Dina and Dan Occupy The Blogosphere

Rick Talbert was a violent man. But he felt inadequate. His penis was a cause of concern, its sores and lack of firmness. So was a cultural lack. So he raged. There was no comfort. He had no inner comforts. He broke down and wept occasionally although he was not very pitiable, nor did anyone notice the particularity of his breaking down. In fact it was a general breaking down. He fought and hit women. He fought and hit children. He was on the news once or twice for various robberies. He played the spoons. We don’t seem to fit in.

But he didn’t seem to mind. But of course he minded. He wanted many friends. He was really very sad he had so many friends and so many women to hit and that he kept hitting them though his arms were tired, though he wanted to be asleep, stare up at his eyelids and the lights just behind them. He was so sad that he broke into a pharmacy and hit the woman behind the counter. He slept there because he couldn’t find any speed. With blood all over her smock and her mouth like she'd been eating a plum. All he wanted was speed. She mouthed the words, I love you, in the sense she was traveling very fast through space, toward him, over violent seas, or vast deserts, or ice, under which her sisters and many sisters like her had been trapped, would continually trap themselves, because they would be foolish out of will and loyalty, out of inconsolable love. In his last year at home he stopped eating. He grew his hair out and started snorting powders. His parents called the police on him. Neighbors gathered in the front yard to watch the police haul the young men off. They all had wild eyes. "I'll fuck you all," they all yelled, perhaps at one another. That’s all that they remember about them, their confusion as to who was talking to who, and what it meant. It was his silly eyebrows and his intense wild eyes, the look he had, like he was going to burn the house down, like he meant it, when he said it would mean nothing.