Big In Europe
For Urs Lerch and Dachi Kasaia

I went to the foodmart
To buy a beer,
To Star Food Mart,
In case that wasn't clear, and
I went there on foot because
My car was full of scroaches.

They crawled forth each night
Like a little flotilla,
And I loathed the sight
Of their tiny sensilla, so
I went on foot because
My car was full of fucking scroaches.

I bolted the door
To my grandfather's house,
Where no man stirred,
Nor did even a louse, and I
Headed off in the direction
Of the town's oil refineries,
Which tastefully illuminated the horizon.
They looked to me like the Emerald City,
Glowing with promise
Of an American middle class.

But they did not glow for me.
Alack!

I'd barely wrangled three bucks' worth
Of quarters and dimes,
My lot since birth
Being one of privation and dearth, and
I traveled on foot because
My 2002 Mercury Grand Marquis was a
Goddamned roach shack, off-limits to me.

I donned my mask, and
I stepped inside,
Still bummed by the state
Of my expropriated ride,
And I said "excuse me, dear,"
To the shoeless child standing in front of
The beer.

To my chagrin,
The thing refused to move.
It just stood there and grinned,
As if it had something to prove,
While a fat, unmasked woman I presumed
To be its mother
Bought lottery tickets nearby.

For a moment, I wasn't sure
What to do
With this smug little nuisance, this burr
In my shoe,
But I cogitated a bit,
And the solution bit my crooked, Arab nose
Like a cobra.

I turned to the mother and, with a grin that
Put her dumpy, dimwitted child's to shame,
I asked,

"Have you heard?
I'm big in Europe.
Their obsession with me is
Really quite absurd.

Have you heard?
I'm huge in Europe.
Those Continental folk, man,
They hang on my every word.

I am Camel Eye.
I am Camel Eye.
I am Camel Eye.
I am Camel Eye!

I smell like a turd,
But I sing like Bill Byrd.
I am Camel Eye.
Now, step aside."

As I carried my Gargantuan bottle of
Steel Reserve to the register, the clerk unfurled a
Carpet for me, a carpet made of glistening
Scroaches. They smelled so sweet!

The child, now standing at attention,
Sounded a flugelhorn, which then
Disintegrated into a writhing mound of
Scoaches, engulfing the child's unshod
Hooves.

The mother continued to scratch her
Lottery tickets, which were made of
Scroachpaper. "I think we've got a winner
Here," she said, and pressed the ticket
Seductively into my palm, along with her
Four-o-nine. I cashed the ticket for point-
Eight-five Euro and then turned to her and
Exclaimed "I'm rich, bitch!" She laughed so
Hard that scroaches poured from her
Fucking mouth.

I walked back to my grandfather's house
And tried to get drunk.

The next day, I changed my name to
King Scroach.

The following day, I died, belly up, in my
Grandfather's kitchen. He cursed my
Generation and then placed me in the
Trash, making incredibly deft use of his
Canes. Elon Musk was on TV, explaining
Why poor people did not deserve money.
Donald Trump followed with inflated
Employment figures. I listened from the
Trash and was glad I was fucking dead.

This dispatch from Texas City, TX, is for
Urs Lerch and Dachi Kasaia, and for all of
You who will never know what it's like to be
Big in Europe.