THINGS THAT GET DONE
How is the Nelson who stands at the Observatory
any different than me? And what makes him so, then,
if he is? I wonder this question - my very last one,
I swear - while running off with his telescope keys.
I'll teach that bastard to look at the stars.
Never once, even as a kid, have I played dominoes.
I hate those little dotted blocks, and the way they stand
on edge, and the way those people who do that make
hundreds of them fall in a row after being arrayed.
Perfectly. Like monstrous damned good sense.
Ah, a logical, sequential mind really sets me off.
I hate the bells and whistles, I hate that reptilian core
that can rationalize all brain matter into rank and
number and detail and duty. I can't be told to owe
allegiance to any other things. They can shove it all.
My Master is a martial-arts creation, a God who made up
all these things, then pressed a random-hit-sequence, and
simply walked away. 'You're on your own, mother-fuckers,'
was the last thing this God was heard to say.