To the reader

O reader,

You are the force that makes the wheat grow.

You drive the bulldozer that disfigures the earth,

And the steamroller that flattens things.

You invented plastic bags and spinning tops.

You, O goddess, wear a T-shirt to bed.

I’m not kidding when I say that you literally created the world with one curse from your mouth.

You have a license to kill, 

But you choose to let creatures play;

You only slaughter certain types of animals, and only when you’re hungry.

And you barely ever do that: 

Whoever claims otherwise is a liar.

You’re up there, floating; yet you remain right here on the subway,

Reading this book, trying to hide its cover from curious bystanders.

I’m glad that you purchased a monopoly.

You’re like a feral child who was raised in the jungles of Maine, but you ran away and became a longshoreman.

I like your blouse. I like your hairdo.

Something about the humidity today tells me that the rest of your existence shall be enjoyable. I bet that you’ll make a lot of money, if you choose to go down that path.

You’re a good egg; by which I mean you’re a veritable Profile in Courage.

You’re more like a falcon… an ornery eagle…  

No: the golden eagle on the American flag! (Is there an eagle on the flag? If so, can you see what’s in the creature’s talons? I’m just trying to figure out how much time I got left here.)

Better yet, you’re like whatever type of bird the Holy Spirit was when she hovered over the deep, while God was creating himself.

But you go way back, before the Lord Jehovah ever acknowledged his wife’s name, or before he even knew Wisdom, in the biblical sense, and she disappeared for a while.

Remember when you and I visited that automobile repair shop, because I had to get the oil changed on my Fiero? Was that a blast, or simply boring? Did you like the free coffee?

I bet you graduated from school. I bet you have a good job.

Your mom told me to tell you that she is gonna stay back and not interrupt your magic moment. You can have this fame all to yourself.

Yes, you don’t even own a mother: You are self-created, like THE ALMIGHTY— and even better than THE ALMIGHTY, as I keep trying to explain…

Tho (if your pose is that of a believer) I intend no offense by praising you like this: 

My point is that you should believe in yourself even more.

I like how you inherited those mag rims on your dirt-bike.

You and I were given a task: “Fashion a horse,” said the Everlasting One.

You made your horse out of molten glass; you inflated it by blowing into a special tool, so that it was filled with your spirit and very fragile around the legs and hooves. 

For my part, I sculpted a horse-like shape from the mud, then I baked it in a kiln. In short, your horse was superior: You won the prize.

I admire how you made the planets vaguely oval in shape. How did you ever think to do that! — I would have made them cubic.

You imbued permanent felt-tip markers with a unique scent.

You cook really good spaghetti.

Not only did you build your own van, but you created the assembly-line system that helped to speed up the process. Then you destroyed your manufacturing plant after producing just this one vehicle. (Such a process is called “breaking the mold”.)

And we went on that double date with those two lionesses, back in the 80s. And you told a joke, and it got a laugh; then I told a joke, and it got a laugh. 

You don’t even need a secretary: You never delegate authority: You do all the tasks yourself.

There’s a green field that stretches past the horizon, and, every three meters, you placed a juicy orange on the grass. So they are all sitting there, dotting this landscape. — You performed this act. It’s like your cosmic calling-card.

§

But how long will it take you before you agree to star in one of our motion pictures?

We wrote a sci-fi story with you in mind — we were hoping that you’d play the lead role: the hero. Yet you haven’t returned to the past for a while now. (Where could you be?)

(My guess is that you’re still reading this book of mine on the subway.)

I like your blond hairdo, as I said above, and I think that you’d be perfect in the role of Krabman who visits our planet from outer space.

He comes back and shows us his wares.

I think you have a big enough shadow to scare the daylights out of most pretty flowers.

If we’re playing joint roles as the Colossi of Memnon then we could double-date giantesses. Without even intending a pun, we might garner big laughs.

I honestly bet that we’d wrap up filming in less than a month. 

You do good impressions. Marlon Brando; Jack Lemmon; Cary Grant…

The director said that you could use your own spaceship for the chase scene, because she wants you to be comfortable.

I wonder why it’s so hard to get you to make a covenant with us. Just fly back in time and sign on the line — it’s not complicated.

Plus the melodrama is something you’d enjoy. I’m sure of this. There are no mothers or sisters in the script: only lovers. 

You have a really effective way of making people feel the scope of your might. You’re extremely powerful. People look up to you. (I’m still talking to you, gentle reader. Please wake up.) Even when the top brass tried to fire you from your position as a dictator, you left politely and set up shop in your house in the desert; and, within a single generation, all your old underlings instinctively began to report to you. It was like you brought the secret government along with you.

Even if you tried to wash off your charisma, it would remain. It’s like a tattoo that everyone can see.

§

I wonder if you remember this: One time, you took a photograph of one of those oranges that you placed in the vast green field. You captured the juiciness of the fruit — there were water droplets in sharp focus, and you lit them well.

You make ads, and people like them. That’s an accomplishment. Let me explain:

See, most people hate ads; when they see them they groan. So, if you, dear reader, can set up billboards all over every town where people live, and also plaster advertising images on every square inch of all public spaces (these adverts pair your face with a blurb that you blurted); then the citizens who are that town’s residential inhabitants creep out of their hermit-shells and begin to say “Ooh!” and “Ah!” while looking around at your commercial panorama, so that you cause them to smile widely at your handiwork and praise you, while countless coins come rolling home (think of saints marching as well as coins rolling when I say that) — I sure hope they don’t begin to wobble and soon fall over! THAT’s when you know that you’re a hot talent in the world of professional marketing.

I also love how spiritual you are. You have a really sunny side.

When we talk online to each other, over the video conferencing website, I’m in heaven.

I just sent you an instant text message, did you get it? Oh, now I see that you already answered. 

If I were ever to find myself trapped in a well, or any similarly confined area, I’d be most happy if you were my fellow-sufferer; but since I don’t want you to suffer AT ALL, I would instead film the sequence so that your character would be represented as a reddish phantom: a figure of my imagination. I’m saying that I would dream of you, in my finest hour.

I also would like to touch your arm… stroke your forearm… then I would like to kiss your physique reverentially.

I wish that you and I could climb into go-karts that fly, and pilot ourselves around the universe destroying math. Yes, I mean that literally: I’d like to annihilate mathematics. (With you by my side.)

I don’t even care if you reach your hand right thru this book and slap me. I would take it as a compliment.

It’s a great honor that you’re even still reading this. I fear that it sux.

I’d gladly choose you to be my single parent, in the next life — that’s how much you have earned my trust. (I hope it doesn’t disgust you to see my head emerging from between your legs, as you give birth to me. You can clean me off: I won’t always look so gooey. And, remember: this is your blood and my blood.)

But why is everyone always trying to assassinate presidents? Why don’t presidents ever attempt to assassinate us? 

And you can park in my spot, in the lot, if we ever work at the same corporate offices together (a dream come true, for me); I don’t own a motor-coach, anyway.