swiss.miss

Swiss miss and her illiterati, they were slick and unfriendly, i could not get a handle on them. they reappeared one bad night in a cemetery of the living dead. how could i have forgotten? memorialized, shrink-wrapped and placed bedside for his or her personal pleasure, in the sickening days of settling spring. the city was crawling all over itself. perfect time they chose to show up, just after you took a shot of distrust to the arm.

I offered her a pipe dream to leave, sent her on a google search, chasing after an elusive $100 gift certificate to one of the old bludgeoning corporate book peddlers and thieves -- fucking Borders -- oh, how they made panhandlers out of bookshop keepers! Never could any decent community forgive them! 

I gave her a routine about signing up to test out books for free. "They lend you a pair, you break the spines, and if you don't like them (even if you do) you got ninety days to return them for a different pair." And on and on. "Work it, girl. What's the catch? All you gotta do is review them online and grab that gift certificate." I could see the avarice behind her eyes. She was on her way down the rabbit hole, but I'm sure I would see her broken soul again. These types are resilient as weeds and never go away. 

Her crew, the illiterati, could only read between lines! What good were books and Borders... they sought covers, discretion, walls. Together they insinuated one wiry upper body full of hot and senseless air. Cannot you see how I shudder to think of the lives could benefit from the air you suck, you and your crew, swiss miss? Her chub nostrils flared out at me at the top of the stairs, could I restrain myself from giving a push?

Into a marble broken fall
Blood dispersed across the smooth texture of it all
A chalky taste at the back of my throat
Homicide suddenly seemed...

okay

Swiss Miss and the Illiterati -part i

Swiss miss. 

The nemesis and stalker of real writers and readers, aka: you and me. Roosting and lording in a decollaborative fashion over her house label of omni ignorance. The Illiteratis.

Formerly, abundance came here to nest. 

She is up to no good again, swiss miss. Panhandling the system. Damn, what shall we do? Ghetto blast her out the city limits? Tried that. Listen to see if she has something today to say? Tried it. Accept and tolerate her? What choice do we have. 

She's always there, like gum under the table. 

Cannot pull her passport. Her license to quill. Under strategized pseudonyms and marketing blurbs straight out her mental vanilla extract suburbs. Gosh! I hate to be mean. But when someone is oozing self-centered fullness of being? 

Leeching off my holy land, the word scene? 

I find my mean girl comes decidedly back into creative being... 

-to be continued-