ARTICHOKE for JAMES FRANCO

My revered friend and esteemed colleague of ten years: a brightly decorated commander from the Military Council of Special Joint Affairs,
a quite majestic, numinous branch, was wearing his prized plastic beige-to- aubergine sombrero, which like a character out of BOND he’d won in a game of Dominoes last evening while drinking some Kool-Aid at a black
charity event for classified operators. The week before he’d hijacked a
Black Hawk off Bragg as part of something like a training exercise and,
after a couple unannounced, swoops, whips, goofy spins, masculine gestures, & 2.5 gang signs over Camp McCall’s turntable, was hit by
a brick launched out of a rocket-propelled grenade. Two days later
the mother fucker shows up wearing the wig of General O.G. Washington, having crashed landed into my kid’s tree house, at which point he decides he’s General Patton, proceeding to torch the classified, billion-dollar black-site chopper, which would then provide encore: burning the entirety of my lawn, which I just so happened to manicure and hydrate according to the strict procedures of Wimbledon’s Tennis Lawns, whose authorities owe much to the renowned savagery of Thomas Cromwell and Henry VIII’s few courts at marriage, notwithstanding the mess as another head drops like a medicine ball down the fly-soaked gutters of Hilary Mantel’s Wolf Hall.
All morning my revered friend and esteemed colleague has been staring
‘at the moon, gathering the seashells of his intelligence to uphold liberty
itself–like a snake that bites you in the lip. But know you are an eagle!’ And so very simply, after this bizarre reference to Mexico’s central mythic
origin, like a retarded Bruce Wayne or balding James Franco charging with great speed from the wreckage of Pineapple Express with all that stripper blood dripping from Franco’s Richard-Nixon jaw, the predicable monster, my revered friend and esteemed colleague the one and only James Franco, Combative Arms Operator, choked through a thorough multitude of fine, hand-rolled Dominican cigars all the while hysterically waving, hooting, war-hawk hollering with the orange tip of an orphan’s silver cap gun–an in-adequate though thought-provoking pistol revolver, which James now whipped with unnecessary and quite sick, un-tasteful extremities of violence around my forehead, painting one of them tiny, ‘invisible Freudian halos’ for which, as Rimbaud so raggedly points out, ‘He is infection.’ And so he was.