The Last Letter from our Man Cox

aI’m listening to cibo matto and wondering
whether to wake up
my little brother Kevin
in order to ask

him whether he thinks [It was so lush and stuff and Y Tu Mama Tambien and Palabras]

if Eva, his Japanese tutor, who speaks in faraway tonal languages to socially approved men [nebbishes, humph] on a silver sprint pcs phone, with that circumnavigational look shining in her irises, whether she might kinda probably maybe

kinda have a thing for me and consequently might we listen to Michael McDonald “I keep forgetting” MP3s and partake of some of this smuggled Jiffy Chunky Style B.C. bud, along with some Bud Ice? (5.5% alcohol, by volume.)

(Adam was black. Eve was Asian.)

and I’m at that moment where i answer the question “how ya doing, Cox?” and I say “I’m in the moment,”

whether i take another swig of beer (newly okay now, surely i must have explained) which i do indulge of b/c we just came from

Denny’s superscram breakfast and moons over my hammy with local college students who said look at the high niggas
look look look

and I’m feeling really good b/c, friend, I’ve got these Taiwanese young ladies wearing a lot of diamonds, which i so generously purchased for them from Zales.

I wrote a treatise on television today, completely unprompted. [????]

It began, ‘Television is an altar. To it we sacrifice our children and our fondest dreams. It returns to us each night in an aura of blinding truth.’ about which i do not give a fuck, of course.

I am twenty-three years old.

All I want is to work at a vineyard, stomping grapes into $10.00, 750mL bottles of joy, or grow weed (northern lights, no. 6) in my bedroom closet.

I guess that i have a pretty good memory, except when I’m drinking hard liquor and have not shitted enough during the early 1990s.

My name is Brian Jonathan Cox, and you might’ve heard about me.
To Dr. Johnson, in whose apprenticeship I have been obliged by virtue of my very hands, until the age of twenty-five: Send backup immediately. Don’t worry if she’s only 14. Do not, i repeat, do not, place the resulting footage in your KaZaA “My Shared Folder”. We could all get in trouble.

And to my attorney, Earles: Please kindly delete this e-mail message from your queue, but not before representing my interests in court. Do not wear a pique polo shirt; we will lose.


The Last Letter from our Man Cox


Joined January 2008

  • Artist

Artist's Description

Before an obsession with deviant sex and British Columbia’s finest got the best of him, our man Cox was, well…the man, indeed.

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