Tossed keys clack the floor, there, clank. Measured windows, a measure of Merlot, I’m doing fine. Speak of kids you call hipsters, they don nicer shirts but keep ratty shoes, really knowing nothing of punk rock barely admitting any more to care to with faces vastly punchable, mostly all stand still on the dance floor as if their parents are in the corner. I admit I’m embarrassed by my peers and feel shame inject into my veins transmitted by image of whatever hairdo, it’s whatever it takes – I’d rather think of other things, so I try, really hard. If hipsters are here here to stay, I say make them available on iTunes for purchasable download and assimilate them deeper into the hive of America’s empty thoughtless culture, a Walmart of the world for people with jobs, little jobs with invisible shackles. Huge Thursday paragraphs at breakfast coming up from the early hours of 5am and going, next the apple and book stacks, I’ve not distracted myself too much with an internet distraction, but instead my lovely girlfriend full of smiles so pleasant to wake up beside, and besides that, nothing much to report, but digging deep the high school fingers tappedy tap plod on. The mind thinks I still haven’t graduated so in dreams keeps on sending me back through the program of rooms, crowded halls, lockers, and nagging left-over credits. Some escape traditonally by sticking it out, following completely through with all the bullshit and move onto better schools, college, or hit up the military’s racket to pay for it. The ads challenge the adventurer video gamer in you to come bursting forth to jump out of their planes, steer their manly tanks, push the mops, be bullied by higher ranking bastards, see the severed bodies, destroy civilian families – it’s the dream, the false hope, the broken promise, it’s business, nothing personal, it’s “we wish we could do more, but we can’t. so thank you for all you’ve done, please have a nice day, the nicest one allowable. we’ll see you on TV and in hell.”
I’m on track or say it like that – if January is the t-ball stand set up for February, then March is left field and then some – birthdays on the way, the horizon is bright, it has to be. Fuck the decline of things, I don’t think inside the box or dignify the box with acknowledgment even – fuck the box. What box? Fold it out and do head spins on the fucking thing. So, well, how are you? The cat bats at the jacket’s zipper knocks the wooden floor.
the seventh mountain. go mr. pib pig sip on the word pad finger fly by drive by hang glide oh you rhyme I forgot about that, no sentences to your madness I meant to say such men don’t put periods down and after a point the rhymes just come flowing out seemlessly well the kids on days like these talk about how their vacations are ending and school starts Monday tomorrow, one big sentence of it all, everything, the men flirting with the women behind the countertop, the women doing their thing, faking it for business sake or whatever sake, because it’s how they were raised, a little swish of wet cloth over the dusty road surface – every stillness crackling electric, the wind tweaking the pines – I exclaim please don’t you ever leave me alone so that all I’ve got left are nightmares – don’t leave me alone with them, I don’t think I could bare it – but you never know, and what is this little muffin hunger I’m developing this morning? does the owl approve? questions break up things, don’t they? this van shaped like a space shuttle reenters the parking lot atmosphere, bearded man with baseball cap and sunglasses gets out his eyes blocked and wife or some lady the boss of america (sez Kerouac) sitting in passenger seat no make up just simple long straight brown hair tied back to hang over blue shirt.
I am photographing things with the eye and I am I against I, say why. Woo! The other night I was haunted by voices that came through my own intelligence but I could tell it was alien foreign outside and ghostly and offering a strange guidance. I am really done with their officy banter about my diet. Please dispense with. Oh come on, get over it. Alas, the men and women are bored, are bored simple, simpleton, it’s sad, it’s horrific, something I don’t want happening to me, but if I stay there how do I possibly win the war? Hardly even on my own time am I able to combat back with a fight, the plight of the individual trying to keep calm and stay individual – instead they say they detect a lot of anger in me and I say break out the swatch booklet and see the vast array of colors that represent only a portion of the mind when it’s in high gear. A lame brained statement. Red ink gets pink gets us into trouble those thoughtless utterances fly by dawn daybreak the blast of Florida or Texas warmth you feel when getting off a plane. Unusual territory the change of climates.
I need to write with a serious furious flow and not stop and let it do its thing, seriously! What do you notice, what do you think? Put it down. What do you feel. The punctuation at the neck, the sip sip edge of coffee throaty and strong, the strong arm and iron fist of imminent work, the wrongly chosen words perhaps, the trampoline set up on stage by Bad Trip from New York when they came down – that was back in the day. All the days, along with the present, blend together in this writ and I’m glad for it. Scissors cut the hair back and curb its enthusiasm with metal hunger you could say. All the prayers belted out till atheism took hold and then psychadelics were consumed and you returned to a sort of agnostic stage of life. Did you know that St. Petersburg, FL is considered to be the old age capital of the world or America? Well yeah, and that’s where a favorite author settled down and death snuck up on him and snatched it all away, snuffed out, in the homespun home comfy sun ray afternoon blast.
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