September 21, 2007
Booze… on The Far Side of the Mountain
September 25, 2007


The end is here, Caligula! You remember, don’t you? The days we talked about the coliseum flooding while the marble cracked and we whipped our horses through the people-infested streets. You said, “Let us rise like the statues, through trial and time!” I agreed with you, cursing something of a jackal-face god, coursing through the church. I stomped on a hundred white-robes; I tipped the cattle of Jesus Christ. They threw oil at me and farted.

And you said they said the end is already here! I laughed at you, kicked my horse squarely in the groin. And off he went, screeching a word or two about what it means to be kicked in the nuts while you neigh.

Gather your veil-length robes, Caligula! We’ll murder ourselves before the lions, and the rivers, and the crowds, and the stamp of time dissolve us in our own stadium! I cannot spell failure, my senses are dulled to it. Kings live forever; their friends lead the way.

Yours as always; goddamn SPQR.

Augustine, the lesser

—as he woke, the giant orb of the sun, God’s own eye peered at his cow lick.
You’re done, Mattaman. Quite and forever are done.

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