au-Dessus de la Mort

As he looked through his wikipedia articles, the ones he had written, he found that Nate was changing his entries for "au-Dessus de la Mort". There were mention of The Beatles and quotes from Don's correspondence. It was outright mockery. At the same time, Nate managed to install a fantastic logical soft soundboard. This came into use.

When Don woke up in a Brooklyn, he set out to make his way to the clinic to see the medicians. On his way, like children walking to school, his party increased as a very flambouyant Gary and a meek Michelle synced up in the trip to the bus. The bus turned into the train and soon enough, for reasons of necessity and expedience, he ran off from his little army to jump into closing train doors at the A train. Within minutes and before the next stop he was above ground and in a Queens. "Wrong way, shite!"

He had four tokens when he set out, and now just three. He disboarded at the first stop. It was a green oasis in the city, where there was a park sloping down into trees that deceived. When he emerged from the station, expecting to be able to just cross the street and resume his voyage, he turned and looked out over the green park. As he did so, he felt his wallet pocket being molested and three scamps met his eyes as he spun. One of them held it. He yelled, "It has but two dollars, give it back!" and he grabbed it. They mocked him, attempted and failed to threaten him with divided physical imposition, and then left.

When his blood settled, he looked at the citizens on the bench. One of them looked into his face and said, "Don?! I knew it was you! Thank you!" Don couldn't make him for a monkey. "I know you? From where?" The man answered, "You saved my ass. It was about a girl. You were maybe 14." That was a long time ago, but only one girl sprang to mind and he figured the rest. "You're the man Sarah spoke of?" Don asked. "The very one. It's a foretoken, out meeting." The man's face showed ancient writing on it. Old and mystical writing spoke from the flat screens of his cheeks and forehead. It gave Don the usual chill, and he was getting sicker. "I acknowledge this augury for what it is. I'm relieved for you, and grateful that whatever cursed you was beaten back. I must go now, or I will become more weak than I already feel."

"Ha! You, Don, weak! You're no more than thirty years and you'll see thirty more!" It was a condescending mockery and Don resented the old arrogance. "Don't be wounded by my words. They're only meant to steel you." Don stopped this penny prophet, "Fine. Your words are words, and nothing more." "No, I want to show you around the place. You've saved me from more than you can imagine!"

Don followed the old man around an old building, one made from large, cold, grey stones. It was attached to the subway station, but an entirely different realm. Inside were the creaky old ghosts of destiny, a carnival of twisted and fattened forms. He spoke of his own house and the obvious need to take Don in. Don declined, "I just need to catch the train back into town!" There was no refusing. The old man just waved him along, crossing the street to where the stairs should have been for the Brooklyn bound train. There were none.

--tbc

When

When my eyes open
My mouth tastes like old.
I reach for the air;
Dragging blankets unfold.
The air hits the skin,
Body touches cold.
There is no retreat
Morning sun shines of gold.
To find a nice pair
of socks; to grow bold.
No day oppresses
The clock face foretold.
Small steps for a man;
The moon to behold.

-Blad the Impoeter

I have the Moon

Out the car window, the moon followed. He hoped she'd be going where they were. When he got into the back seat he didn't ask where he was going. It was a ship, and he knew only his berth on the stern. The night and her roads were the captain's art. This night, as any other, he was the passenger. The moon whispered in a chime that he was loved. Without her, he'd have felt much loss. The cradle of the waves of asphalt and the turn of the V8 screw lulled him into the safest sleep.

God offered the only explanation, and the explanation in itself was a question. When given three wishes by a جني jinnī, the third wish is always for more wishes. Sulayman had just one wish for god, and the very architecture of the ache made him aware that the prayer itself would be unanswered. God may have had a bizarre answer, though, master that he is. "The French génie, in turn, came from the Latin genius, which meant a sort of tutelary or guardian spirit thought to be assigned to each person at birth."

The smoke blew back from the fo'castle of the USS Malibu and gave him familiar sting in his eyes. The night air was cold and he would, some day, give the order to close the scuttles. In his heart, a golden astrolabe told him he was four tens North. The Moon lit his eyes and he could see her shadows, her peaks and her gentle features. Her light was a blue gold, an aurum azul, like a sea in heaven. The stories that men had tramped upon her were as fabled and revered as the men and beings caught in the webs of the most ancient mythologies. He found a significant booger and removed it to the rear of the cabin.

When he watched the deckmen, the captain, the cook, the hunters, the dockers, longshoremen, the stevedores and the prostitutes he saw two dimensional characters from stories told to no one. Often they'd set him up a plate of the most substantial earthly satisfaction and he would set to work on claiming it for his small body. Always thirsty, he'd piss himself in sleep and wake without the sea to baptise the ammonia. The hosts were generally patient with this inconvienience, and when he grew into his thirst he would wake up dry and prepared to understand the day and its riddles. Each morning, Sulayman expected the truth to be revealed, to be briefed on the goings on, the roles, the intel, and the script. Instead the officers smoked cigarettes and coffee, listened to the meteo and shot little volleys at each other's shortcomings through wet red lips.

They gave him his orders, uniform, and the same MOTD as every day. When he was sent to shore to learn the language, the maths, the sport and the ways, he left without any fanfare. Coordinates changed, but generally the negotiations and salutations went along the same. New names, new faces, new rooms to map in his mind and a desk to sit at awaiting for his charts. Until the charts came they gave him all the paperwork they had. Crosswords, circlewords, whatever would keep the graphite milling on the paper and the young fiery will engaged. When he heard the boarding call, he was always prepared. He minded the clock so wholly that it became internalized. Outside he slipped past the bazaar and back to the port. There he found his good mate Badra, named after his moon.

Many years later, they crew was down to three. Sulayman, Badra, and Aum. The ship was in poor repair, and rations and discipline had fallen. Sulayman knew in his Mariner heart that the Captain and his mate would find a way easy and free without his own curses and questions. He packed a bag with what a man would need on land. Not much, really, just enough to cover up the cold and the skin. On an afternoon when he heard a black call from the port, meant to be shot over him, he took his time to make the steps that would lead him to destiny. Destiny has a funny way, like god tunes the will and the heart of a man to his destiny and when in harmonic, a great percussion of chord give the soul of the traveller a context, a full heart, and bright eyes that remember to look up at his moon.

Truth and its Dimensions

[first lines]
[opening title card]: "... and all the pieces matter." - Freamon
Det. James 'Jimmy' McNulty: [on their way to see Major Rawls] What the fuck can I tell him?

Sgt. Jay Landsman: Whatever the man wants to hear Jimmy, whatever he wants to hear.

Magical thinking can you in trouble. For instance, I imagine Oppenheimer didn't really think he was going to actually father the atomic bomb when he mused about with it. Then the US flowed a little cash his way and the next thing he was all stuck with a conscience and a bank account full of money. Poor physicist. They always seem to get the short end of it. Us junkies, well, we're common enough and don't have the same sort of mystique. I mean, a physicist has to be smart and go to school and write papers and do math with letters that aren't even in the English alphabet. A junkie just begs, whores, and steals. They both think magically though.

Like angels and prophets, blind men giving directions to travellers. There are greater forces at play than we can claim and frame and hang on our office walls. Ask yourself over and over what the point is until you make your self sick, angry, tired, lonely, suicidal, and insane. Then come back and tell us what the answer is. If you meet Faustus or even Methuselah along the way, tell them old Joshua said hello. We had it out in our time. Only they kept at it long after the tea was dry and the smoke had cleared.

I've been called a liar before. It's not the worst aspersion. On the other side of the coin I've been told I'm clever. The problem with that sort of reputation is that it isn't earned or achieved. It's like being pretty or strong. You just are or you aren't, and the very nature of it lends distortion to exactly how truly you are anyway. Without drowning in a whirpool of semantics, let it just be known that I consistently introduce the truth.

The great composer of these theatrics, this tapestry of math and music, energy and light shows a generosity from time to time. Given enough to refine his talent so divinely, the punctuation of the levity is never a moment too soon. I've heard the madmen utter, "Don't leave before the miracle happens!" and knew they meant what they said when they said it.

I spoke with a soul in the dark about the duality in voices I hear, the entendre plain as day to the attuned ear. It would surely scare the shite out of me, but my reaction is to remain calm and still and wait for the opportunity to challenge the alliance, the will of any competing threads. There are old names that are never taken lightly and when invoked the smoke and mirrors become what they are. To live now, in these bodies, these cars, these media, with these memes and types is a challenge never faced before. The game's the same, it's just got more fierce. One could lose way in a labyrinth of collection, disbursion, prosperity, and dispair. Behind the smoke and mirrors are the same old carnies, the same old ones we've known and been. The magic lies in the darkness behind our heads, like the darkness behind the moon, or the darkness beyond the Universe.

Gypsies are a hated bunch. They're sure to steal your money, deceive you, perhaps inseminate your daughter, wife, or god-forbid your son. After all, who wishes for any of that? But still, the question asks itself, "Who would want to be a Gypsy?"

I can venture to answer: those who preserve very old traditions. They don't -choose- it, they respect it because it is theirs. If the exonym can be reconciled to perhaps the gentler Adsincani, we could speculate that their traditions and customs are vestiges of a much older world than our European Asian American one.

It doesn't take a stretch of debate to introduce the thievery and trickery. However, when you're one of a group of people whom most others view as beyond subhuman -- nay demonic -- it would seem more acceptable to go ahead and work the minds and the fears of The Haves against them. After all, we can't take anything with us. Part of me admires this noble savagery. It's a romance of an outsider, and surely the practicalities would offend my mild sensibilities, but the ethos of it seems to make more sense than the bloody bacchanalia Caligula conducts on Wall Street each weekday.

Sadly, the junky of the western world has less of a heritage to stead him. He's left alone at best and rehabilitated at worst. There is a junky ethos. It's the purest variety, a prelapsarian innocence of nature and animal, beast and man. The perversion lay in the manipulation of resource to the end of collecting the most standardized commodity. No, I'm not speaking of sex or real estate, but currency. If every yuppie popped into Starbucks, and every blue collar into their Dunkin Poppies in the morning for their constitutional we'd see the violence, the exploitation, the wars, and the lies dissipate. Only recently, within the past 150 years or so have we been to righteous to claim that Bartenders with their alchohol (and it has had its own character dissected) and Doctors with their pharmaceuticals have the piety to serve these tonics.

"Opium is mentioned in the most important medical texts of the ancient world, including the Ebers Papyrus and the writings of Dioscorides, Galen, and Avicenna." ‡

I've heard it supposed that the great architectural wonders of Egypt were moved by the men in a Pascalian Army fed on a nectar of poppy blood. I've heard a lot of things, but I'm more prone to share what I've seen. When fruits aren't forbidden, they lose a bit of the sexual lustre that illuminates them and draws the hand. When we can learn to tolerate that nature is nature, and nature is never wrong, we may finally accept that narcotics are a force majeure. Take that to court in any philosophical justice and invite me to bear expert witness.

Stealing is wrong. It negates the natural sense that the Universe is as it should be and we as actors in it are playing our parts well. Murder is a transgression that has precipitated societies to murder their murderers; a paradox in plain light. Rape is an opportunistic predation that takes from the most beautiful, fair, and gentle their freedom to grow, to love, and to share. Financial and more abstract crimes are no less significant, though the smoke and mirrors, the language and imaginary entities protect in proxy the men who perpetrate enormous covetousness, stealing, and false witness. These men are the most loathesome of all, and their psyches get the sexual high from getting over the walls built to keep the great unwashed out. We all pay; this I know. There is no cheating the muse. It cannot be done.

So where do we place our gypsy junkie thieves? Do we deport them to uncolonized islands to determine the level of threat established societies may pose to further exploitation through guns, germs, and steel? That hardly seems fair. No self-respecting Juif would tolerate sharing one of the Nazi's death machines with such a goyish jeer.

Perhaps, I propose, they possess a history and a vision. They carry with them a talent and a code that we may learn well from. The old expression, "If you can't beat 'em, join 'em." Which of our accessable learning institutions offer the Adsincani tradition, the lore, the art and the ceremony? I find snippets and bickerings, but not one example of a credible first-hand account of the experience. The junkie culture in the Americas alone has a broad spectrum of subcultures, leaving out the consideration of the European, Asian, and Africa.

At this point, dear reader, I'll apologize for the grandstanding and defending the loathesome. Really my aim is to inspire just one reader to consider that even the most feared man has a heart, appetites, fears, hopes, and loves. Along with that a divine art communes us all, and when we seek to decypher and appreciate it we gain from it. We gain humility and the ability to alleviate pain and solitude.

Magical thinking is the only putty I know of that can fill in the fissures between the atoms, the gaps between the protons, the voids between the stars, and the seeds and eggs between the legs. Love will conquer fear all times. We are all felt alone at times, and we are all never more loved at others. We get the breath we breathe, the skin we spin, and the water we are. Threats are not weapons. Honesty counters threats quite well. So, my friends, my junkies, my gypsies, my priests, rabbis, and soldiers; even my temple money changers and the tax man: I love you. What more have you got?

‡ Please see the sources for http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Opium

Coda Novo

Don't fight him, the thought to himself. He'll wear himself out. Play the rope-a-dope; when he can't breathe he'll be all ears. The punches landed quietly on his arms and elbows, and he pulled his abdomen. He could hear the quiet roar of the lights, the silky sweat and vaseline and the taste of metallic wax in his mouth. Not so bad for now. Soon enough it will be time. They can't go on forever. Forever passed and he could sense that the bull of a man was unsure of his work. The natural confidence fed him security. That security was a lie.

"I'm a razor," he claimed. He slid right and hooked the cocky bastard in the temple. Bouncing back off the rope, he outstretched a pissed off right. Naturally he gave him a left in the side and pushed off of him and around. Now he was free, light, and fast. He tapped the elbow and as the body spun around clockwise he wound counterclockwise. He connected with a leading chin and knew with the cleanness of the snap that his opponent was neutralized. Somehow the brain let the rote reaction through and the equal rode the spell through. He was tired, and drunk from that blast and had misspent his ferocity on the wall the razor had made.

The razor was in a surreal realm of his own. That wall wasn't without it's price. His organs, though purged of their routine duties by adrenaline were making desperate negotiation with each other. The mind of the razor knew his heart and allowed it to lead for a while. The bell rang and he shuffled over to the southeast corner. His ears rung and echoed the bell. The towel served to even out the silk, saturated and soft. When the time was up, he was going to end this thing. "Just be -you-!" Bill told him. Bill knew who was in charge of the fight.

Time and he walked calmly to the spot. Glove and back off. He let his man sink himself. Around and around he trotted. It was the easy move. It let them come back, recenter, and bank some energy. Geometry was prominent in his pummeled psyche. He saw the triangle of the shoulders and sternum and pushed around to tap it. In being too nonchalant, he caught two quick lefts and missed his fish. Never underestimate, he remembered, but do what needs doing.

His man got bold and aggressive and the razor let a big right swing past and brought his own into the center of the chest. He could feel the air leaving as he pushed his fist through and he sprayed bloody spit as the energy echoed up his own frame. Quick enough it was back where he needed it and his left let the man know it was time to try again. He saw the pain and anger in his eerie blue eyes and closed them with a well constructed right. The man went down on his ass. The fight was over.

"You are going to lose big if you keep that bullshit up," Bill scolded him. He smiled. "I'm trying to tell you something, man, and you think it's cute! You'll end up on the wrong side of it. Believe me, I'm serious."

The shower felt cold even though he knew it was hot by the steam. The oil would take like 3 days to come out. They had some nice soap in the bag though. Some nice smelling soap. The smell made him think of hay and saffron. Like some kind of curried grass that was washed in the ocean. He felt satisfied. His body hurt. The blood made the back of his throat itch. He shot out bloody clots from his nose.

For NYC

You grinding silly machine. Daedalus couldn't have done it better, with all the trappings and nautilus, isinglass and honey. They swish, slap and stop. The borders are all water, and not the kind you'd swim in unless there were no better options. A man could stop and think in a town like New York City. A quick fish in the pocket and a sulpherous match to create just a little bit of smoke to go with all those mirrors. The beautiful witches on the train asked me what I thought of Spain. I told them, "Romantica." They asked me if I were a writer, of all things. I told them no one paid me for it.

"Oh, they will," she assured me. She smiled at me like I was welcome. Then I knew my stop, the stop that wasn't actually mine was up. Zip zip zip and the Year of the Death of Ricardo Reis. Like I had any idea what the hell she was on about. My accents and language flipped through their rolly dexters and I emerged in the belly of NYU. Rich girls and their flimsy accents. Can't shatter a glass with that, love, I'd leave it alone.

Mario handed me a book. We were talking about cryptography. I professed to be a natural cryptographer, just waiting for my turn at the NSA. I'd show those stiffs a thing or two. In the meantime, the challenge was to decipher what psych patients had claimed was alien divination, the scrivening through an ethereal link to another being. Oh, no... this is not a new idea. Enochian and many before it. For as long as a man couldn't read another's handwriting he'd have imagined magic.

Babylon pissed off god because who wants neighbors. Good fences make good neighbors and haute temptation of the wrath of gods is always a fool's errand. Still, the towers they construct today, the satellites and fabled men on the moon are allowed? Please reconcile that for me, religions. Because as it stands, evidence seems to indicate that doesn't end well. I'm not suggesting we go find a nice cave and a club, but what changed? Maybe there is an answer to that.

So I flipped through the 8.5x11 inch pages, neatly bound and gramatically tidy. Mario wrote about where he saw the insane modelling their "alien writing" after experienced, seen, or naturally imagined scripts. I learned about alphabetic languages (this one), syllabic languages (blends of consonants and letters, this could be slapped on a few languages), and idyllic languages, where he meant by that strange word the ideographics of the Far East. He was Italian, after all. Cut him a break.

I tried for all my eyes would pour onto those pages to make heads or tails, but they were rarely or never in their original context. With no clues, like geography, life experience, or mental state they were a cold case. Still, I tried and I tried. Do you know what I saw? I saw that he was probably right and while the insane do some fascinating things that only a madman would attempt to make heads or tails of them. Maybe it was then that I decided to give it a go.

In NYC the "words of the prophets are" written well beyond "the subway walls and tenement halls". If those children could write on the moon, they surely would. Speaking of which, I decided the best way to do so would be to charge the moon with some sort of expiring photofluorescent matter that had a quick half life. Who the hell wants to look up into the sky and see the bat signal forever? Not I.

The living children in NYC bounce along and conduct the great orchestra with waving hands and furrowed brows. The old give up and in to fear and chaos. They curse and spit and beg. They become bent and perpetually look down. "I am not really afraid," I told the wild eyed girl on the bus. Everyone wanted to help me on that bus in Brooklyn but I didn't express any problem. I was just wearing a nice suit and I think they wanted to know why. I shouted the only Yoruba I know, a salutation and they quieted the fuck up.

Soon enough I met a girl studying the bible and asked to use her phone. If someone's nose is in the Christian bible, it will be hard for them to look up and tell me to go fuck myself. I told her to read Hebrews 13:1. She thanked me and then the dark New Jersey night fell. I'll be back, I thought to myself. Whether I want to or not.

Pazzaglini butters playing cards.

Nearly

"Nearly" only counts in horseshoes, handgrenades, and h-bombs. Let's leave such dickery alone. Too much consideration of your penile endowment shrinks your constitution. Constitution is what keeps the old raft afloat. Tethers and twigs, bamboo and faith. You can't drown as long as you make preparation for what could happen and then leave it to god and nature. Nanu and I were laying on a sofa once, young and fresh with our legs tangled together in a rope of dark skinned affection. We were laughing hysterically that we couldn't die. We were young, after all, and the young don't die. My life was never easy, even when I took it lightly, and I remember telling her that there was a chance that we -could- die, but then "so what?" I told her that dead isn't so bad in so many words. The beautiful girl that she was once rode me on an electric fan. Weird and witchly ways they were. Like nature's orchestra allowing the resonance, the harmonic, the mathematical perfection indulge in itself. When I heard that she died nearly instantly my eye sparkled. Not out of joy, but with an amorous reverence to divinity and her ways.

A man told me, "Pride isn't poisonous. It won't kill you to swallow it." He also told me, "Who is worse off: the fool or the one arguing with a fool." Wise words from that old cadger. I'm presently breaking up with my girlfriend, Ramona. In many ways she's perfect for me. Somehow I'm unsatisfied. She's a lawyer and sees the world through lenses with arbitrary lines and codes and judgements. I am a creator, a levitator, an actor and a lover. She mocks me and has sabotaged my therapy by calling my "magical thinking" childlike and sick. To me, the world is sick enough and my reaction and ways are absolutely natural. Sid once told me that everything we know is natural, or it wouldn't be. He had his sinister snicker rolling around and his tongue nearly stretched out and handed that one to me. It flipped my world like those glasses that you get used to after a few hours or days. Then when you take them off, right side up is upside down.

Relativity is real. Contrast is real. High thread count sheets are my shangri-la. I don't know a lot, but I can hide in libraries and books, between legs and sheets. The dreams a dreamer dreams. The music that mates my nights and days. The shame that doesn't come off in the shower no matter if I sing, "It ain't no sin to take off my skin and dance around in my bones." Those albatross are ridden with pain and I'll have no more of them, thanks. They told me when I was just a boy that I was special. They didn't tell me I was a god, demigod, psychopomp or prophet. They just told me I was special. When I compete, I pray for the beauty of my adversaries. In many ways I'm a good Christian boy. A manchild of American penance. Don't ask me to whip myself though, I'll likely spit in your face or steal the silver from your kitchen. A man must prove his primate heritage or he might lose his way through the divine cosmos.

Do you encounter much those who want to correct you, that want to show you how to become them? I've had it with all that. I know how to live believe it or not. I've done it by hook or by crook for 30 years and I'm not giving up my ghost just yet. I've been struck down, spat upon, shat upon and slapped. I've been villainised, despised, adored, and deplored. One must remember those fine lines between madness and genius, love and hate, and sea and sky. Recently I had to make myself promise that I wouldn't stare at the sun. Then I was left for days with only night. It feels very much like god is trying desperately to tell me to do what my heart says. My heart doesn't lie. My head lies like a flying carpet. Al bisat al tayer.

The voices of angels and demons speak through the sick mens' tongues. Listen up and you may hear a thing or two. Old man Mario knew, and those before him. I'm no psychiatrist but I can tell you that those who go mad actually see a few things that aren't imagination or delusion. Sometimes the concrete and glass, the rubber and gas will drive a monkeyman mad. Then they want to shut his barbed and venemous speech down, cut him out of the picture, and at best medicate the magic out of him. What's left? Not much more than a monkey.

Priests and boxers know that a man can grow very strange and powerful if he doesn't relieve his sexual appetite. I've done my bids. There's something in women that make a man calm. Then they drive him insane. I'd swear if I've learned anything it's that the women I've known are the ones who would pluck the wings off a dragonfly and nurse him back to health. You've got to be careful when you engage in that ancient ritual, the battle and the sanctuary. Keep your head up, hold your tongue and your pen and don't touch yourself too much and you may find you know what I'm talking about. Manamanah.

I love you, old boy. Never underestimate life. Just when you think you've learned a thing or two you might find you've only got what you need. The rest is nearly masturbation.

Teeth

The dream was that his teeth were connected to a circuit board, which slid up into his palate and connected to contacts in his sinuses and were then relayed through the magic circuitry into his psyche. He tugged the loose tooth, loosening the one on either side with it, they were connected. He then courageously slid the board down, looked at it in the mirror, and then calmly slid it back up to where it should be.

He woke up and his teeth were where they should be. Tight and fast. Good. Where was he. Oh, the basement. There were legends of floods, but the floor was mighty dry. It was a fantastic morning, but he could only see out the little frame of a window at the ceiling. He flung the sheet aside and touched the floor with his feet. It was cold, that floor.

Clothes, he would need. There were some! Over there! Jumping up and down, he proved the "one leg at a time" proverb all wrong. "Alright then" he mumbled. Outside of the door, there were steps. He climbed them into the realm of the albino olympist and the biology student. They were nowhere to be seen. It was safe. The sink looked dangerous and he avoided it, but he needed water and a mirror. The floor was covered in a film he would do well to also avoid, but there was no convenient method presenting itself. Jack just touched as little as he could of the floor. The bathroom mirror showed him his regular teeth. There was not his toothbrush, but there were paper towels on top of the toilet that he could use. And so he did.

Outside was a minefield of dogshit. He navigated it as fast as he could, taunting error. The tennis court was a clean smooth sheet. The next challenge was the cliffs of bamboo. There were ravenous animals that could leap out at you if you slowed. No dog dared to shit on the cliffs of bamboo.

*Pop* and cool, usual strides on the street. They could be watching, after all. There were fences in the yards, but he knew that the train tracks left a path for those who needed to cross them. The young would not be defeated by little fences. It made him think of the Berlin wall, snowleg, and ultimately the Stasi. "Shh!" he calmed himself. The sports fields were empty. They were mostly devoid of animal poop, and he was young enough to be a student. All clear.

Soon enough, he were on Main St. to the right, Main St. ended over and down and past things he didn't need to see right now. To the left was a high wall on the bank and then further a cafe where folks with money ate. He walked calmly past the cafe.

"Hey! Where are you going, itsy!?" "Uhm, nowhere?" "Sit down!" "Ok."

He found himself in his orange soccer shirt at a table. No money. "What will you have?" "Water. With ice?"

Mario bought him a coffee and asked if there was anything else he wanted. "No, I think I'm Ok." Jim Tunis spun around in his seat. Jack looked up at the sky. Everything swam. The dialogue was random and antagonistic. It became easier and laughing. Everyone seemed drunk on spring air. They cited their associations and until they were dead and pinned down and on display, like butterflies in a museum, they were too wild to catch. It was like the dead took a holiday and let the living breathe.

Jack said, "I had a dream about my teeth last night. I wonder what it means."

Mario smiled and said, "Ut oh. What happened?"

"Well, some were loose. Does that mean anything?"

"Well, sometimes teeth represent control over things."

"What things?"

"Well, your life."

"Yeah, well I slid the teeth down and then I saw that they were connected to a circuit board and then I slid them back up. What does that mean?"

"Ask yourself."

Itsy touched his crazy teeth. They were there. What could he use them for? Cutting fishing line, biting ice, flicking with his tongue, smiling. Well, they were still there. He decided he was ok then.

"Ok then."

You're not crazy. You're not.

1 Mar 2009 07:08

I'm getting a veeerrrryyy Zpolarly resonance. I can's carry thish mosherfasher FAST-> GOD BBAANNGG!!!€€€

267-VVVVVV********&&&&&&&### (cough) ###VVVVVV! (and V is six, dig?)

The mutants

"Bread and circuses", I was told is the meaning of Panis et Circenses or however it's spelled. I can't tell you who told me, and I can't tell you what it means. I -can- tell you that the song is like a carnival meal, lamb and oil and water and salt. That is all that I could tell you. Watch out for broken glass, fire, lightning, etc.

The South Sea Bubble. How can I address that...

"What?"

"Hmm."

God Bang!

07:20 <> whoa!
07:20 <> DEPARTURE!
07:20 <> not today. too wunderground.
07:21 <@*i*t*a*e> O.o
07:21 <> god bangy.
07:21 <> small step for a man. small step.