bad juju

The true travellor follows lee lines. i don't know how lee is spelled. Britishly I would imagine. America is void of elloquence.
Alcohol kills. Alcohol is the antithesis of orgonic lifemanifesting subtle ki(s), the building blocks, thee wood-glue pasting. Hmmn? Nevermind. Szezleky (sic- auth. of gosp. truth, auth. of cosmological garden) write that alcolhol destroys the subtle energies. Everything we destroy in food by cooking, heating, boiling, acidizing, brazing, grilling,(killing?), and carmelizing we destroy in the body by the use of alcohol. Not just braincells, he yyells, but your whole damned living christian bone blood and fleshy systems! And I say, fine. Fuck. I know im killing the chritmas jizm, but it gets me pumped for a minute. Lay down some screws, talk to the face and the hands, the trial and law guards. I'm gonna get juiced, and in the process forget and remember, like left turn and right turn, and get myself to the other end of an hour.
I've triangulated my home. I wish to push the boundaries continuously until I have trotted the globe and am calling it "my world". I've triangulated my position by moving far away then back closer, more south now than I started. But, smoking pall mall's on the porch I feel that the trees have it in for me. They hover and loom over, netting and screeching at me. Cicada cries and mute stares from above,. Its so hot I see the trees sweating, beads of glass falling and disappearing in air. The reality of this city slowly sets in. Still, I open the door of the house, still I drive down the highway and have a moment that I remember where I am. i wan't here awhile ago. I am here now. But, why am I here? i ask this like a bad joke on a disney kids show, I ask this like a walk on part in a game show, a talk show, late night, no art.
I don't know how it happened, but its happening now. I'm looking at pictures on the earth from distant places. I google mapped france yesterday and zoomed into treet view and began strolling the streets near clichy and then somewhere near a pizza parlor. I went to Avon but couldn't zoom in that close, so I looked at rooftops. I turn twenty eight tomorrow and my skeptics horoscope says: get going off somewhere now, man, get a brass knuckle and a neon visor and tromp the stoney terra. You're just gonna end up fraud, stoic, possessed here. The terre mega tropolis will swallow your bones? Go eat fine cheese. Go sleep with women too beautiful, go swim in the leftovers of triumphant and lost civilisations, culdesacs of misnomers. Eat Greek, swim channels, go to cooler climates. For god's sake! You had to leave, but why step back? You are poor. You are poor and tired of ramshackle habitats for embittered humanities. The thrut leaves without provovcations. Sweltering heat doesn't count. Startling beauties is what thy senses seek. Strange allegorical libations, constitutionals and not constitutions!
Ahh, but alcohol. I turn twenty eight tomorrow and I'm getting drunk now. Not yet, not drunk. Listless. Alcohol kills. teresa kills. heat stroke kills. christianity kills. silence kills. I gues none of thats none so bad. I don't feel any fire. either the heat snuffed them all out...or the utter lack of divinity in this new home, new town, new new. Just buckets of shit everywhere.

fearless in the lobby, but pissed

Radio tower stands out, looking pasty on a black lump under editor skies. A footloose band of lights trail silent acros beach side road ways into the looming ominous glow of distant magalopolitan chatilions, reststop neon trollop cries from vulture skies over dying diner respirations on highways of gourged furried flatliner, green dusk cacti sparkling in a moony day dream.
Waking up on the even of my twenty eighth a long way from strange, sitting on a fence with stiff shoulders, feeling in the dark for portsmouth. The listless wonder in and out of here, delirium has set in across the noon city like laudanum and fecal trench breathing, burgeoning on the faculty of transit and sidewalk and sorority of traveling socks, feet sweat, toungue dry and pooping phlemn, getting drunk on the moon during the daytime, getting drunk without her at night...
     There's not a place to work, to write, to paint, to think. All is shut up and out, like pictures in museums, usable things!!! behind glass cases...And a were-wolf kind of feeling, holding back or falling out, cussing the heat, the day. Zapped, desapped by humidity and smog, by pollutant airplane burggle in the sky, traffic gas lighting in the skull. A Burlesk of poison and discomfort and blinders and mutestones, bedbugs, allergies and razor burn. With a side of screwdriver. For my birthday, a bottle of Vodka. Better than jail.

Theres a strange promise. It goes about....n the day...its a place, its a thing.
citadel.
you talk too much.
We learn from each other.
You learn too much.
Grow alittle.

There' nothing around here except you, except me.
When I get to searching, then, only then, I'm lost.
I get spun.

When there are targets and proliteraian.
when the iron talks to the pot, I know,
I'll say, I'll get it, but
you're a stranger, a rascal,
get lonely and tied.

I live like a falcon circling a well.
I drink nothing but you, Im done with you.
Im in love with you.
I wish myself and head him in that direction.
gone, good, goodbye.
Gone, getless, gadfried, guttermouthed and dead.

the past sits like falcons on a saturday morning tead in
metronom and belfast, no home.
Get and get goin,
we're sending you home.

The strangle holds fast

Ahh, the irish coffee saturday morning post. Wake up in time to miss the farmers market, which lends me an entire weekend off from work in Blanco, the drive between Blanco and Austin, The hot days outside for nine hours, and the sting in my heart from knowing that I'm passing off supermarket foods under the false pretence that its farm raised. (And i am supposed to lie to these fine country folk! Which is like lying to disabled or the mentally retarded! I feel so foul.)
making barely any scratch and paying for gas to get out to crotch-ass town and stand on a highway. But, it's something and it puts a few dollars in my pocket. But there's a metaphysical symbolic reality that always coincides with the actual one. In the actual one I am broke by the highway selling another mans goods undeer false pretences and spending my other night in the dark writing, reading, drinking and planning. Perhaps in my mythological existance I stand near a crossroad, a fork, and with old trunk or carpet bag await the next train out to some megacropolis where I'll be lead into a circle and be given compass' and shards of glass lens, watercolours and secret tomes. Probably not.
i do feel I'm more at a depot, with a 3-hour wait before the bus takes off again. I don't know if it's an Austin transit bus or renegade tug sneaking out of harbor, but nonetheless- feel I'm waiting, passing time before the train leaves. Who's driving this thing? It's always like this. Everywhere is a wait. Or maybe I'm actually correct. More than likely though, everywhere feels like you're only waiting until you get to a moment when you actually know that you're living....I'm here. Take attendance. Wash my bones, it's hot as hell and I need a good cleaning. Really it's been cheap casual sex, warm beer, broke ass on couch, inspired by Miller, inspired by music, swamp ass in the city since I got here.

tired and ready nighttime daydream rehabilitation hospital

While we are all still here...
The Lamberts are having dinner.
The fascists brigade i proletariatizing across the street.
I, no, not I.
It is making a mes in the back shlades of a summit made of tea tert totter.
Now I'm nothing,
I'm slowly writing a story about diabetics.
I'm writing a story about the forensic of dialogue.
When Wilt comes home, finally, we will know it was He!

Drum caffeter in the scylo barn.
Get ready, now.
We're all aching for a fuck all from the earth, the moon, god.

(the first attempt with multiple exposure, but has its own kind of appeal...)

Doorless

Or like nothing at all.
You can't compare in a place as big as itself
There's no actual doors in this world,
There are only partitions.
So, you dream for that very reason,
We have to have doors,
we have to mark everything in sight
we have to know upside down
From Left
From tomorrow
From Unbelievable.
We grow intelligent
We have marked everything enough now,
Now we can walk in a straight line
Even spheres have edges
When you're smart enough.
Ahh, safety!