If William Burroughs were your secretary
you would make him send you a monthly
report of his activities in order to keep
tabs on him. He would write back, “Many
things have happened since we last
communicated (communication is an
encoded script crammed in a glass bottle
blown ass-out of a gnarling pot-bellied
pop-eyed toad into a dried-up sea of confusion
and corruption). It shoots through the dead
air and splats unbroken into a mire where it
waits patiently and indifferently to be reamed
up the eager anus of a frantic bureaucratic
bungler (after which it is voided as an original
thought). End of report.” You would also
notice that the typewriters were disappearing,
and wouldn’t ask him to get your coffee because
you’d be afraid to drink it. Months would pass
and you would get behind in your work because
things that would typically take place in an
office, things that a secretary would normally do
like filing, Xeroxing and addressing envelopes
wouldn’t get done. You wouldn’t ask William
Burroughs to type your correspondence because
you would be too afraid. If William Burroughs
were your secretary, you would appreciate me.