And faking art in the name of science and sociology, one should never tell former communist resident, as a resident, that you understand them. Late at night, at a bar in a country formerly communist with a bank of drunken nationalists at your gate, finding your way to the bathroom can be a headache. And they tell you that Henry Miller is somehow more well known here than Arthur Miller, they tell you this because he too was a communist. Commie rising above the battle torn nation your red flags aware of my height, my western mentality and I laugh with you regardless but feel, now, out of place. In a heartbeat I transfer my distrust to the art project I'm supposed to create here. Before it was a rather benign dictation of hidden animals, heartbeats and trees but now you're forced, I'm forced, to recognize the battle. One I may die from without a defense, so I change my art to involve toy guns, fishing poles and the competitive/controlled nature of urban vegetation in an attempt to suit your rooted anger, and my budding one. I will never say I understand you again, and your shallow laughs are assholio to me, I stomp them out as a small campfire in the pathway of forests burning. Three Czechs tried to follow me into the bathroom, threes Czech, no dashes, no umlauts or hyphenated explanation points, but one: Czech and two: Czech and three a Czech on that too, they came at me throwing money and pride and told me to follow them where my throat would be slit by them gutted with a blood-letting knife to leave my body dying on a tile floor with no grout. Your pride, you find it in me somehow, in my bones, your nations' defenses taken up in this small American resident. But your fire isn't big enough, I'll show you a fire wielding maniac with a mace of frozen weeping batteries wrapped in a cotton/broken glass mixture before I dip you in tar and find out how deep or shallow a nation can travel into your bones my friend. More interested in the earthbound creatures of tomorrow and the study of vegetable warfare on the plains of native grasses in my homeland, the mother USA, I'll find your limits quickly and stuff them in the corner along with all the other shit I saved from college. Leave your communist manifestos to me, I shit them out by the dozen and forget them by the mouthful in this brazen state. It doesn't matter to me this life or death and no nation but the one I happened to be born into, born into this like a Bukowski worshipper on heroin you suck in the words of a soulless being. Fuck Henry Miller and the tropic of cancerous rebellion. If I'm not born into this then I’ve been deceived. No following into the bathroom, no blood letting on the floor of tiles with no grout, no condom machines run out of supply or broken from overuse, no cheese and egg sandwiches with a spread of horseradish, cream and dill, no nightly horrors of a slide show thicket where one has to describe 'La Jette' in essence to someone whose never seen the slides of Chris Marker. I understand you, and you hate it, because to me it’s like understanding an unruly 12 year old niece hell bent on grabbing candy from the top shelf of her parents kitchen. You will stack your chairs and climb them and before you know it the candy will be in your mouth, your belly satisfying a rising disaster because kitchen chairs are weak. So I'll wonder, and I'll make sculptures with guns instead of tiny animals because I want to communicate, I want to understand you, but to understand you I will need to commit social suicide. This is true. So, stepping back there will be no more conversation over this, no more drinking with you because I have to keep my eye out, the weakest of your bunch hurt me the most, but I'm too sensitive right? Being too sensitive saved my life from falling blood-less on the tile floor you broke into my body with a knife. You broke into my body to find out how deep my nation runs, but I would have told you and to visualize it you only needed a pin prick, because I am not war torn, I'm am not searching for illegal weaponry to fight some future war, I will gladly die on the tile of that bathroom floor before I take up arms, but the trees will have their revenge on your violent soul and the birds and the small animals. Small squirrels eating nuts from my hands are powerful creatures. I'm sorry you haven't found these creatures in your garden. So I'll put guns in the branches of your vegetation, giving arms to your trees.