Head and Shoulders

9AM, and I just returned from the gym, where I composed a tune most frightful and violent!

Yes, indeed, on the rowing machine, watching myself in the mirror, stern and languid—writing the words on the surface of my mind. And on the bench, iron behind me, and an old woman to my left—and what was she doing there?—on an incline, of all places.

This one goes to the capitalists and artists—nor did I even wash my hands when I returned home!, for these bloody words of mine shall find vent on paper, not in soap and water.

Oh, Peter Thiel!—legendary iconoclast and venture capitalist. It is dark days when conservative turns upon conservative, but let us feast.

And do you describe yourself as a libertarian, a “loser,” in your words, not my own?—and I am the self-acknowledged Republican and “winner”? But, did you concede defeat before we began the dance?—then, let me build you back up and destroy you anew.

Ah, the philosopher “King”!—whom I shall promptly dethrone. I am the philosopher shepherd, who loves his flock, dogs and sheep both, and you are one of my best dogs, a pitbull, perhaps. And were I to meet you in the flesh, I would put you on my leash and walk you—or let you maul and tear me to bits and pieces, like Odysseus returned home from his long voyage.

Where do I begin!—but how about with Tolkien. For, he is a fool, and he is wrong, and firstly—I am his literary master, and his books read flat and dry and prosaic, and I write poetry, firm, and well-rounded, and fleshful! Shakespeare alone is my equal—and I write for lions and tigers, and Tolkien for kittens, purring and domesticated, lapping at milk and content.

What, your ring of power?—but, I shall wear it day and night, and it shall corrupt me not, because I am Heaven-born, and you shall fear it for the rest of your days, because you are a mortal and a man, and before me, you are dust.

And one day, your Empire shall crash and burn, just like your wealth management fund in 2008, conceived with a nerd thesis on the price of oil. And, when I fail, it shall be with a thesis given from God, and I shall fall Divine and graceful, and you are of this world, and I am not, and I am above it.

Now, no work is complete that is uni-dimensional, so we turn to another soul in Picasso. And, what was his best work—but his sketch of a bull? What fine lines, and what mastery of spirit, captured in just a few strokes of pen on paper?

But, I say, you are equal to what you draw, and if Picasso draws a beast, then he is King of beasts, and I draw God, and I am equal to Him.

In this world, I am unparalleled, and I must wait a million years to find one of my make. Yes, I am King of Capitalists, who cares not to make a penny, and I am King of Artists, for my work shall never cost one but his time and attention.

What can I say?—head and shoulders above the rest of this race, and yet I live out my days in quiet patience, waiting for it to come to an end.

And that is enough for now, mistakes and all—and what even is “fleshful”—but, what is done is done, and I write indelible. Now, to wash my hands and shower, and it is back to my day job…