elevation

Friction and fiction are screwing my diction. The account of the screwball is still legible under urine stains on cardboard near Disneyland. Satiation is empty. I'm empty, satiated, and sentient. Uncomfortably numb, normalizing, going back to my place in the caste, in a niche of this compartment of the universe. Don't want to hear about the smell of anyone's sex.

The Tower is an icon of garish youth fantasy, a retrogratuity after graduation. I went up the elevator of perception that day, and saw the gas-releasing walls. They're covered with a special foam, a substance through which the exchange of vapours can be mediated via H-Net, the Tower mainframe. Toxic vapours, intoxicating vapours, soberizers, lethal agents for the quick dispatching of intruders. Megadeth plays through the house system, when I want it to. I did.

Chi drips off the trunk, spent spunk, a modest splurge for a modern monastic demi-urge pre-demorol. Colon still functions fine. The ailments of age have yet to accumulate but I've already won a trophy for atrophy. Precocious in decay, but staying off drugs, this week. Maybe over the hump, still a few days to go. Who or what should I reference next? Kant? Wilford Brimley? He's not in my vocabulary.

Does this scramble what I feel? I wanted to write what I feel. I want to lapse into directionless rambles, barely brushing any theme. It does express my head, in a sense. I want to be cryptic and transparent simultaneously. I'm resigned to the purposeless ness of this. I'm listening to a libravox recording of the critique of pure reason. I left that out of quotes so it fits in with the group. Consider it untitled. We've got to pick a pocket or two. Shut up and drink your gin. I tried to find a word scrambler, to cut up an unfinished novel, then poeticize the result. I could only find a character scrambler, but it wasn't called that.

I sort of like this feeling, of verbose blankness, even as it is, boring, hopeless, depressing - it's almost a wave of stupidity, but it's not that profound. I love those crests of stupid waves, though they're nauseating and terrifying. It's transcendence, about the only kind I get these days. I don't seek transcendence anymore. I don't know how to get it, except to receive it, via nocturnal communion. It's short lived. It's a dim delirium. It's sweat-soaked.

Explanations, but a few code words for myself. I'm not going for any discipline - not achieving austerity - not gonna play the glass bead game tonight. I think it's rigged, and it embarrasses me, to have my personal tastes put on a pedestal via some pompous central european. I think Robert Anton Wilson beats the hell out of Hesse anyway - but, full disclosure, he made an impression, a crater that still crinkles my cortex in solidified neural mesh, at a time when the old masters were supposed to be molding me, rather than the merry pranksters. Can I canonize RAW now that he's dead, or at least mention him in the same sentence as nobel-prize winning literati? RAW's dead. I'd forgotten.

There were merry times. I was off the bus, but I was turned on, and emitting a flash of photons in a cycle of sixty pulses per year. I discovered that was the only frequency I had in me. A first person frequency. No great novel in me, no ability to create characters, but a carnival of metaphors, a carousel of inconsequent sentences with a few neologic pearls. And dreams. Those are the jewels.

I will dream tonight, despite whatever else, I'll dream to spite. I can always count on that. Last night I dreamed I lost time, came to consciousness on Looque's heroin, with dim memories of mayhem in and around my elementary school. Yes, I'm not on the wagon in my dreams, except on those occasions where I stumble into a trench of remorse - holed up, wholucid.

There's no game here, no action. Ante, or small blind? Darmok and Jalad at Tanagra. A musical box with space flutes to the right. TAKE BREAD. Degenerate princes. Globular cluster, NC33, 780-447-XXXX. Toll for the Nasal Route, taxed, clogged, polluted. It's good when the government gets money. It's out of my hands. A muttered filibuster. Feeling, fate, futility. Sterility. Stillborn still life.