charlie don't surf reality: part 2. the mayor ....

I am not the man for you, am not the pigeon that hunts for crumbs beneath your chair. I am not the fixture, the comforter, the smile that sends little children into apoplectic seizures. I am not the man who barks, who flings, who waits by the curb for uptown buses to send puddles my way. I am not the man who dies, who leaves, who holds onto the best until something better comes along. I am not the man who sinks beneath benches, who massages the backsides of chic geeks dressed in hello kitty wear. I am not the syncophant, the hierophant, the elephant that blind philosophers poke and prod with epistemological jouissance. I am not the man who votes, who counts, who cries when the lottery is fixed, who vents when ill winds blow, who cracks under the face of the pipe, who peeps when he comes or comes when he peeps. I am not the man who lies about the length, the strength, the width, of my argumentation. I am not the man who falls when he fails or leaps when he concludes. I am not the man who makes love with rocks, with branches, with tall buildings designed for superheroes. I am not the man who gives up to give in, who takes the hands of young goggled women to finger their palms, who sleeps on sheets in which others have shit. I am not the man hypnotized by breasts, deregulated by labia, cast adrift by lacanian lack. I am not the man who washes behind the ears of sanctity, who fucks without a license, who colours inside the lines of hymn books, pamphlets, political tracts, sandwich boards and panty liners. I am not the man who sneaks to the bathroom, who flies in the face of danger, who plays his cards as the deck is shuffled. I am not the man who eats carrot cake, who barfs sushi, who greases his nipples with frozen yogurt and honey. I am not the man with led zepplin tattoos on my instep, with ozzy's phone number glued to my underwear, with the beatles' birthdays programmed into my visor.

I am not this man.

But I could be, given enough time and money ...