PostPoems Be Artistic. Be Creative. Be Inspired!

CHAPTER 1

 

 

 

So I took this bus trip to San Francisco, your typical troubled teenager thirsting for something he can’t yet understand why. Contrary, I fully happened to underestimate the terror I would endure though only as a prickly pear of my own headspace. Don’t get me wrong, the city itself was all things beautiful and enchanting, utterly romantic in a strange sort of way for those bums the ones who fear nothing but love and make it a grand junction of their hearts’ desire to snipe for cigarette butts on bustling industrial sidewalks.

When I arrived via Greyhound after a 10-hour odd trip crammed on a cushion with my big army-edition backpack, stepping out onto the mounting platform, I spun my soul in streaming curiosity I am an owl around.

Called up my friend. ‘Okay Dave I’m here.’

‘All right hang tight be there soon,’ he said.

Ya right, I was being drawn in every direction, stigmatic ambitions for exploration already run rampant. Thought I’d take a stroll during the interim and find the first café of the stretch. Maybe that’s all I was thirsting for this whole time. Only coffee. But as I made my way down the pleasant stretch with bubbly buildings yawning their necks, introspective, this thin little white Irish dude was chasing a scrap of paper on the crosswalk I was crossing. Guess he kind of swept me up instead. ‘Follow me,’ he said.

I was basically a monkey freed from its family cage. So, being a dumb fucking monkey, I followed suit with eyes and mouth agape, timid youthful strong hobbles, into the concrete jungle. Oblivious to the point of not even stopping to consider what in God’s hell we’re moving toward?

Told me to follow him yet proceeded without any more words and continued on his path as though alone, like he had a leash loosely slung to me was his power. He leads me into the popular market of that particular block. They happened to have a Starbucks- Hallelujah coffee mission accomplished. I ordered two black coffees while he did some provisional stealing for foodstuffs, skinny Irish man with orange shoulder-length hair complimented own cultural connections with the marketing mermaid on the coffee cups but a single sip after splashed it on the sidewalk grunting ‘black crack’ his bitter distaste. What a waste; at least I had mine still.

An energetic fruit muffin he was, vegan and seeming committed to sobriety but when we eventually take a visit into an immensely more hectic sector, of the city center actually, what with all its bright neon blinking lights, we shall soon be witness to some different, questionable mannerisms he handled well a strain on certain habits and tendencies obviously attempting to rectify and get in line with the Lord, okay? I wasn’t attracted to him for no reason. Stay tuned for future developments. Pick a star and constellate.

After a bit of exploration, my Guide was feeling giddy inside, once the social stimuli were provided to him via all those city-kin passerby. Hobos make a hobby out of harassment, but master the craft so well that people perchance might even cough up a dollar.

Eventually we settled in together, on what appeared to be the porch of an abandoned leasing office. A small structure with an open fence and vacant so he took up home on the front steps. There was a small shelf, with a few random pieces of literature, a desk and swivel chair. Apart from that only a sleeping bag and wouldn’t we glory in minimalism. Comfortable, humble.

His flock of kin I gather he must’ve sheparded just like how it happened with me, I met the following day when they came from farther outside the perimeter of their familiarity. We were sitting on a little ledge where fancy plants and small trees could grow and show a bit of bloom to anyone who passes along on the sidewalks. I was cross-legged on the ground, aback against the building as it were whose cobble wall held my spine straight, watching Michael (we’ll call him Michael) and a few other local bums discussing nothing of any real weight or value, at least none that I can summon to recall, over a bit of smoke, mostly mumbling incoherent and yet me still sitting there incredibly intrigued, due to the scene of these dreary, star-hearted zombies, like a trance within a trance.

One of these bums gestured me respectably, seeing that my humility was perhaps a bit strict, even for a kid, or that I was not a part of some silly audience to their culture, being in the same place at the same time, that we must cherish equality within every specimen. So, he patted the bit of chiseled stone-surface beside him with those same sorrowed stars sparkling in his empathetic eyes, shadow overhead casting secrets pronounced that dissipate like a magician of ether.

*

 

We blaze the darkening highways. Cactus flowers are melancholy in blue moonbeams. The horizon ahead whispers ‘fresh meat’ chanting. You’re stuck in a dream and whether it’s good or bad doesn’t matter because it’s just a dream… one long drawn-out penance living like a peasant in your crazy mother's elaborate little runaway escapade…

Latinos were landscaping and the birdsong was youthful and vibrant in the trimmed summer trees. My sister hopped out of the passenger seat which I then folded open and joined the ladies on the driveway with bent backs cracking. You could smell the freshness of awareness in the air and a keen strange feeling flooded my system… fairly exhilarating I dare say. I looked around for a moment and then carried my things inside the house.

The cats like vampires hissed from aback their plastic boxes and snuggled stiffly in the dim. Their whiskers twitched as they sniffed for hints. Boxes throughout seem to breathe fiercely with the presence of the Past. Be wise stay inside like the cats.

The next day I checkout a barbershop to buzz my dreads off. It was a humble downtown shop. The barber happened to be busy grooming a couple toddlers; thus I strut out onto the curb and smoke a cigarette whilst waiting for my turn and watch the cars rumble the road. Old classics with a twist of silver drills by slick street mechanics who know. I smush the smoke beneath my toes. The barber welcomed me kindly with a nice, clean cut.

Now it’s time to find a job.

*

 

I met a fella, whose names to become the bane of where I fantasized relinquishment would endow. Powerhouse of a sentence for the nonexistent crowd that is my audience. If it doesn’t make much sense to you, I’ll have you know it’s not necessarily supposed to. Keep it vague play it safe. Anyways, he was perched on a discreet, backstreet curb, taking a break from the inner-city alms bowl and chaos as he slobbered over a decoy Dasani plastic bottle of vodka… straight up!

 

The shadows were shivering silver beneath

The full moon’s gloom through foggy trees…

*

 

It was peculiar enough being pushed into such a unique community, thanks to my mom’s trying triumph by moving away from that which never seemed to suit her soul… but what’s this got anything to do with me? Was I birthed indeed?

 

Our home sits directly across the street from a cemetery

with a horrendous possum problem. Possums by the plenty

possibly only play dead as part of some pretentious jest

 

We met frequently at a certain intersection I dare not name for fear of courthouse consequence. I never asked for this. The leftover booze- backpack backpack- from yesterday was ready for me to savor hastily... Indeed, a dire need, to be buzzed enough so the many moody monsters on the streets got no motive to steal your soul or psyche, like a blurry shield.

I walked to the Cross in Birkenstocks. They paired nicely with my new, super stylish socks. But still sadly my dreadlocks are gone. Writer don’t need the World, rather a stack of paper and a proper pen, better yet a friendly mescaline chalice to Muse what beautiful grooves on the Poetry of your desk holds the power to soothe such ghetto situations. I beckon your attention. What better way is there to spend your time? Dispensable to Divine Reversd

Earth sprouts its trunks on Veiny Island groves in rows of skeletal strife. If at all, did we respect our last skilled spokesman? Only to grieve his own history forever in a cosmic swing of events, drunken hypnotized aloof… Do we share the same space Purpose Harbor? I confess it is hard to think harder as a martyr of incredible madness happening…

The California sunshine pierces deeply each cell. I adore the warmth without reservation, a kind of surprise visit not necessarily cherished, today, you might say, never fails to amaze my Quay. Don’t hesitate, respect its devotion to remain aflame. Your perfect attention- to pinewood yogis- brighter than we, neither to concern ourselves with urns, nor question its lessons… Eden gurgles hell we current dwell our human, all too human future World must burn.

People dance around town, dressed in raggedy PJs. By night they prowl about still, hidden hooded with elaborate ragged (exaggerated) trench jackets. They like their nails long. I need some dialogue. Quit forcing thoughts into my brain.

*

 

It wasn't a terrible failure, two bucks for a suck from that neon pink, plastic bitch beneath the bridge tonight, her big lips painted crimson wet with the blood of previous victims. This is my mission, to sound the Sitar downtown funding me enough so I can rock with dollars not nectar. And that was that. I dropped the gems into her hat and said thank you very much, wicked and oysterlike to be tossed thru moon-shimmering storm aglow.

‘Oh, gimme a break... Diamonds work gist fine without all that added flattery, honeybuns... Glad you had fun though!’

When the rain finally stops, I am faced with another problem. I thought it was nigh time to find some true food. To me that means humanfruit. Now, acquiring these morsels is a rather difficult matter. It ain't easy, to say the least. And the fatter the gladder, believe that. So I pick up my Brittle Bone staff all a-shiver and wobbly like a sick chicken dripping limping towards my favorite market. But when I whisper the world falters dissolving. But because my diet since I'm coming to town pretty soon there will be a riot.

*

 

Suburb like slang for slum when you’re nonstop worried about grievous thieves and thugs on bleak, yet steady pedals me thru traffic, my sporty sleek Dimweel weaving thru traffic; freedom tricks, trackstands and wheelies escape the sorry throat slit juggernaut hobos in thick woolen coats, bloodstained sheepskin forever bleating weeping. They know how they know I tell you when their affect is to churn fear in the guts of every pedestrian (many a-plenty) even those scholastic teenagers of town, their college plateau peak, and toddlers on playgrounds, babies in strollers whose mother must be so mindful in her stroll unaroused, too, for that matter. Oh my God.

I don’t believe in spirituality, per se, nor necessarily nihilism, but because there is something so innately fake, so simulated about our existence, the deeper you dive the dark of annihilation, or either fly among the most beautifully bedazzling constellations- functional dualistic entanglement, a paradox baffling- the less important you subscribe to the podium of evolution and whether its banner unfolds a trophy of rarest gold, like she who holds as a result of sorrow that her only babes are sucked away, off the Wisdom Grid and finally shrugged at, lost, forgotten… Dusty laughter of maternal apathy!

*

 

I took the squeegee to the sink and made the station sparkle, then started to go over the bus-route in my head. I spent enough time planning it on paper the day before, like a military map, so I was quite confident and calm about getting to my apartment safely. I hopped on my cruiser and pedaled to the college where the midnight bus would be. When I got to the bus-stop I kicked out the kickstand and set the bike somewhere on the sidewalk. I flicked out a cigarette and smoked, blowing smoke up into the moon. The lady next to me on the bench was speaking in Spanish on her phone. I don’t know Spanish- only a few restaurant words- but it sounded like complaining. There were actually bats above, too, and they were busy doing whatever it is bats do.

            The bus rolled down the hill in the moonlight, chugging along like a train and slowing with a sway as it relied upon all those mechanisms that held it together, like shocks and such. The thick plastic doors slid and folded open and the driver greeted you when you swiped your pass in the machine and then you found a seat. I racked my bike while any other passengers who waited at the stop with me could get on first. This seemed the most efficient way. This time though, since it was quite late, there were no bikes on the racks and the rack was hinged up tight, so I had to inquire about how to pull the thing down. Luckily, this was a very friendly driver; he had noticed me attempting to figure it out, but when I couldn’t and looked up, he was already miming how. When I stepped on the bus I smiled and said thanks.

*

 

It was quiet and hollow and I was bonkers drunk. The vodka was dusty-cheap and I splashed it with equal parts water in a coffee mug, stabbing an olive through with toothpick and plopping it in there and whispering ‘dusty martini, dusty martini’ instead of dirty. I’d enjoy several of these chased by chugging a beer that my street partner from the year before had got me hooked on. It was a very strong beer popular among the homeless and he had sworn that ‘they put something in there,’ that there were conspirator chemicals fizzing inside the cans. It was bottoms up and blackout most nights so I don't really recall what went on, after a point, except I get the sense I didn't sleep much because I barely remember waking up in my bed. I get the image of it vaguely in my head but it bears insufficient consistency to call concrete. Anyways, either I woke up or was always awake but I wasn’t scheduled to work that day and decided it would be groceries.

There was a Mexican market across the street but it was bad. I located a better one on my phone about twenty blocks past the downtown stretch. I strapped on my pack and waltzed through the community towards the main roads. I made sure to stop and admire for a moment the beautiful fruit trees along my street, pomegranate, avocado, peach, and there was even a devil’s trumpet. It was the first time I ever saw devil’s trumpet flowers in the flesh and I quickly became obsessed.

The strangers along the way will creep from their corners and appear as they please.

There were sleeping bags hid behind pillars on a great marble patio. Down the steps the surrounding sidewalk was scattered with bent needles and a golfclub. I couldn’t help but wonder what the kill-count is on the golfclub, and whether the victims’ souls are engraved with a glyph into the metal hammerhead purposed to feed the dark overlords till they can inhabit human forms. With a feverish bloodlust. Yes, we believe in entities veiled from the common. Which Which?

 

I’d say the world is out to get me.

If you tell me your deepest secrets,

You won’t be my enemy, baby…

 

I stayed faithful, not got frighted, and focused on walking. Step by step I neared the grocery store. I was in the habit of cooking the same dinner every night, a rice dish with a bed of yellow egg laid flat at the bottom becoming a burrito you could wrap the rice up with at the end, avocado, and steamed tomato. That was my only meal, so my list was pretty simple… But how could I forget the booze? There was an enticing wine named ‘Juggernaut’ which had this intricate portrait of a roaring lion on the label. Twenty bucks for a bottle of wine is ten times what I’d spend at the other market; but I had a small savings which ultimately became my liquor fund strictly.

*

 

My dad had set me up with a box of tea when he furnished the place with some very nice items he scored on Craigslist. I was sipping a fresh cup at the wooden, lion-footed table. The dude who came by to clean the couch and carpet, with a motorized vacuum that attached to his van via cable cord, was informing me about how very much he and his girlfriend loved to get high, and if I needed a good weed hook, he could be my guy. I wasn't plenty a fan of weed to join the market, so I didn't respond but watched him whip around the suction snake like he was venue janitor for a rave or something. He wiped his runny nose on one of my couch cushions, I think because he thought I rejected his friendship. It wasn't intended, I was just oblivious. I sipped my tea. My dad was sorting out the rest of the stuff downstairs in the little parking yard for our little building. My new neighbors were peeking out their blinds cautious yet curious. Sometimes I walked past the woman in the first window, peeking out as she stirred fragrant cuisines in a copper pot, on my way along the rail and down the balcony. I would smile and say, ‘Hola, buenos Dias,’ happy to practice my pronunciation of a language I had come to adore. ‘Andale, Andale,’ she often responded, waving her towel at me like I was worse than a nuisant fly in her ear.

Thought I’d take a beach day. Funny because when you’re young and growing up in always familiar lands, you nurture this vain subconscious that you know everything there is to know, that this is the is all and all there is. So, while I prepared for the beach, at last freed from the recent seasons of sex-trafficking, I didn't know what to expect, with my ever-maddening mindset. Not like I contained the capacity to perform logical thought in the first place. I just went. What treats might the gulls be fishing up this witch-o-clock spiral of a sea? I suppose we'll see.

I’ve come face to face with death... smashed thrice with a steel pipe wielded by a meth-head in a public playground at night. It would hurt just to think about the nightmarish nature of this fanged illusion. And saying illusion is more for coping than anything else. I’m only a paranoid smoker if it’s cheap, okay? Get the pure crystals and its game on. Hard to satisfy… as Ahab tosses his pipe into pearly waves of white.

The coffee-machine will drip, beep, and I will drop, fainting onto the floor. I’ve never felt quite this starved before, simultaneously supercharged by epiphanies, left and right, day and night. But my spirit can’t take it any longer… the portal quakes with blinding bombs of light. Your audience will become an angry mob. Oh yeah, we’re going to the ocean alright!

They locked me up for freaking out at a McDonald’s. All I wanted was a refill but the bitch behind the counter craved conflict. She said that since I brought the cup outside that it was a contaminant and I couldn’t.

‘Can’t we just use another cup?’

‘Nope sorry’ she smirked.

She was instigating an outburst and refused service even when I offered to pay full price. It was a somewhat sketchy sector and thus there was a security guard stationed at the entrance. He stood there probably zoning out most the time, till a battle cat like myself struts on through. The squabble sparked into frenzied flames and nobody wants a tantrum. The guard came in and grabbed my backpack and tried tugging me out like a dog on a leash. He didn’t speak the redwhiteblue too good, nor bothered investigating what the problem might actually be. It seemed we competed for the gold medal in a tug-a-war streetfighting olympics. Now he must’ve been about twice my age, though small and undaunting. He wasn’t emaciated like me but still very manageable indeed. I had a blast making him wrestle my wretched self. There happened to be a leak in the ceiling right in front of the counter where a bucket on the floor gathered murky droplets into a cesspool. I kicked the bucket over and the swamp spilled out. He slipped and flipped and hit his hip, triggering his pistol to fire. The bullet whizzed.

*

 

Accursed crayons in gibberish journals

Doctor notes and deceptive seduction

Of nurses in tight black spandex skirts

The patients of the psyche ward are

The modern shamans of the westworld

Prisoners poisoned throughout the day

Months if you can’t escape, life at stake

Maddened by mind mazes enslaved

Sacrificial genocide, future of mankind

*

 

After they had strapped me to the stretcher bed ‘for poor behavior’ they said I screamed, roared rather as loud as I could for hours on end like a wild caged carnivorous bird tiger or zoo lion, you know, to make their satanic brains explode, and splatter that nasty matter all a-scatter over those fuzzy-drug white walls and ceilings of those blank-faced oyster halls, lobotomized erased, raping and molesting my body restrained. God how they aim to humiliate…

What’s ordained as proper opposites, 2 fuses crisscross thru the universe merciless. Think Yin Yang wisdom, mustaches flexed outward, symmetry aflame like science devised though you could call it however you fancy, bound without stress, big brain.

So then who’s to blame in this perilous pursuit of the Peculiar? Well, it sure seems we are invariably flavored and spiced up- much too much- towards the paradoxical pendulum sway of the derogatory, wrong way. It’s a riddle, a game. She may appear mystique, but a sinister mistress indeed… unlike momsong which is with us all along… familiar, family…

I can help myself, thank you very much, to these earned treats turned to mere cumulus clouds of proofs and patterns of juicy indulgences. I come in peace, darling, don’t you see? 

It is a great strain to put these ideas in order, shimmering visibility, let alone the simplest and most standard setting of any given scene, answering simultaneously as testimony and defeat perchance shared vicarious thru epic tunnel vision like a poor victim, twiddling nervous thumbs, too soon become 100% dead, desperate and numb… Dominion is His!

*

 

So the microchip in our brains is directly connected to iphones and most modern sources of media. People only say ‘our phones can hear us; I will say something and next thing you know pops up in my search engines etc’ but didn’t you ever notice it even goes as deeply to project what you are THINKING? It also simulates the world we see before us with a kind of grid-pattern and crops fake images onto the screen just beneath eye-membranes and unless you are part of a select few who develop discipline, self-control and exert enough power over the natural mind to then combat those who took over then they will always have their dominion over you, noose around your neck. Or is it some kind of a parasite? Or better yet aliens are real none of this matters they’ve been playing us like puppets from the start on some famous new video game on a invisible supercomputer we can never comprehend either in space far away or like pressing buttons, pulling strings and actual tendons within us… Jesus was an alien all along there’s no longer any doubt or argument everything is simply pure boloney amen

And just because I’m desperate for material doesn’t mean what words flopping out right now should be shrugged off as nonsensical or sarcastic. As a matter of fact, I happen to be only 1 among 100s of 1000s to believe in aliens and thing is they love us enough, wish to reach out and touch, like innate scientific desire, crowning ornament of our existence…

Psychiatric patients are surely snared by the pharmaceutical industry. Never experienced any tactile hallucinations to speak of until recently getting prescribed a specific set of meds. Nurses inside the Wards themselves, mind you, Succubus trained and required to rehearse silly little questions like this, ‘Are you experiencing any hallucinations?’ etc, which are actually deliberate side effects and overall a great representation of that symbol where the snake is eating its own tail. A scam devised to hook and hypnotize. But yeah, I guess it’s a tad troubling… sucks to feel like bugs are crawling all over you at the flip of a switch…

There’s a reason why OM comprises the exact middle of the word INSOMNIA… Stay up late as you can and see what we mean. Now do this for a week straight; then, once you’ve entered ether, correspondence with these beings is easy, and pretty soon you’ll start seeming as crazy as me. Just please keep your eyes wide open cuz when visiting usually around midnight they keep very discreet. Crucial, too, that the lighter your stomach is upon contact the better the probe fits, and the diddy to absorb, enhance and translate glyphs of orgasmic origin is heightened quite immensely, so we recommend water fasting to our clients always.

There’s nothing to be scared of, especially if this psychic disease of yours being displayed is restricted merely to your TV. Satellite static adjust antenna and interstellar broadcasts from Hollywood radio matches brainwaves like the shadowy side of a waxing gibbous!

Whether telepathy is real, solely based on the fact that we at least seem to experience it, leave to that scientific rhetoric of ‘unless you can disprove absolutely, there is always a chance that it is fact.’ And can we?

Let us broaden the philosophy of our hearts and abstain from using the mundane, basic language of our predecessor sages and this is not to discount their findings entirely, but in order for them to go anywhere or flourish we must push the pedal forth with increase of intellect into dimensions discovered and yet undiscovered. The phenomena of relativity, yes… How is anyone supposed to figure out the riddles of anything when it stretches far beyond our already current lack of being able to understand even ourselves even? Well, what’s difficult in discussing relative proofs with methods as yet untested will remain controversial for the impression alone that these patterns bring up different grooves upon individuals and cultures etc… Can we ever truly know though?

Group of baboons in zoo, screeching at families talking on the side, who pause to view the primates for but a few seconds… Baboons defecate in open palms squatting shrieking obscenely and chuck feces through iron bars, grip bars with hands layered splattered with fibrous shit and commence to shakedown… Families panic don’t know what to do who to trust where to go foam at the mouth black out convulsing on the ground.

It wasn’t my first time being forced into the psych ward. Maybe the third or fourth. Hard to think when math ain’t my thing especially. I could go into detail about all the craziness and chaos that went down prior to this particular timeline, but that would stray too far away for my mind to manage, and yours too methinks. Don’t wish to put my readers thru the same shit I got stabbed in the ass with needles of grim laughter. It was absolute confusion. The system seems to feed on poor people subject to familial distress etc. Someone trying their darndest, caught in a mess, deciphering corrupted code-language that only satiates the 1% vampires at best. No?

Well, they had got me again, and locked me up and oh god what the goddamn are they trying to accomplish in those places? I had long hair and am in the habit of utilizing rhymes to keep the party alive and express the melody that’s on my mind. It was my second or third set of baby dreads and they were the healthiest so far by far. I was a skinny bitch hid himself in his rundown apartment practicing yoga and becoming quite the little shaman but it was really just addiction. To be specific, though I am certain this is already entirely evident, I was your typical alcoholic trivial channeler. In the end it’s merely a matter of whether you’re willing to accept ‘whatever come what may’ to quote an old Poet. We can howl to the moon still, even when the night is shrill as a baby’s scream realizing it has been brought yet again to hell.

Anyways, they try to convince you you’re crazy and play all sorts of games so they can gain a deceptive power advantage and suck your daddy’s money up whilst altering your brainblood to a viscosity chemicalized so thin like isopropyl which is calling you another sacrificial guinea pig. But it’s for science, dear patient, don’t you wish your name could go down into the books as a sweet, special breed of schizophrenic? We’ll fix you, fix you good, with this here glinting fairy dust, trust us…

During this vocation of unwarranted psychiatric rehabilitation, there were a few characters struck mine eye. One was this skinny fucking guy didn’t have a sense of how to dress properly, tossed on sweatshirts o’er the gown of the guise of goodly care, bundled up with who the fuck cares; but who could blame him? It was cold as ice in those corridors and whoever claims the right to judge a man’s conceptions of coziness, step forth and suffer the consequences of superhuman violent swings! And he had a reach too, being nearly seven feet, I’d wager. Which brings me to my next point regarding this shipwrecked boy (hopefully he’ll find shore soon); the main thing about this angsty anorexic was he wanted so badly to punch someone. Fortunately for all us patients present he was able to will enough self-control so that only the air conditioner’s blaze of icy chilled chemical coddling corruption got hurt. Probably worked as a way of protecting we community of patients from freezing to death or drug-induced delirium by ‘fighting off the cold’ so to speak. Oh, the way we must speak to please the people and feed merely by breathing along to silly songs!

*

 

When I was finally discharged after my 5250 was fulfilled, upon rejoining my little crypt, what with its beige, stained carpets, I walked eagerly back into my bleak bedroom and collapsed like Romeo when he suspected his soulmate, Juliet, was dead… Well, you know how the story goes... My avocados had all but gone to rot. They sagged in their custom chalices, which I had crafted and adorned for them like your own tender mother once chose your cherished childhood clothes for YOU. But evening cast its last sad shadows and gloomily their fruits will never bloom but instead gist stooped there with (albeit once top tier beautiful and pristine) heartbroken tentacles hushed and haunted. I fell to the floor and went weeping into grave despair…

And that was the final milestone which pretty much marked the climax of my time spent in that conflicted city of both trees and treason, where my temporal hermitage brought me to the brink of literally peeling off my skin and hanging myself from the crumbling ceilings of a rotten apartment above. But hey, I can only blame myself, cliché marster. That’s what the mountains of crushed cans abundantly stuffed in the closet continue to say even unto this very day. And I believe them too, I really do…

*

 

When I met her, how she sated the circumstantially caged confines to spot-on mesmerize my forgotten flame. We never dreamed ourselves worthy, but rather to die. Then burst open a proper brothel (I don’t regiment my audience), a craven desire like a sack of bricks kind of gist slaps you across the face, or with silken whip lashes ever so tender attacks on your serpentine spine. I don’t care for the sappy stuff. Neither give two sorry shits for what type of words you might find flirtatious. She sinks into whispering quicksand, after being shot down from God’s Galactical Genius. Poet’s pretentious plight. I chime cheddar. 15 days no food no water. She sure is a pretty kitty. Small. Smaller. Smallest breed for a certainty unreal…

 

restless nights gone to waste by the intensity of my brainwaves

awake for several weeks without an end in sight. We fail to feel

frequent the fun stuff surmising aged opinions like sour wine…

 

It contorted on the stairs, crawling on all fours. My senses tapped in; I didn’t want them. Easier to disappear. With each step the creature stretches, the rickety floorboards creaks and it feels like needles unleashed in piercing spiral flurries eat me. It’s days like this I wish I didn’t exist.

So I stay in a dilapidated vacant barn these days. God, come nightfall, that undaunted mask to memory incapacitated nauseous motion chaos when the stars appear suddenly from their sideway slumber, you know, the other side of our globe, boy do I wonder where they found such bright form. Heaps of hay is where I lay. It’s a good thing I got my Apple laptop though, so I can post what we wrote today. Abby the chicken let me pick her up whooo!

When I wake up the new morning is usual as always. The single spoon of sugar stirred quickly in the coffee and then outside to view my sage bush who is fresh pruned from yesterday. Crazy Daisies too. So far, much better than yesterday. I still miss her though. Heart shocks and throbs up the yin yang vertebrae spinal column kundalini for God. Ain’t nothin’ but a fling, let’s leave it at that, without a ring to call the sweet creature on display my own dainty little darling queen.

Unleash the geese there was a lightning storm last night with the thunder cracking through heaven’s nerve and opening the sky from a tremendous problem of what should we do next? There’s a problem with our servant’s heart she became a robot a while ago when she decided it wouldn’t serve her purpose of the storm, and the storm shouted at me down from the wrinkled source of something I couldn’t see properly it wasn’t my fault although many times when she appeared in the moonlight before that happened in the moonlight

She came trotting down the slope her hair cut loose untethered and without a saddle from the slope like a sanctioned space where the crickets lay frail and vibrating upon a fake puddle reflected from the sun ever without anyone there to stop her spectrum of all false feelings abated in her mouth was a dead cricket and I said to her Mr Cricket said why did you lay down in the grass unyielding to the premise that is not what one cares to name I am the same

Molecules throttled forth in the vortex of upended uncertainties when the land will suck your family blood money out roaring summertime whimsy, Whopper Street signs pass through slight unceasing notions was never nuanced to feed a brain whose woman is insane, rage on in lush rolling meadows with a tractor do I care to stop with a sopping mop flicking rotten droplets there?

And why shouldn't I strive on towards less treacherous tutelary seas reflecting a trillion more absorbent stars of reverence and a better tomorrow, long cast oceanic reveries ending in weary waterfalls why? Only there, that mad Ahab outcast storms in riddles borne to soar- no kite ever soared- yet condemned to these strange not-homes of profusely populated tenement towers scattered cross the whole dam planet. His own endless, tidal confusion, this thirsty illusion, thru time and its flaunted trickery, flipping me like a washing machine on steroids. What bigoted entity perpetually pales with sails unfurled towards discovery then quick death of untamed worlds

where I found my girl

 

CHAPTER 2

 

I guess it’s beer for breakfast again... Yes, as a generation obsessed with alcohol, cupid’s flute beckons me to consume booze, it’s true... Shoot, what would you do?

The dormitory reeks of stale cigarettes and wet sex from the previous night. Sweaty G-strings and used condoms etc strewn through the room. Stunned, I barrel-roll out of bed. My blanket wraps tightly around me, and I thump against the floor. It takes a minute to wriggle free from this mummy. God it smells like shit. I walk across the room in soft, luxurious little slippers and socks kicking empty scattered aluminum crushed cans and cum-stained clothes off my path, thinking it'll end up being my job to clean all this, and open the window. I treat myself to a few deep breaths of crisp Colorado morning air. I rub my eyes while they adjust to the stark sudden sunshine, and stretch. The clocktower in the courtyard chimes noontime, vibrating through me. I am finally alive. When I turn around, my friend says, ‘Blurblelurblelurble’ with that sorry shit-eating grin of his, like if a Picasso portrait could talk. I nod my head yes, whether he meant it or not, and commence to get ready for the long day ahead.

Once I rinse off and get dressed, donning my fringy winter coat monocle and top-hat, I skip into the kitchen quickly and throw some butter in a pan. Thought I’d whip up an omelet for us two dudes to split real quick. While the butter melted I went for a double shot of whiskey which leveled me out quite nicely and also put a coffee pot on. Then I thought how I should spike the coffee too. After that I’ll surely be fortified for all my boring classes; easier to tolerate that way. There wasn't much in the fridge to speak of, thus a simple little thing is this omelet, consisting merely of eggs and cheese, but I pride myself on the dish regardless, having mastered the craft so perfectly, like head chef at a french buffet.

I gently flip the delicate, delicious omelet like magic then sprinkle generously with yellow cheddar, cover with lid to sizzle a minute, then when the cheese is good and gooey, slice down the center using spatula to scoop each piece like plop onto porcelain plates, garnish with salt, pepper... As I said, I'm a professional.

‘BREAKFAST IS READY, BITCH!!’ I scream across the small studio space to Kash top of my lungs no cap. Startled on the cozy sofa, still in the process of waking up, he freaks out with what seems a mini seizure, looks up like a dumb fucking puppy bitch, and I tip my top hat off to him, bowing slightly, as one might do silent movie wise.

He approaches the island table, tail tucked under, hungover and hungry. ‘I have a headache’ he says bluntly. ‘Maybe migraine.’ Then starts just fucking whining like a wonky kindergarten firetruck siren toy, or something of the sort. ‘Owwwww, dude. Owww my heaaad oh my God it huuurtsss!!’

‘Hush up and eat, then. Here.’ I swung the plates round and spun one in front of him like a DJ there upon the island. He cut a bite using the flat edge of his fork and forked at it a bit with a somewhat disgusted grimace on his face grimacing. I held my plate up still standing and scarfed it down. He only took his first bite when I was completely finished. I put my plate in the sink, twinkling.

‘Damn, that's not bad actually’ Kash said and then started taking a steadier pace. I watched and waited to take the empty plate away and into the sink.

‘What service!’ he said with modest sarcasm, sucking fingers.

‘You're welcome. Anyhoo, got to get going. I’m already very late. Try to tidy the place up a little, why don't ya, seeing as you're probably gonna take the day off, lazy ass.’

‘Like fuck.’

I walked out and shut the door.

*

 

Stumbled upon a Ouija Board in one of the dumpsters downtown. I had to take a mad shit and even the gas-stations these days won’t let me in unless I buy something- due to my nasty-bad reputation, I guess. Figured since I was there, I might as well do a bit of digging. I fancy it must’ve summoned me, wrapped there in tattered cloth and tied with ropey twine packed also with a plastic bag full of deep crimson blood, still cool to the touch from someone’s refrigerator. Happy, I slap the bag, twist off the cap and suck it down in a fetish of tongue-flicks. Definitely needed this, been getting way to weak for these here streets of nocturne.

*

 

I sat staring... straight and steadfast fast

Washa of a special fishing district I could

but happen to sniff your strong floral surge

the tidings we share, just a softly rocking

splashing of silky quivers... We twine rope…

Seagulls spawn above… Insects... G’night...

 

It is impossible to say all the right things!

this foolish fucking act, fragment of small

chocolate, in any way shape or form, ah!

What do you worship? Mad Ahab Jack-O

Lantern, on this airy occasion and thusly

I, swan-like do calmly commit to study-

as if only the Fairy Faithfuls shall appear

and swooningly call upon the Cosmos...

ay that

 

I suppose it’s official… I am a ghost…

No longer to be glyphs in centuries…

Ever Chosen Once, to be stuck up in

spatial semesters of a few college

certificates, skipper upon stagefloor.

*

 

I wake up every morning basically punching my pillow… No big surprise either, as we the people all scream together, coupling the monstrous dissonance with negative privilege we rip ourselves from blood-soaked sheets to greet cracked mirrors eagerly with twists of judgement and ridicule, preying unconsciously upon our own frenzied fears and phantoms and things unseen whilst we flop forth with fin-flips and tired tricks, or like circus lions floundering in shark-infested waters, a blasphemous static of black noise and swirling chomps…

The foamy swath of saltwater tides tickles our fancy, pubic mustache scruff with licks of strange vapor, so that the poisonous foam and curdled mustard-colored clouds appear to be but a beckoning towards more ancient melancholy mermaids time forgot; so we hunker down and dose up our own belching teenage bellies to strip the stricken flesh of identity for aliens intrigued and investigating this flirtatious niche with keen curiosity for psychedelics, like a jumbled up, vague taste for the salamander state slash wavelength with which our brains are much better off in a passing trashcan wailing intoxicated singsong just a-wobbling along like a bunch of drunken juggernauts and finally reaching a peak and floating away, some might say, plucked or abducted or something inconceivably more spectacularly drifting away from this big barnacle-ridden bubble-burp earth planet (poof!) soaring starward at last…

*

 

Now there was a man, if ever there was one… Not some slobbering alcoholic, like we all seen and even took upon ourselves, reckon, in our own day… Mischievous pandering panhandling patterns of tan tricking hands wicked and watching constantly for nothing in the night… Tíco the one giving little gifts of pristine philosophical wisdom, which could generate decades of contentment, erect upon his serpentine silver staff; whole worlds destined towards darkly lit dripping sewer systems disgorged like eerie parasitic plaster of evil eyeballs in the span of but a few seconds, if you but bend yer ears to hear a bit… Yes, to listen to him was magic… Yes, brothers, now there was a man…

*

 

2030 Good fryday. The paranoia sets in. You text me too much, I’m going mad. No, I’m a topsyturnsylad! Come Saturday: Nothing but all up in yo Grill! And though I’m 100% trippin’ (Stupid Shoelaces) No N word still: dive deeper sea dark: I promise you’ll never leave my prayers, never forsake me. Anyway. 2045 I’m slightly sleepy: singing ‘Baby don't worry! About a thing!’ (Bob Marley) on the back of the bus... but you, My Madonna Star, groove through Wraith Stadium as the birds all shriek monstrously in the night, sqwuacking Cthullu! Cthullu! toss us your fishfood! upon flamingo sticks for boney knees or stilted circus flippers? Good night. Good night. Couch now. Court Orders Penance for the Persec: DO NOT RESPOND!!! OUR PLANET IS POISONOUS TURTLE THING!!! Godzilla on a cosmic scale: Ironic also: Who’s to blame? FUCK, I assure you, MY ass IS BLACK, OK? Popping out for a Puff (Poof!) Gone.

So it begins: tired cosmic giants blink star eyes at night: celestial orbs or black pearls for planets? Oh, you have no clue… Lava shots imbibed from volcanic geysers: the witness watches keen: she lets her fuzzy slippers fall down from feathered feet: the watchers are still watching: anxiety asylum: see God in a nutshell.

*

 

Queenie rocked in the rocking chair way too hard, as though it were a playground swing. No big surprise the thing finally broke one fateful day in turn breaking also a couple of her own bones. Apparantly a rotten old rocking chair, squatatop by elven elders equals eeek! my spleeen! No big surprise either, as this titwit deep devourer of neighborly Christians, candles in dim gloom darkness lit. My bones are not afraid. As long as you practice in peace, harmony: Jesus be with you.

 

tap the tap

slap that bag

sack a stripper

raise that flag

tackle quarterbacks

marble wallowstone

I wanna go home

 

Meek menstruation. Even weaker words. I eat cheddar cheese curds. Gallop away, Giddy up, freedom at last, finally free; shatter your fence into splinters. She flames the page, torched supernova triumph. Nothing but fake stars. Like blowing out a birthday cake, or squishing a cockroach, whose boots be deathcore drumbeat for hopscotch focus group. Girlscout Cookies. Magnum condoms. No rosy sherry for YOU tonight darling. Adam and Eve in their garden. Adam, Eve, Eden. O mylove mylovelylove: we wield wings of hummingbird: I lost the context: Damn, again seriously?

Next. ‘Ten times the usual amount, tender!’ the boy ordered from across the marble bar top. Uniformed cop, teensyweensy tights, you could see her thong. ‘Usually I don’t serve minors’ the tender said. ‘Well get me 10 times that anyway!’ the teen retorted eagerly, flit flirting with mirth: Joker grins beneath his brim. The bartender gave him the tenny beverages, one after another, dumbfounded, outplayed. The boy smiled and gave thanks.

A plethora of powers. It sucks to pick just one to pixie. So don’t fuck me but fuck me up: pupunch my gluttonous gut. Ja, ma babig bazooka, mwa! by a shamrock casting of your wizard widget, Piglet. Perfect, Janay. That dooby like some scooby snacks: dicpic? I’m such a silly slut! Honey I shrunk the kids! Talking nonstop tiktok; whose bulging behemoth bellies only volcanic geysers may sate, and sate: stop.

My cat and I shared a strange glance glinced a peculiar glimpse, grimacing into the future, far beyond the clouds: basic baby song: tsss the cymbals fizz. God’s got dadadiamonds. Why do you guys all insist on wasting your time with this ridiculously ambiguous drib? Better question, why do I? Hey Siri. Archetypes. Jester. Try laughing at broken glass; strappening soul, sheepskin…

*

 

Voice Recorder: Secret Signals. A house cat, in its natural habitat, scuttles away swiftly, and around a dark corner. The spleen? The spleen gently shudders, fluttering softly up its spine like a lost butterfly... It feels as though I just come out of a cocoon or something, or like I’m reinventing myself recently… Black Sapphire is in September! Oh, we’ve been so lost in this dream, Pursia Kundalini, haven’t we? I’m dying over here: college must be the #1 contagious, toxic compromises of our time: resentment breeds resentment; however I do find it kind of a funny flurry to mind and flex. Eddington, realer than real, bored out of my mind at same time, straitjacket on a grand political scale, enduring euthanasia, macrocosmic, metaphorical juxtaposition on the nature of the modern age, lots of dialogue, honestly convoluted. I’m in a bit of a trance right now, so please be sure to leave me be. I want you in my temple; I’m just too tight.

*

 

God is kind of cosmic ironic. The Lonely Train Conductor: ‘Everybody, abandon ship, NOW!!!’ Kings and Queens, tricked into timidity. Self-image is big think; invasion of the neuro-link. Alchemize. Alkalize?

The cuffs of my tuxedo suffice this elegant event or occasion of her current cultural celebration, in due significance, walking about with a silver platter of appetizers, your little butler bitch… ‘Oh, boy! What fun we choose to adorn our walls with, frivolous… Say, baby, shall we jump up dancing, then? Hey, baby, what do you say?’ Ego Show. I can see how all this black magic stuff could turn out potentially percussive catastrophic… So, pardon my pride, Father Time…

They view the world, vicariously, from their ornately draped station wagon, in blue neon vision. A feather descends, tricking their vision, tickling eachother’s noses with it for fun, testing a medley of drugs voluntarily, with whispered signatures, becoming the guinea pigs they always wanted to be, for themselves and the sake of maintaining their sacred marital space, meeting of souls. Hey Siri, definition of clone? Certainly not robotic. Nothing I want really, shot through the cosmos like an astronaut. Until the cops show up. Explosion of dust when she self-destructs.

Crazy bastard cat: trying to measure time is like trying to solve God; and some of you agnostics may say impossible, skipping the question and clamor it causes becoming so insanely layered one can’t help but submit one’s own soul to nihilistic disbelief or otherwise plain denial; whose next step ultimately is to become a stoic over it. All the same shit.

‘I just wanna eat corn and go to sleep’ the cowboy chants, in the echoes of his skull. ‘Tull done fixed this here carriage up nicely though, I do confess. A great honor indeed, to trailer-park in the proximity of this here hooded cove. Mighty seafaring tide. Arches over the horizon. Just another couple a pups, huh.’

Wolves howl into the moon. It feels like death is knocking at my doorstep. Sitting on the porch now. ‘Sorry, my hollow cowboys. Shall we go scorch a flame then? And indeed I have doubtless gone insane; what words tickle the tongue, for a fourteenth fountain folly flows? A timid mountain of cinders there, portrayed upon the topless horizon yonder?’ And so, he will till the land… ‘I'm quite parched, actually, thanks for asking...’ Queenie responded bitterly to my discourse, sniffing the corn-dry field not unlike a pig and shit-stomping about her copper-caged circus corral. ‘Thusly dearest, my nectarine treats! Take a look and see what mighty creatures we hold on display this very, very elegant evening indeed!’

‘Oh no, what in God's Holy Hell could you possibly want from me?’

A squirrel squeaks and scurries nimbly between the leaves of the trees. Is he talking to me? The moon still glows, growing increasingly more radiant by the time the tide echoes from farther away in the recesses of our frigid skeletons lassoed up in frozen fright. Pigs for dinner, when winter hits. Dogs bark in the distance. Bells dance round the necks of sheep, whose clanging melodies raise- thanks to the tractors- lush grassblades, multicolored flowers; heavenly hush of ethereal dream, broken rhythm and steady progress. God, the frolicking faces. The Shepard files us a solemn gaze from underneath the shade of his hooded cloak. Queenie takes it upon herself to create a dust cloud with fast, feathered feet, not cloppers for hooves, which covers her form completely. When the dust finally settles, she's nowhere to be seen! sad, she must’ve flown away, in the blink of an eye, like some lovely rowdy Phoenix, plummeting spiraling into another dimension!

I have never felt so settled in before. This little barn called Cow House has proved a serendipitous fancy for me, particularly during this recent strange season. The tire swing makes for a great play thing. Stretching my muscles and sensing the surplus of nature. Suddenly the wind picks up, and I can feel it shudder my spine and sweep my hair, to and fro, and see secrets between the invisible wisps of wind; their tendrils reaching out from the void to clutch. Having attained a certain equilibrium, we remain undisturbed. Having attained a firm grasp, they give up.

 

CHAPTER 3

 

Plundered by pirates minding my own business fishing on a blown-up fishing boat- lovely little lugger- who stab with mad scimitars- like we stab at sharks and such- blasting their pistols at my plastic raft, secret charms held yearning, staring blankly as it hisses and patiently deflates; who abduct and steal advantage of my vigor as a handsome, hunched over, hapless hungry hostage (for three days we did fast, amongst nasty crumbs of slop like moldy cheese, and the fattest rats you’ll ever see!)

‘Clowry they call me… And this…’ he said as he caressed the underbelly grain of the main floorboards from the decaying decadence of the lower deck where now the next moment awaits us and unveils her mermaid salt magic: it appeared as if he was inspecting something infinitesimally small and trivial to him, let alone from the vantage point of any other outside observer, for that matter, me, like searching for splinters in the damp wood, scanned alongside the microscope that were his eyes, for yes, he tested spectacles for a ‘Land Queen Company’ they call them today. ‘Ah, yes, an employee… Oh, this here be Queenie, my own wicked woman, and my old wretched ship, ay, Black Pearl, which is what me no less wretched crew refer to her as, too… ay that, me laddy lark, won’t ye come and share some sup with us, then, or are yous the type-a-lad that don’t know where to stick his prick exactly, ha!’ He heckled and hacked a string of snot, spat, and pulled a fancy canteen from out of his delicious, rambunctious manner of dress, garb, wardrobe, whatever… ‘Yet what worlds warp into, my friends! So, pardon me profanity, then getting smashed to smithereens, ha!’ He then commenced to clear his throat with a prodigious swig of the ‘forbidden whiskey’ by swishing it around inside his mouth, pretty much gurgling mouthwash, and spat it all directly upon my head. Mine, a scared skeleton form, hunched over still in the disgustingly dirty and dim grim corner. A stowaway ocean token. At which point he, Clowry, erupted into a giddy enough song unit which where the stark contrast would only be felt by his few haggard crew, standing upon the mizzen deck with that same dread numbness held in their horrible desensitized eyes like cheap wine, fake gems:

 

Oh, the things the things

Yes, these be the things!

 

As has been stated already, Captain Clowry was a major model sponsor for the Land Queen Company. His coattails were rumpled and fluffed, embroidered swimmingly by silken whisper maidens. Rummaging bustling amongst only the rowdiest of crewmen, he would sometimes undo just a couple of those pristine button pearls of pillow, to show off his animal chest hair glittering comfortably beneath the sun, ensheathing the Captain with protection such as that not only gladiators of super swords must submit, but giant Cyclopes who hide in caves, heavy metal artifact rifles being stuffed with pellets, or pushed into the barrel rather, literal cannibals chanting ‘bang bang!’ after fixing their straps and wandering onto the hidden path of a very serene yet eerie feeling island venture, never to be seen again: pumpkins in the field.

Their skeletons bend and shift, long exposed to the horrid effects of deprivation, morphing and curling into inexplicable positions of what looks like leisure, while wobbling as they walk; feeding on their own souls, it would seem… The word ‘slave’ comes from the Slavic race, perchance, denoting flags hailing from out of the Russian border. Much to study. Now that I’m reading Dostoyevsky, all this and more suddenly and ultimately only having capacity to manifest because her panties are caught in a sudden coy curtsy, a bunch of bumps, and shy, reluctant spiderweb sighs…

‘Alexa. Show me a motherfucking vulture, you bitch.’

‘As defined in the Doomsday Press, basically an apocalyptic Desert Dragon species, known to natives as La Vultúra (Indian translation), a birdspawn prophecy commonly cited flying high above deserts, hovering; otherwise imagined, on a bit of a whim, warping through portals, tentacle noodles grope her gaping abyss, constantly begging for more babies, more babies, more babies, spinning nunchucks with one heck of a threatening routine. Now imagine that a moment, a pregnant chick doing ninja shit with nunchucks. Now I don’t know about you, but I’ll have none of it (no pun intended); and farther towards our modern time-trip dating all the way back to Ancient Greek tradition: Phoenix.’

‘My field is like a fairytale prairie’ the Chief of the tribe declares, bidding warm welcome. Seagulls need not navigate their blond wonder of ‘what fish, what fish?’ pursuit upon the compass of a stupidly polluted ocean surface. Clowry now the true new protagonist. ‘A truly fantastic Captain, that.’ Barfing from the mizzen, bathroom gaps, gasps of antiquitous faggots, between the transient pardoning pantomime of our personal swig session of rum in the tum. ‘Now, this, boys, is one pretty pirate party!’ Swig of drink. Barfs again. Mumbles a jumble not worth quoting. I find it all quite funny, really. He’s a role player in the least extreme, donning all the modern dress effortlessly stylized cultural refinement, in the fraction of a niche world, subtlest of symbolic splendor: who, you could be sure, the dames all slobbered over.

Underground gutter assassins polish their potholes by dumping and scrubbing vehement floods and streams of bleach, designating this peculiar little neighborhood, cripplingly unique, due largely to the fact as follows, since its sole inhabitants you couldn't discern any significant difference against calling literal Quasimodo-esque hobbits; hence why they hide, yes, designating their respective numbers, according also to their own strange native tongue, and finally all merely to mark these cute little doors of their kind, so to speak, and shutting off until the next knock, knock, knock comes knocking around.

The Rossaforts reciprocate gratitude, gracious acts of giving, dispensed out upon the public as frogs rain down from the sky. ‘We’ve breeched maximum security’ rabbits ribbit ribbons. Surely I should stop, but I simply cannot. I’ve been taken for a slave on this here ship. Even a simple, somewhat dominant thought-train is merely met with being read to, surfacing from the shallows on the metrics of your stupid and shallow imaginations... Damn, Dostoeyevsky is like Joyce’s Russian ‘Doppelganger’ as coined. The Rossaforts were the most prestigious travel passengers aboard. They gazed out upon the view and absence of anything that common city-kin might see land-wise, heave-ho, with binoculars no less! watching for whales, I reckon. ‘Oh shit, we’re being raided’ they say looking down those binoculars hard. ‘All hands man the cannons!’ Captain Clowry shouts from aft, wheeling the wheel and giving orders and such.

I never could’ve guessed what my life has become. Deep-rooted in the belief system whose broadest fractions alone risk being burned themselves like witches at the stake; not to mention this here missus who won’t flutter free from being ensheathed in these my wings, slurping my juicy mama’s tomatoes without hesitation, and this here much more regionally advanced and vast matter, as head of operations, winking back at you… As I said already, I work a monocle and top hat… The joy of wonder is only felt when you administer drugs of the quota premium standard, exploring a superior level of arrangements… Never to speak again, when the cosmos lie beyond… Most Certainly, My Majesty…

Remember where you came from, the shadows quell. An introspective silence ensues. Some call it a Sabbatical; others, a metric mess. ‘So submissive, yes, great purple flower fever, multitude striped with purple fever hay daydreams in surrender to the full force loving thrust. Glints of gold up above, up and up, ethereal doves murmur. Now commence to undress.’

If you could only just control it, the way you would wish to be controlled, desiring nothing other than scampering off and away into the willows- well, you wouldn’t still be here, would you? My music taste is mint, no doubt, no doubt as to whether that much holds up. As I said, scampering off…

‘Your house is being haunted’ Kora said.

‘By who?’ Kash asked with a smirking grimace, winking while working all awhile, then thinking before he said again ‘You summed it all up in just a single sentence’ hastily making himself absent again; having been abducted from Italy, whose goal it was to travel backwards in time, finally heading home, after long last…

‘Those goddamn Italians, man, I tell you what.’

Where were we? Rationally speaking, of course, a riddle swathed and swindled out of ignorance, given by oceanic nymphs. Permanent waves came. Mermaids no less. A quest ever so fragile, for our ship is frail, compared to the fabulous fair-haired maiden of monstrous waves…

‘Oh, Matan, I’m so sorry!’ screams this hot Japanese robot model of his, robust rubber waifu screams in JAPANESE strapped with thong.

‘Iran is four hours away from developing a nuclear bomb. What should we do in response? Should we bomb Gaza? I suppose we could bomb Tarkazukker for a change. Did you know your dog could bite you if you be disobedient? In an instant, the guy where the show ends and the show ends and he floats to black? But there would be an intermediate time, where the morning. Well, that gives me, that’s seven days of peace and then that would be that but if we poison the neighbor then the dog will die!’

‘What you just said, my animal abuser… It’s because you’ve been watching out for your ear, but you could still take advice from other people… Clearly not, now your ear is infected and you can’t hear what I’m saying…’ she responds.

Blue cardinal swoops down, literally my first actual sighting, cawing loud from the treetops, beckoning flock, to begin this winter’s migration cycle, gathering flock, withersoever they go, down from the mountain tops, hunting bugs above bending rivers. Oh, I wonder where they will go. Putting on a show for us inferior gravity-gobblers, no doubt, guts busting from belt buckles and such.

Kora: ‘I’m developing as a woman, a newly-wed compatriot and spicy gorilla girl! You hhhear me, boy?’ she managed to tweak out, like some big, strange bird, stretching the syllabic rhythm and substituting it with country twang. ‘Even God fears me, boy, hear?’

He laughs and winks to her from over his lean shoulder, stepping over carcasses hidden in the streets. They flood the country with all sorts of ‘fun peoples.’ Don’t worry they’ll do nothing about it. Have a big target on your fucking back. It’s easy to take advantage of her by maniacal force, like when you allow a ‘Queen’ to rule, you turn into a cuck.

Kash: ‘No, because with altruism, you have the ability to empathize with your neighbor. But there’s just never any course correction, either. We’re gonna go back, back, back.’ He turned his coy cracked egg the other direction, out of empathy, of course, and spat off the porch, courteous gentleman, a real perplexing poser, living large on the barge; type-a-guy makes you wanna barf. Yep, that’s me…’ he lets out with a sigh; you’d thought it was a fart.

Heaven and hell are merely states of mind, nothing new. At what point did our concept of survival become so complicated all the time? His face assumed a properly pride-felt persona. ‘The word, reprised, was carved in stone; we dug it up from the dust’ he said. How archaeological. My world is crouched in shadow, in any event: we will always be shaded by the skeptics. A man on the pier walks quickly past me, bumping shoulders. Must be in a rush or something. His coat was wet with salt and grime, carrying tackle box and fishing rod. Walks right by me, says hi, and continues on walking. Person with a ladder. I’m in spy mode. Bafflingly and utterly introspective, like tarnished treasure. Time to stretch. Old Nimrod makes great for that. The person who holds it holds also authority. Minus the Captain, of course…

CHAPTER 4

 

 

Oh Christ, where do I even begin? Try balancing the scales, baby dragons placed on either silver significant platter, weighing in for professional dragon-tier battle. ‘So, place your bets, yes, place your bets…’ you hear the jester jesting in the wake of all sorts of strange, circus life. ‘Yes, place your bets, my darlings!’ amongst medieval tethers to time. His voice was so sophisticated and subtle he squeaked through quite a span of side-streets even, delivering nuances of dread syllabic rhythm, nauseous contrived… ‘If ye but build it, my darlings, my darlings will come!’ It was bordering hysterical, yet you still carry the chant, leveling skepticism the whole while. ‘Would ye trust a friendly smile, he he!’ At first, I thought I saw something sinister. It turned out only a trick of my imagination. ‘Oh, well. I guess we can see what kind of parties hell is cooking up nowadays, whattaya say?’

‘Takes two to tango, so to speak.’

‘Yes. Yes indeed.

‘Don’t suppose I’ll be seeing you around any time soon?’

‘No, don’t suppose.’

She left me awestruck and emptied. I circumambulated the stage we were just on, dumbstruck, and she left me there panting in utter dissolution. She strutted off, and when she had entered the shadows of her vanity, outside the spectrum of bright blinking boulevard lights, discreetly undid one of the clasps of her bra strap and slid it off. I was still watching. She coyly glances round that elegant, slender shoulder of hers, winks, curtsy-ing into serendipitous dim.