The runaway American dream

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I'm not crazy - was just having a moment of extracurricular creativity.

Sometimes you have to let the brain dump out everything including the cobwebs so new stuff can make itself in.

I'm fine

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The runaway American dream
… I’m too sane to go insane, too happy to be sad. And yet it comes at me all at once, I need to stay responsible, alert, and mature. I want to scream naked in the streets, pepper-sprayed and hauled off to the white quilted walls of an institution, I need the rest. … State of the art, the frocking art.
A ukulele is a real musical instrument by the way. And avoid the abstract keyword buzzword nonsense … spell it out. Communicated like you have a pair. But you’ll hurt me … but I’m use to it you see. This heart has a calloused skin … but it’s cracked. It will break. So will the chemical binder, one hundred dollars a month.
I really could not ask for more … back to back we faced each other. The LSD tango of life, reality … delusion.
Yes, malicious delusions that spread across us all as that sticky rancid veneer. You can’t scrap it off with philosophic abrasives, or contemplative solutions.
It’s organic, deal with it. Or take the home game and get out.

When is this stuff supposed to kick in?

I resist … and washed ashore here. Glitter-eyed and blind. Encrusted entrusted and petrified. Love packed in an English cracker … pull and you break it, don’t break and you can’t have it. Free.

Debate debate debate … discussion, rant.

It’s just talk. Kind or otherwise. It’s harmless until you brand it. It’s small talk until you market it, fold it up in a greeting card and mail it. Then it’s a ransom note, a bomb threat … and rattlesnake in a manila envelope.

The long story of the past will be shot … drawn, quartered and worked into compost. There the beds of new wild flowers will thrive. New generations of tyrants and paupers, heroes and slaves, victims and victors will grow from this manure.

Who does this heart belong to? In the spaces … it belongs to the spaces. Between words, between the minutes on the clock, between the breaks of dawn and dusk – it belongs to the spaces we can not see, go – and often where we can’t even talk about.
The gaps are where the heart belongs.

You must be secret. You must be sub-confident in your actions and envies . . . or they will draft you. Pull you into the fold, the ranks of drones and workers, soldiers and no-minders. Fight it. Fight it or take away the resource and push yourself from range.

Fingertips pounding … and pounding and pounding and pounding over black and white and white then black, pounding. Ah, the hiss .. the hissing relief, snakes before the bite. That sleepy bite. The tingling champagne bite under the skin. You know what comes next.

Why on earth is she screaming like that?

She’s not dealing with the shadows well. Not well at all.

It’s mean … steals away a young man’s dream. I wrote that once. When I was slow and thirty. It’s beyond me know. The older I get the more I know the less control I have. Over Anything. The genesis ooze that makes for evolution from less to more, how rotten and selfish an act of age. There’s only so much more we can take.

Again insanely happy. Giddy most and often lost in that heaven fog … swirled like a coffee cake frosting, less sweet but still ornamental. At this point it is all meaningful motions. Every snap, every pang, and ponder … lost, found, lost. It all is in a hissing spacious opiate delusion. Bliss is what drug we cannot find a street value for … it’s the unproven God.

It’s all about the clock horror. We won’t be able to wind it someday … too arthritic and scaly our fingers will be, too blind, too lost … lost … lost.
Then the tunnel will close to light.

Ah … I feel it know. Finally.