At Joe Bean, Grace notes (CDDB 1Q84) the purgatory mind-fuck, lens into the ambivalent disconnect, totally sapping the heartfelt love of deceitfulness, concocting happy little lies for happy little liars to lavish upon hapless little guests for whom I care not a lick, lapping knee ornaments. Halfway between type A and point B there is a personality that invisibly meets in the middle, the relics of momentarily twain caprice. Fragmentary, sentimental dates pay heed to antediluvian love notes posted everywhere for all to see to the extent that time stops in a typewriter, dead to eternity. We come to the conclusion that no matter how much space we put between ourselves and our problems, time works independently on another dimension, the 4th. So no matter how much distance we separate ourselves from our ultimate fear in the 3rd, we are not so far removed from it on parallel planes, like planets orbiting the heart of gravitational attraction at defined distances while the essence remains in time still-beating at heart.
I take a stab at singing the Hispanic show-tune melody, NO BUENO!klahoma! At the Hari-kareoke.
Suicidal swan song of the wild goose chase.
The Holy Ghost assimilates to my multicultural love for ecstatic expression, blistering gibberish.
Where in the bloody hell went those wild geese?
Long before the short-hairs, the surreal surface of circumstance blazons beyond boundary limits achieving its full potential at the hirsute unraveling where it falls all over the place, captured at the furthest extent of an extendable monkey frame. Morphing monologue into a narcotic surround sound reverberating, resonating, and revamping invisible wavelengths of agreement that flash back to a day-dream when what was reflected by the personal-universal mirror, catching sight of synaesthetic pheromones from the drug-induced sweat of body-fevered kids who turn off and on like the flick of a light switch.
At the dark ritual feast with the heads of habit, an ossified political polemic of demagoguery attempts to proselytize the convention defying hubris of Montenegrins.
All I see are the ghosts induced by chemical reactions, chemical chimerae come to suspect me of summoning them away from whatever they were doing in the spirit world to come waste their time.
I forgot how to write. I forgot how to write. I don’t know how to do this anymore. I don’t know why I’m doing this. I don’t know how I’m doing this. I don’t know what I’m doing. I don’t know for whom I am doing this. I don’t know where I am. What’s going on? Shake it. I AM concussed. I woke up slamming caffeinated adult beverages, imported coffee, spinning cream in sight, all that’s in sight, a swirly gig, a dumb dance and I’m not even in Cabo San Lucas. I’m doing this all on the city streets of Lord Chesterton. I need to find some food. Food. Food. I can’t take this anymore. Protein starved for over-clocked synapses.
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