Yeah, it's the apologia. File it under drone filtertips.
The tax-writeoff for dental work. It all combines to a beholdable jenga tower. Which is the drone drone dronal monotonal key we're jigging around in, the first recasting of the word in a 434 part series.
"Nothing is sacred when no one is saved"
I beg to differ, Nevermore.
But that's me. I recall your song the last time i was dilated, on the bed, a two-headed flowering split next to me. Those were the days.
A blondehead flowing statue of the rosemont benedictionary. Those were the days. Plumbing suger-glazed surfaces, slick with cotton-candy fog, solidified, tasting good to my sweet tooth, surely i still have sweetness receptors on my tongue, surely that taste is still possible.
And still, Gyro is a piece of park I feel as enlightenment - as I read to a gaggle of delightful drunks at the Royal one night. As we pride ourselves on telling it like it is, up here, in this blip on the radar - oh yes, blip me out of existence, or close enough to feel like a whimper wisping over the edge of the abyss.
And still, I hate how life stabs its hooks of censorship into me. We can't be watching Lawrence Welk all the time, things have got to go outside the margins. Even if a few TVs must smash through the upper floor suites of Mrs. Gualtieri's Retirement condominium.
"Stuff music", Lenny Bruce and his nuances, still kissing God's hand, protruding piece of his chemically reduced junk, molecules pixelating to atomic nuclei with their electron veil, to those stringy thingies in their essence, to scrap iron, emptied onto an east coast american yard, some mafiosi's asset, under the table, under the radar, that lower case filler that could feed a family of nine in Tanzania.
Yeah, it's the dronelife sutra. Darwin's hidden variable, the fish he never factored into his Victorian Lake.
"How cute", she says. Yeah, she's been hanging around Big Rock Candy Mountain, and I don't know how long I can dance on these rock faces - a metaphor worthy of Dali's back catalogue - yeah, sorry, I should have devoted myself to music, this literary detour is, well, living up to its sour seeds, and misdeeds, grabbing for cryptic descriptions of stimuli left 'n right - but then, improv is like that, we need a realtime literary equivalent of open stage - chat is that, but so vacant so often.
So many possibilities - still...
Why do I write these nauseating pastiches of stream of consciousness? I guess because when I'm in the right mindstate, the aggregate seems writable, worthy, meaningful in some Rorschach way. Like some stand up comic who's trolling for some less comedic but similarly hoodwinked crick in the collective conscious veteran of the psychic wars. Blue Oyster Cult opened for the space stand-off set, the star-speckled bag of celestial cronies.
"Finished with my woman cause she wouldn't help me with my mind" - Ozzy, "Paranoid"
"What I want most in the whole wide world, is a girl, just a girl, one who'll keep me from losing my mind - and she'll be the best girl, in the whole wide world" - Nomeansno, "Revenge"
Funny how often that theme crops up in rock 'n roll - sorry boys, there ain't no state of grace even with full assimilation of the feminine arts, and believe me, I've suffered for my art, not of my own volition by any means, I should have been a ski bum, by all rights, I should be travailing under the chairlift every day, heat-seaking altitude by the negative reading on my frigidometer, but i ain't hangin brightly, I dunno what she's done to you, whataya think that means? Break on through.
Got called some names tonight. Too many. I know it was meant to push my buttons. I think I responded in a way that merged the best of machine mythos with that psychedelic mind-manifesting manna. Yeah, I've still got these cheezy reverences for certain clockfaces within the mind.
Anyway, I slipped a little too far off the dao tonight, this black rite of psyche-shredding thickets, tickets to palaces of neuroses - i'm close enough to equilibrium to munch my ice-cream sandwich with poise and premium posture (just kidding).
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