I eat bullets for breakfast.
I take the 1 Train.
I get dropped off in the hangnail of town.
It is permanently foggy there. Not an eerie fog, though. Just one that smells like shit.
My face is permanently smiling.
I’ve got lockjaw from the barbed wire I gnawed on when I was a child.
I’ve a mug like a beaten pit bull.
I don’t smoke.
I broadcast my thoughts on three different frequencies: (1) 341.2 kHz, which can be accessed using an ordinary television antenna, a wad of dubble-bubble, and a hastily formed, phallic bunch of aluminum foil; (2) 260 Hz, or 1.6 Hz below middle C, which creates a slight dissonance; (3) — information unavailable.
In my bedroom, there is a modular synthesizer powered by the brain output of an incredibly furious mathematician whom I keep alive 22 hours out of the day via direct IV drip of vitamin C and an oxygen tank.
My goal is to find a meaningful way to play every single note in the Western 12-tone system at the same time.