better git it in your soul

when i became convinced that i'd used up all that came in the original package i developed a perhaps unhealthy, but i was certain, necessary obsession with getting my hands on anything to aid in jacking the volume back up to at least a 'tolerable' level.

maybe kick out the bottom. maybe lop off the cap. a beautiful & satisfying mix of angelic voices, low end drone & distorted guitar. lay a lullaby on top of the feedback. a blend of blakean excess, christ-like empathy, five chinese brothers & two dead boys.

a can't miss integration of hedonistic hoodoo & authentic spiritual emancipation. elastic yet sturdy. a fitting epitaph scratched in numb skull. a dedication to fuck it all & other moments of perfect  clarity.

a sprawling but illuminating reconsideration of formerly trashed master plans that smacked of reward, punishment or indifference.

luke 8:16-no one, when he has lit a lamp, covers it with a vessel or puts it under a bed, but sets it on a lamp stand, that those who enter may see the light.

some may ask-then what is left but blinding white light on a black slate under which tabula rasa takes a deep breath then kicks. it's wiped of all experience unless it could be reconstructed into a scene that had lasting power. a scene that could stand on its own. the brightest light is usually the first to be shot out.  

if you're going to pray for a clean slate-why not no slate at all.

on the other hand, you might say i lost my best hiding places. left personal papers & dna readouts lying around where anyone could see them. invited or uninvited. friend or foe. shiva or the virgin mary. devil or the deep blue sea. i had compromised my security as well as that of some ghosts i had been intimate with. i had promised the story would never get out.

it was unintentional, but that's won't fly. there's no excuse for my rapidly depleting sponge, which would rather trip out this fine, sunny sabbath. riffing for my appreciative muse & listening to 'are you experienced' instead of putting a steady hand on the undeniable facts, at least that's how they're billed. it could be hyperbole. it could be p.t. barnum. it could be that which i'm doing right now is actually more valid, certainly more soulful.

not exactly the same as sacrifice myself to the lions, but snubbing the  blunt inside isolated leeches. i cancel pyramid tour, opting instead for spider weaves intricate architecture. velocity of standing still is the nearest i'll get to prodigal son status or chasing down billowing saints, who look ripe for crash, though that can't be the case. can it?  trashing the future instead of the past is immolating the long dead without a struggle. purified dialect seeps into patchwork zeitgeist. importing cheap labor from rome & mecca & jerusalem & hong kong & mexico & appalachia.

the walls are uniform eggshell white. it must found calming. the carpeting is different. no doubt to keep wanderers on the right path. all the furniture is brick red or christmas tree green, with a light wood grain armrests. i'm not sure why the color scheme is what it is. someone told me it's all laid out to generate a certain effect. it makes sense to me. i'll have it figured out before i get out of here.

unfortunately.

book of mark 13:6-for many will come in my name, saying, i am him, & will deceive many.

i haven't had a visitor since-well, i don't know. it's easy to lose track of time in here. why would anyone want to know what day it is unless they've got a release date signed, stamped, approved.

the voices in the walls have ceased. i never should have mentioned that they were distracting me. we're taught to complete the task at hand before moving on to the next. the chatter rarely stopped. whether or not they were trying to distract me personally, or everyone who was tuned into their static, i can't say. 

i'm in seventh heaven on auto pilot, though i'd prefer to be navigating the starship while buzzing round the mother of pearl. i would rather chase the almighty, though it might be futile, then disappear into self. it's all in the striving. it's in my best interests with all the selfishness & narcissism squeezed out.

my hypersensitive hearing is picking up every lovely diminished chord, every rusty hinge on the way out that i somehow missed on the way in, every voice that i ignored because i was braiding neurotransmissions into more kilowatts than mexican radio. yet i feel no guilt, or any recourse which would have dropped a tear on a place, which no longer had room for the likes of me.   

my hypersensitive eyes can see everything i always needed smeared over everything i always wanted,  sees the way to get where i need to be without worrying about directions for the way back, sees my doppelgänger leading my past personas toward my unabridged, unrevised history, patiently leading them away from untrustworthy former companions, alleged unfinished business, which is nothing but the most recent sales pitch, & aching phantom limbs on a jimmied treadmill that never comes up cherries.

my hypersensitive emotions are catching up with my psychological profile & will soon blow right past it, find its own place in the happily stunned visage which can barely contain itself, but will let go any moment, flying in the face of uncontained. 

my hypersensitive soul deep is examining every possibility, even those it was once too frightened to probe with a powerful telescopic lens or proverbial ten foot pole which may as well have been the dark side of the moon during several sleepless nights in the arms of a reckless ride on fractured vertebrae. well-disguised as a dynamite lover straight out of a playful ribbing.

blessing the ashes up your sleeve while speaking pigeon infinity. torn instructions caused sudden shift into reverse jerking automatic spin into self-flagellation. under the counter argument is thirsting for contaminated pantheism. paralytic past due asks purgatory for twelve steps before aphrodite's warm breath touches my back, or kali's cold claws wrap around my waist. black mark in permanent ink doesn't count in grandmother's heaven. discerning avant-guard lips spill fresh flowers into luminous bowels of lost. drunken whirlpool or bubbling bottle cap give their pitches with a pseudo-religious fervor in doting profile. rotting in trenches of rich men with their opium den mothers.

they invited me to dinner. you could cut the tension with a knife. it made me feel small again. i would return to my place depressed. that night i would become physically ill. i became concerned they were trying to poison me. a little at a time.

i talked myself out of that crazy notion eventually. however, i started to bring my own food. i would not leave my fast food bag unattended. one can never be too careful. apply this to any aspect of life & you'll get by barring some catastrophic event.

there were no pictures of me though we shared the same blood. soon others began disappearing as well. so maybe it was simply being at the top of the pecking order, which was in truth the bottom of the heap.

book of john 16:24-until now you have asked nothing in my name, ask, & you will receive, that your joy may be full.                                              

people are sitting waiting for cigarette break though we had one a couple hours ago. at least it felt like a couple hours ago. we're allowed two cigarettes a break, which must be smoked one after the other since there's a ten minute time limit. there's one after breakfast & one after supper. there are no exceptions. i hear that phrase a lot-there will be no exceptions. it makes me feel tired. it makes my arms feel heavy & possibly prosthetic.

i ignore the telephone. i want no contact with anyone. they drag my psyche through the mud. they make me feel guilty. i panic when i hear rapping at the door. i'm angry at myself for not turning the lights out. i can't peak through the blinds. i have no curtains. i have two shirts hanging on the front door window. why did they make doors that way then? anyone could break the glass & let themselves in. however, i have added two padlocks to the door. two padlocks to the back door & basement as well. i almost feel safe. i don't feel at risk though. it's somewhere in between. a place without a name, but a face that creeps me out.

lingering version of authentic vision takes ragged rhyme into veritable fix of spinal paradox. watching reflection for any false moves. shooting to thrill but missing target completely. impossible to please everyone except nostalgic feverish phonic blur tinted by master link. stuttering flux of ball & chain remains a fictional fling. residual weight of world of the uncommon man in unreasonable situation doesn't insure a positive nor satisfying finish. derogatory entry on fringe of gooseflesh are flashing latest indentation. fishing for compliments or clues-i haven't any idea which, nor do i own any of my own mnemonic migraines spilling ink all over litmus test, resulting in only one way there.

did i put myself here or was it planned? either way doesn't go down smoothly. either way i've been tagged. it must be that time of year. a warped replica of stainless steel is as close to introspection as i'm allowed unless i'm willing to share it with everyone. i imagine i have that deer in the headlights look.

i involuntarily groan like a beast taken down but not out. if they're lousy shots they have no right to be out there in their clownish red jackets & strapped down hats.

revelation 13:3-& i saw one of his heads as it should have been mortally wounded, & his deadly wound was healed. & all the world marveled & followed the beast.

i wrack my head trying to remember the exact circumstance. it's futile. my mind is a sieve. my thoughts come pouring out, if my head's positioned wrong. i'll be expected to clean up my own mess. they cut my meds just enough so that incidents like this will happen. they call it earning your keep. they call it a system of points without an explanation.

we play guessing games. what a bunch of lost souls. we can't recall our mother's maiden name. i think that's the password. maybe that was from the outside world. outside world being a misnomer since it was caught in the cyper-ether. there are no such machines inside here. if there were, there would be constantly bickering over usage.

i play a stride blues on the out of tune piano. no one looks at me. in fact, they go out of their way to ignore me. i must have said something previously. i can't remember. i think one day it will all come back to me. it's a feeling. i'm not hiding this feeling though, because it's yet to make itself known. it's an uneducated guess. if i knew for certain i'd be a nervous wreck. 

imprint of a failure to communicate is intent on wrecking my nonsensical bliss, which isn't advisable. my tarnished halo hangs on to remaining luster during another lost weekend with dope nose dead ringers. psychological meltdown at below freezing is adorned with crown of costume jewelry accompanied by rhapsody of blue-eyed boys. opiate textured subliminal crossfire is relinquishing rights to any future reflections. body english with speed impediment is whipping white horse of twilight's grinning. cascading knives are forging separation.

they look pathetic sitting there. can't they do anything besides blank out television & one another's woes. i'm empathetic to their cause but there's a limit to how much you can unload on your fellow humans. i feel i've reached that limit. others may have wider parameters than myself. although, they don't give it away. they move in small tight-knit packs. they represent all i loathed out there. i see no excuse for that kind of behavior in here.

i'm trying to read my latest medication readout. it seems every other day i'm presented with a new one. a new anti-psychotic. that isn't what they told me when i threw back my paper cup this  morning. the nurse said it would help me sleep. why would i take something to help me sleep in the morning? i was up all night again.

the tv is too damned loud. the shrill, idiotic voices are interfering with my concentration. i'd rather hear the voices in the wall. i mean if i had my choice. i better watch what i wish for. i want to turn it down. but i'd rather throw it against the wall. i'd like to do a kesey chief broom. the tv is strapped to a black stand with wheels so i'd have to lift the whole shebang. i'd like to chuck it all out the  window. but all the windows are reinforced plexi-glass or else a designer drug that hasn't hit the street yet. god, that would feel so good.

quivering taglines question dreaming of dreaming of dreaming. mirage is dancing seductively tossing off unborn shrunken heads. entrails of tijuana & east liverpool are cleansing my polluted system. automatically defiled fascist speech is languishing in eternal errant blinds masked promoted to primary targets. hypnotic morsels are blotting out dialogue. i'm edging toward another self. past personas speak 12  inch slowdown. deranging memories through reconstructed photographs. secret identity is another fictional account, but one that caught the popular imagination.

in the wild blue yonder or out back or back down to whoa, back up a minute or back in the usa or back in the ussr or back in the saddle again or back where i belong or back to business, or back in one moment after a quick word from our sponsors or get back or get down or down on the corner or over my dead body or overreacted or off to the races or over hill & dale or off my rocker or overstocked or over the hills & far away to grandmother’s house we go or overzealous or over the rainbow or under the silvery moon. i wouldn’t go crazy or go now or go to sleep or go daddy go or leave the pieces.

epistle of james 1:24-for he observes himself, goes away & immediately forgets what kind of man he was.

i'm tripping out on moving. the building does not move. i’m running fast, keeping pace with the car, but i’m not even breathing hard. i’m hopping cars coming the other direction, jumping guardrails,

leaping trees & utility poles. i’m focused on timing my jumps, but i can carry on a conversation at the same time. i wouldn’t want my partner to think i’m spacing out on her. i want to keep her company.

we have the stooges 'funhouse’ blasting. great music to chug along to. i wonder where she went. no one visits anymore. they've had me locked down for too long. i used to get a few visitors. she would have come to see me. she would have done everything in her power to have me released. she loved me so much. there were others, but not like her. maybe i'm not so loveable anymore.  

i’ve been doing this since i was a young boy. i did it at first to kill time on long trips. soon i got hooked. i would do on short rides, as long as we were traveling at a decent speed, though i had no clear conception of mph back then. it was a race, but i was only competing against myself. i always came out on top. i always came through it unscathed. i took it more seriously then.

i still enjoy losing the world this way. i’ve never told anyone about this. it’s never come up. it wouldn’t make sense to anybody else anyway.  the warm wind is slapping my eardrums. my head is resting on my palm, propped up by my right forearm which is sitting on the passenger door.

i’ve kept my concerns to a minimum considering the immeasurable scope & puzzling plotline. i know i’m dealing much better than i would have in the past. i’m not sure how much of that is a reflection on my growth as a more positive & together individual, & how much was due to her presence, her patience, & most of all, her love. i’d like to think it’s all of them.  

leaning into the light of transformation without falling all the way through, is honest to goodness downplayed as overrated destiny. last gasp at learning to breathe on our own is coughing up a 1966 mustang which insists on deeming itself a heart-shattered machine. charging assault & dead battery sequence causing vertigo & wrenched regardless of the near future.

i feel energized. i feel pumped. i feel sure of myself, without being full of myself. i feel like the car is charged with electricity. i glance over at her. no matter how quickly i do, she catches me. she has a smile waiting for me. she holds so much power. she could use it against me. she could easily manipulate me.

instead she shares the power with me. i can feel it. i’m definitely stronger than i’ve ever been,& it’s all the more remarkable & sublime because it’s not an ego-driven strength.

in psalm37:4-it says to delight yourself in the lord, & he shall give you the desires of your heart.

love is the fuel. love is every part of the machine. love makes all the connections. love makes it all click. love is a möbius strip. love operates on the same principle as perpetual motion. love is 360 degrees of diamond cut precision. love heals any wound. love is a perfect circle. love requires no additives. love is its own mirror. love is its reflection. love is instantly recognizable if one is open to it. love is the result of love.

i miss loving someone. i miss being loved.

gathering lyrical fragments that sing like slaughtered lambs while transcribing diary to correspond with never ever land. invisible demons are phasing out radio ghosts. bluster of idiomatic exercises for shaking the devil out my soul is more than intoxicated illusion. obsessing over unwritten upper case phobia. incomprehensible skid toward lonely town. chiseled chances staggering through space, blank as the day they were born. conventional rushing chill of who would have thought, lock down flare while paranoid builds on its own foundation.

everyone knows they keep the cigarettes behind the station, yet some dimwits insist on trying to bum smokes from me. i don't even smoke unless i'm feeling really stretched. if they have no one on the outside to buy them things then they're out of luck.

i'm glad i had socked away a little dough. it's kept in my account. they supply you with nothing in here except soap for showers & detergent to wash your clothes. i've yet to fool with the washing machine & dryer. someone would probably swipe my clothes if i left them in there for five minutes untended. i wear the same three shirts & pair of jeans. i bought a package of underwear & socks since we're not allowed shoes & i have no slippers.

acts 2:17-& it shall come to pass in the last days, says god, that i will pour out of my spirit on all flesh; your sons & your daughters shall prophesy, your young men shall see visions, your old men shall dream dreams.

all i want to do is sleep. i'd trade all i have for week of golden slumbers. how can a man keep rolling like this without rest. is it the meds or am i too wary of the clientele to drop off to sleep? maybe a bit of both.

i have a mental block when it comes to phone numbers. when it's my turn to drop a quarter or two in the pay phone i ask the operator for people's numbers. people i haven't seen in years. she  comes with no matches. maybe they're running the line directly into another part of the building so we can't communicate with the outside world. although some seem successful. they could be pretending to be speaking to someone they know. i don't have time for that. some of the calls, albeit i only hear one end of them, are quite dramatic, angry, passionate. none sound like a regular conversation. this is why i have my suspicions.

some of the residents are very aware of how they come off to other residents. i'm not sure why. ego has no place in here. it's one of the first things they slice away at. some of the residents are always talking about their future plans. how can you make plans when there's no way of knowing how long you'll be here. some residents insist on being patients to differentiate from the inmates on the next wing.

in proverbs it says-cast out the scoffer & contention will leave; yes, strife & contention will leave.

i'm not sure which side of the glass it's referring to.

occasionally one gets in, or else they're transferred. i never strike up a conversation with them. but then i never initiate conversation with anyone. not even the attractive women. they all have fear in their eyes. that's all i see. fear. nothing else. i feel no need for sex in here. we are co-ed but monitored closely. no males in female rooms or vice versa. the women seem to miss contact more than the men. i think it's something in the food.

future is always behind us igniting improvisation with painkillers & caffeine. rejuvenated blowup has left driven by inky mathematics leaving a flustered version in place of white light, white heat. settling the matter with a long dramatic pause hinting at blind proposition. varnishing thud after thud as tattooed to revealing real identity savors applause sold as sarcastic syndication. thread around rusted joints & defeatist attitude smacking intangible place setting. a strange love interest is yacking up aristotle's influence on early church. half a dozen gutted squirrels on yesterday's newspaper isn't pedestrian art. it's pollock & ralph steadman refusing to gut & fry up the damned rodents.

i'm in the art room. we're painting. this is my favorite day, though it's closer to evening because we just finished supper. sliding our empty trays into the slots in the metal food carriers on hard rubber wheels. they're much heavier than they look.

i'm dripping paint on myself. the activities coordinator gives me an old white blanket to put on my lap. the blankets here are all white. the blankets are so thin you need five to stay warm at night. if i see an empty bed i strip it down & bundle it up under my arms to sneak it back to my quarters when no one is watching. that is, when i can't see them observing me.

my pants are already paint-splattered from last week & the week before. i used to paint out there. it's difficult now. my hands shake too much. the woman stands over my shoulder. she asks if she can 'borrow' the painting i'm working on. it's phrased as a question but i know my answer means nothing.

2 corinthians 12:1-i will come to visions & revelations of the lord.

she holds the canvas board up so i can get a better perspective. she asks me if i find the piece disturbing.  again, i know it's not really a question. why bother fumbling with an answer. i shrug. she tells me she'll return it later & walks out. i'll bet she's taking it to the main office. i'll bet it has nothing to do with appreciating my work.

at tomorrow's appointment it will be discussed. i will say it's a piece of art, it doesn't mean anything in particular. the interpretation is open to the observer. this won't fly. he will point out certain  things. he will tell me i'm holding things inside. if i was hiding things, then why would i put them on something as obvious as a painting. he says it's my subconscious trying to cleanse my psyche of notions which others could read as threatening, frightening, disturbing. i tell him the activities coordinator already mentioned that. i smile. he doesn't smile back. if he smiles at me i keep a straight face. i think i intimidate him more than he bullies me.

proverb 3:31-do not envy the oppressor, & choose none of his ways.

i walk back to the art room. i take a wrong turn. apparently i'm somewhere i shouldn't be because florence nightengale takes my arm & asks me what i'm looking for. i tell her a way out. she frowns. she starts to tell me the company line about i'm here because i need protection from myself. she's obviously new. i cut her off. i wave my hand. i tell her i have it memorized.

when i'm pointed in the right direction i smell paint & follow it. i'm as angry as my medications allow me to be. i ask whatever happened to freedom of expression?

i pour a container of red paint on the table. i stick my hand in it. i leave three palm prints on the wall. i will not be allowed to attend art class next week.

uber-linguistics sings irresponsible identification. debriefed fuse grounds linear vogue melodrama in a motel 8. sheer vanity cartoon assemblage is testing integer against the course of events played at half the time. imperial obnoxiousness is taunting a brass bed. dissecting ambivalence with none other than the devil's own. idiot savant is dropping minutia. linen boulevard is cruising for poetry where the goddess of whiplashed  winks at circumstantial evidence. a hundred yards of red sunshine reads remote possibility then rips into any day now.

i want to hear the words she never said. i want to hear the words which i didn't want to hear then. i need a connection it's true, but i want hers specifically. i suppose it's natural to think about what you had & lost. what you wanted but barely missed on. wrong time. wrong place. i suppose the way i feel lets me know i'm still human despite my surroundings.

romans 14:19-let us pursue the things which make for peace & the things by which one may edify another.

it looks like winter is winding down outside. there is no exercise yard here. if you want to physically exert yourself there are multi-colored tumbling pads. if you really want a heavy workout you can raise a ruckus & get thrown in the rubber room. it has an entire floor of those pads. the walls are padded as well. i bounced around the room once. it got old fast. there's a camera in the corner. it's too high to reach like all the others. believe me i tried. i felt embarrassed for letting some steam off.

the restrooms are the only part of the building that aren't monitored. they are public restrooms. i'm lucky that my room is next to one. i imagine it would be illegal to have cameras in the restroom. that hasn't stopped me for searching for them. they make cameras smaller than dimes. probably smaller than that. the last one i saw was that size though. that was a...no...i think a couple...actually i'm not certain.

but the point is that technology makes privacy almost impossible now.  they say you can be observed in your living room from satellites  circling the earth. 

daniel 11:14-violent men of your people shall exalt themselves in fulfillment of the vision, but they shall fall.

betrayed by last chance inside budding glass plumbing impressionable myths cloistered in deathly whisper. absorbing shapelessness in addition to transcribing et cetera under a democratic penalty. a blanching facsimile at the mention has stimulated dead end ribbon of replies which means nothing more than there's no reply worth keeping. mimicking a thrifty dismissal without needless adventure is a bit of a letdown in this day & age, in this trashed heap. enflamed blind eyes are  jostling for exhibition space. streetwise three-dimensional spittle. radial drugs aren't a viable excuse any more. all is extended toward infinity. trashing the false icons not so gentle reader. not so tactful historian-cast your essence into the fire for maximum effect.          

since i can't remember i demand to know why i'm in here. the nurse states i'll have to take that up with the psychiatrist. he won't be in until tomorrow morning. by then i may have forgotten. i write a reminder near my ankle so i can cover it with my sock. i would write it on my arm but they would make me scrub it off.

then i ask who signed me in here. i know somebody had to sign the papers to place me in here. they tell me it's confidential material, which they don't have access to anyway. i ask who exactly does have access to my orders.

they tell me not to get all worked up over something i have no control over. they ask me if i need a xanax. they can be so condescending. i will say yes, but first i want to have my say.

book of luke 6:21-blessed are you when men hate you, & when they exclude you, & revile you, & cast out your name as evil, for the son of man's sake.

draw up the parameters between the have-nots which operate within those blue as muddy waters. a squirming rot not responsible for their behavior. scratching at my wall at four o'clock angers me. aim my suddenly too heavy revolver at invisible intruders. pull the plug on wounds which resemble proverbial raw meat & clogged desire. humbling hoot amok in take no prisoners mode including myself. rouge-colored rejection jumping trains at eight years old. gravel big as golf balls can jump the tracks. sophisticated lunk head breakdown doing water-logged float with smiling mannequins followed by creepy clowns throwing stale candy to the affected twang of fm radio 'country music' & hawking horns for dope money which died at birth.

somebody must be in control. someone must be running the show. someone is making a mint off this venture. i remember the billing from my insurance company when i was here before. the cost  was astronomical. they say it costs forty grand a year to house convicts in the prisons all over america. i think it would cost less to stay here. there are no guards. there's no need for them. there's no way out. 

i'm given a familiar blue football to put under my tongue. in ten minutes i feel much more relaxed.  i like xanax. i prefer it over klonopin which i take every night regardless of my temperament. they say xanax is harder to kick than heroin. i'm not sure how they know this. however, i had awful deliria tremens when they cut me off cold turkey a few years ago. i had been taking xanax for five  years to control anxiety attacks. i was under tremendous pressure when, in their infinite wisdom, they decided to cut me off. i believe it's another way of thinning the ranks. i'd be called paranoid for saying this. anyway, who would believe a crackpot like me.

decompression switches places with flexible blue ruling which never rode in a shiny black limousine for a two-toned junker funeral. ambient lighting in a slaughterhouse is taking power so it can be redistributed. slipped under inexplicable clearinghouse. detaining the latter while pawing the former. cellular octopus is limping sleep off to fighting amidst pornographic slash chord organ blues. she's the best thing i've ever seen. an iceberg golden image memorizes the drill of swollen purple labia at discount remaindered with buffalo chalk marks thrown in for a bonus cut. disembodied strips of denomination are making my skin crawl. my salvation lies inside an envelope of a child's fine brown hair.

there are places i've been that no one knows about. not friends. not lovers. certainly not family. i've kept this under my cap for a long time. we're not allowed to wear hats in here. knit caps, baseball caps, bandanas, skull caps. i don't see the logic in that rule. many of the rules are like this. there's no finding out. if you ask someone they will refer you to someone else who will suggest yet  another person. it never ends. sometimes it's circular. other times it flames out like a falling star. i think they're simply a way of exerting authority.

i've never even been queried about these places i've been. i'd like to meet someone i could trust so i could talk about these places. not someone on the inside though. not that they're less  trustworthy in here. however, they are contained. if they are needed they can be summoned in a matter of minutes. in the world we can disappear for long periods of time. we can lose ourselves.  unless we fall back on old habits or visit familiar faces, which is the first place they stake out. i know how it works. so why am i back inside. obviously i haven't practiced what i've preached. actually i'm not a preacher. i'm using that figure of speech though i mean as an individual i don't heed my warnings. i'm too impulsive. i don't practice common sense.

revelations 18:7-in the measure that she gloried herself& lived luxuriously, in the same measure give her torment & sorrow;

a jolly red button or death by committee puts life in flux & laws of physics in jeopardy, but i'm not making judgments. a photographic memory can be manipulated for fun & profit. villon's alter boy robes made a good hiding place during windblown schism not open to divine retribution. bad omen plaid continence misread as good shot. i've never seen the pacific ocean but gets to sleep with the bronzed angels. threatening perfume isn't a gust of true love but ditch weed unworthy of repetition. sanity of lust with no sugar additive will be unsheathing my mighty sword. chucking the harpie poems at graveside reunion is as close as possible to belladonna blues & cowbell luscious secret ingredient & cowpoke brewing.

ephesians 5:15-see then that you walk circumspectly, not as fools but as wise, redeeming the time because the days are evil.

i've tried to wrangle a day pass for months. last time i was gone three days. but i came back, or they brought me back. either way.

i need someone who will be responsible for me. i finally talk my doppelgänger into signing the papers for next friday. nine in the morning till five p.m. i tried to get an all night. they said that was impossible with my track record.

i tell him to wear a suit,(which i wouldn't be caught dead in) a hat & sunglasses. i tell him to take them off just long enough to let the machine catch a glimpse while laying down his signature. but no longer. i tell him to speak in a higher register than our baritone. i tell him to try to act the opposite of me in all respects.

it goes off without a hitch. we walk two blocks. we duck into the restroom of a texaco & swap clothes. we walk a few more blocks so i can give a short explanation of my status. we shake hands. we don't look each other in the eye of course.

i walk away. i don't look back. i start singing-“they say every man can be replaced, yet every distance is not near. so i remember every face. of every man who put me here.”

colossians 4:4-walk in wisdom toward those who are outside, redeeming the time. let your speech always be with grace, seasoned with salt, that you may know how you ought to answer each one.

 

 

mark hartenbach's new book is surfing the appalachian vortex from alien buddha press.

 

Edited for Unlikely by dan raphael, Prose Editor
Last revised on Monday, July 2, 2018 - 11:55