Grrr.

Well, I’m just boiling. Boiling. My breath fires off in hiccupping staccatos that flush my face to the colors of fire. I ball my fists and bite my tongue and prowl around my apartment like a caged wolf. Grrrr. Snarl at the mirror. Grrrr. Slam dishes into the sink. Grrrr, take it to the nighttime streets with a smoldering cigarette while I rub my forehead against the brick wall of the apartment building until my skin scrapes.


The moon is all amber and grim, like the meat of a poisonous peach. It drips honeyed sweat through space to the earth and I lick it up. I gargle it. I paint stripes of it under my eyes. My, oh my, the moon says to me, your fury is shaking the whole planet. And you ain’t seen nothing yet. This ought to be good. Yeah it will.


Storm the streets, sparks flashing from my teeth. Grrr. It seems like a good idea to kick a streetlight, so I put my foot through the base of one and it caves under my apocalyptic strength. Feels good, do it again. Kick. Crack. Creak. Timber! I kick the streetlight over and it falls through a big grey building and the glass rains down around me in a million tinkling shards. And inside the building people in pajamas look through their broken walls at each other and then out at me. “Who is that wild man?” they ask in awe. Show them just who you are.


I wrap my arms around the trees and heave them out from their roots and then hurl them across the street into busses and stores. I pick up cars and their car alarms go off and them I slam them back down and they explode in fireballs.


I punch through walls.


I rip up sidewalks.


(Pause at a rose. Uproot it.)


Stomp craters into parking lots.


Spear water towers with flagpoles.


Tear off support beams from the bottoms of skyscrapers and then stand still as the whole building comes a’tumblin down around me and the metal beams smash into my head and the glass shards stick into my skin but pain is my beating heart and the taste of my blood is like wine.


“Stop him! He’ll break the world!” the people scream. They can’t stop you now, says the moon and I howl in agreement. The people come at me with crowbars and baseball bats but it’s true what the moon said, they can’t stop me. No one can stop me. My fists are hammers, axes, machine guns. My fists are bladed windmills.


Every hit makes me madder. Every madder makes me stronger. I toss the people like dolls and no one stops me. The twinkling stars start chanting at my destruction: Go Ty-ler! Go Ty-ler! It’s your birthday! It’s your birthday! Grrr. Roar! I am a grenade. I am an earthquake. I am just boiling!


I am boiling. I am a tempest of fury. I am a time bomb of terror. I am raging with the fury of a thousand exploding suns, and I stand in the ruins of a once tall and proud city but now emergency sirens are wailing and people are running away and the military’s coming (let them) and I’m breathing heavy, steam whistling off my back and moon sweat running down my face and arms. And I’m crying blood because I am mad and sad at the same time. And the people stare, “the wild man can’t be crying,” but he is crying (blood) and the grim old moon turns black so that no one can see me and people will remember me as wild and not sad. Because I am tired of being sad.

I’m gonna try mad instead. Hopping mad. Fighting mad. A little tired too, but mostly mad. And when I’m mad, I’m wild. I can do anything. I can break everything. I’m taking to life like a bull to a freeway. Like a spark to gunpowder. Like wolves. Grrr.


EDITOR’S NOTE: Of course, I’m mad – but I’d hate for anyone to get skittish on account my well-being. I am aware that these sorts of fantasies can be distressing to readers but it’s the Internet guys, and it’s 2009 to boot. Women can vote! Surely, if women can vote, men can write fantasize about citywide destruction – it happens in movies sometimes. It’s a healthy outlet. Like smoking! Hooka!


In order to satiate you all, here are some notes. (1) I do not actually want to hurt anyone. The people injured in the piece did not, to my knowledge, suffer any irreparable damage. (2) The moon has yet to actually talk back. (3) I am very nearly done with a tender, tragic little piece on lost love and heartbreak and its effortlessly nimble lyricisms will stir your heart to gentle, autumnal sorrow and you will all say, “Tyler is really good and, yes, he’s sad, but he surely is not emotionally unstable” and you’ll be right.

But that’s the next post.


So, for now, rest assured – I will not actually break the world.