been lynched by my own intestines for my Existence. The streets, backyards, websites, hallways, ballrooms, raves, churches, etc., are all Courtrooms of Society, my jail sentence was Mortality -- I escaped as you see, see?"

I nod my head, wanting to scream from a podium about this revolutionary sitting before me; making mental notes of keywords to use later in a story for PANK and Smokelong Quarterly. He continues: "I am a nigger-plower of the sweating sun that the false niggers use to hide away with their miniature electric screens and tabletop novels better used as Queen Elizabeth (the first)'s jissom-rag after a good saunainthecavesack.

"These same false niggers talk of sadness and the pains of life, meticulously hung-up on communicating in the simplest and clear-sighted ways to each other, and that's not where it's at, and you nod your head with me 'Mhm'-ing in all the right spots but I know you're hiding behind that misunderstanding. You see me talking and hear me eating my coffee but you're more focused on wondering how you're gonna out-weird me, and I could take that mask of insincerity you're wearing and slaughter your false niggerolatry and throw you to The Script's Whip and their Board of Directors, but you won't sleep under a bridge."

Slept under the.. Dear Buddha, he stared straight at me. Malice intent? Righteous justice? It's three past a quarter to a dime of a lamb's murder, the sun is going down on the Earth for a standing ovation, and our order ticket is coming up around the corner. Did he know how I dig using the third-person voice to reference about myself in stories? Who IS this deliriously sane creature!

Telling me all he needs to know for one moment wishing I could've been him to be socked in the face, or dragged off before The Courts for a lynching, he answers my eyebrow's lactating sweat and disharmonious sighs, "In the name of a successful career as a time-shoveler, I'm tired of false niggers requoting anti-hope and pro-hatred slogans on the electric screen telling 'em it's okay to screw like cassette tapes in a tape-eating radio. 

"I'm tired of them believing that our ancestor's victories aren't worth the efforts of towering over the false nigger's declaration of 'helping our people' by deceiving them into passive submission of mind and spirit and gutspineballs. But these false niggers, see, they who pretend and try to offend but rarely ever do, 'cause it's the expected from the whiteface, and I hope you aren't one, have bigger bank accounts wealthier than any Senator, y'know? I'm just a laxative in a giant toilet, really, any true nigger knows what it's like to be a scripture footnote of skeleton history. The Script's turned on the red light, it's time I get off stage. Seeya around sometime."   

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I could rewrite my earlier comment but I'll just summarize: Brilliant!

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