I know writers who are brilliant postmodernists who don’t speak the languages they know right, they know new words and enter phrases in paradigms of looping improbability and speak in a new poetry. A fine array of talent and a smooth engine of merging lexicons. But they all give it up for business, for power and suits, for paychecks and neat smiles, white, clean, perfect, keeping the riff-raff out of the tall building and the power inside, trapping, leading, conducting. I know these writers and I think to make them better I will have to murder them. Murder as an act is the defilement of that person’s shared identity with the rest of the world, a separation of the organism, and yet is somehow tragic and compelling, a testament of survival’s sharp toothed razor edge dynamic and how we all struggle against the savagery. Murder is the only way to be sure someone isn’t dying alone, because you’re there, taking the life from them. The tall buildings trapping all the power suck up the souls of the businessmen but you kill them and they become everyone else’s all over again. In death they have joined you and everyone else, because of the inevitable slip we must take. I want to murder them so they’ll be famous, when their weeping families go through their papers they see the brilliance and go, here, look at this, this is amazing. Posthumous publishing and afterlife accolades. They won’t thank me for it, they’ll be dead, but the universe will be a better place, and after awhile there will be other dead people too, making it all better. Go meet your god or your grave or your decisions with the unlikely knowledge of solutions and maybe the afterlife is a wild play about the wild west or it’s something ese entirely. Just remember than when you’re being murdered, you matter again. Someone had to care that much. When’s the last time that happened? When’s the last time someone cared enough to change your entire life?
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