Charlie Parker

It was Tuesday night and I was home alone. It was too cold outside, and too warm inside. Charlie Parker was playing the saxophone on thousands of little, invisible clouds, and I was playing with the various forms of hair I could find on my body. I had dreadlocked the hair on my toes, a few patches on my legs, and my big pubic mop, and had began focusing on my nipple hairs. They stood coiled-black, and obscenely proud—strewn out across the death pale backdrop of my irish potato skin. It was an embarrassing scene. I felt like reaching for a shirt though nobody was inside my apartment, and I thought about my days of cigarettes, and watching clocks, and T.V., and masturbating to early morning workout shows, and how I ever even managed to hold back conversations with people, and how sad it all really was. And then I lit my nipple hairs on fire. I started on the right side lighting individually at the ends, watching them flam and fizzle out in an orderly fashion. I was brushing the ash into my belly button, and everything was going fine until, about, mid-way through the left nipple when one hair got rebellious and decided to spread across the remaining forest. That Motherfucker took a good chunk of my nipple__(long pause)—which made me fall backwards, hitting my head on the table behind me, which knocked me out and caused a loud sound which made my landlady call the police, whom were let in by my landlady, who called a paramedic upon finding me on the floor, whom brought me here to this hospital, with doctors and nurses that proceeded to laugh uncontrollably, while calling every psychiatrist in the city down to see me.

by Kerry Magann
his last entry into the black notebook