Hamlet Dies

silence gets to me so i must write quickly. push my mush into the wind, the dust. you want me to stop lying, and yet it is precisely this imperative that renews and perpetuates my need to invent. in other words, i keep the country clean. feigned denmark, la mancha, worlds deranged on the heart of the bolus, the world. i am a landed immigrant in fiction, uncomfortably conformed to social security sentences. this no doubt explains why i have framed all of your envelopes, and burned all of your words.

does it matter who i am? of course it matters! but for now i am first name hamlet last name dead. help me if you must, kill me if you can.

yours,



hamlet "muerto" dead

psincidentally,

i've been fantasizing about kicking children. i once read a story by beckett, a story i've never rediscovered, despite my wealth of books. how much longer will it take before the world sees beckett relived on the front page of every daily news? beckett's texts, that is. the texts in which children receive kicks to the head. now, the truth pestilence is that my urge is connected to the narrative, the narrative to my urge. the latter presents a tenuous connection, it is true, and yet, i am wary of denying the responsibilty of inanimate letters for engendering ideas and actions. the way the bible pressed kafka to my knees. alas, oh well, selah. it's my fault, loving you so overnight child chains -

if only i could find that goddamn book.