There Goes Your Karma

There goes his karma, crushed like a bug. The bug is more than figurative. It was real. It was living once. A centipede. A nelson centipede unfortunately found her way onto the porch of a Nelson rental home on Silica Street. I don't even know who she was, that killer of the centipede, but she figured it was something to kill, a matter of course. It mattered little to me. The supposed crazy guy who felt that working at the co-op was like being kicked in the balls every day... he got a good line out of it. There went her karma.

There goes my karma. Like the energetic company of a scene that dissolved. They were right to leave, those folks. But they took my manna with them. Well, it was irreplaceable naïf manna anyway. What could I do with that now? I can't chill out in simulated schizophrenia now, can I? Well what can I do then? I can write about what I can and can't do, I guess, with a can't do attitude, second-guessing myself. I can rent a residence, perchance, start some crazy experiment, like a schizophrenic sysiphus with recently built pecks, still with a ticklish splinter in my business finger that is also the everything finger, that feels sore and is possibly corrosive metal that will corrupt my body.

My fingers are getting cut up. Is it because I work fast and efficiently, or is it just cause I'm clumsy? It hurts to play piano now, but I put that into the improv, the pain, sometimes when I play piano the alchemy can turn something into its opposite, but then later I impose awfully artistic regimes on the thing, in retrograde, try to illegally transport merit across state lines, state boundaries are there for a fucking reason.

There went my karma. But the vallies are lasting. They're almost a year old. They're weak, but they've probably saved my mind some wear and tear. Now that I'm back at work, maybe I can get a soma script again. I've even been popping drams as a matter of course. Delirium's fine with me. Because my headphones keep failing, might as well mis-hear lyrics with hallucinogenic intent. I ordered koss online, got enough karma left for that, maybe it's a karma enriching activity.

I had one of those dreams that was so funny, I woke up laughing. Ponies, gliding in artful auras, trailers of trajectory, with a stately, and pretty, and ridiculous ornate luxury drift, were the arbiters of taste and dignity and distinction - unicorns of the tailored apocalypse - they were tailoring it for our most mannered and manicured instincts, what drove us to build suburbia, so these ponies, not mine, but rather large, drifted in, trailing psychedelic comet flange iterations of themselves in rainbow splatter - and one by one, smacked into the sliding glass doors of yuppie townhouse entryways -- that's when I woke up, marveling, giggling, remarking allowed, how could I dream that? Then I went back to sleep, and continued the narrative. But there went my karma. With the grace of God. That old thing. Gee Oh Dee. Three bloody useless letters. There is no God, we killed him, cause the concept has been done to death. What a dull fucking word.

I'd leave with a rhombus mourne. It's all been said, but it hasn't all been rendered in rhombuses. Bejeweled Plink Poundings, that three work combo is the key to ___. Or maybe it was, but I wasn't around for that. I'm Johnny come lately, speedwalking my way to crusty revelations. Yeah.