Now that's what I call a swoon. I use a swoon to measure dimensional chasms, let's pretend they're synapses. It's a study in swoon, and one day I'll make Uncle Sucker pay for it, haha! Actually, it's not that funny. It's sad, it's meant to be sad, that's the meaning I want to impart. It's so sad when Uncle Sam is so senile, and so generous, and he becomes a character we care about, like Abraham before the writers of The Simpsons abandoned character-driven satire for shallow topical humour.
They'll be lining my pockets one day, the oracle told me, and refused to tell me any more, or the mescaline turned pedestrian and I blew chunks on the floor. But by then, when I subsist on arts patrons, I hope to be drooling poetry like Keats on auto-pilot. Or dragging pajama sleeves along the Berkley streets, as rumour has it I used to teach calculus in lecture halls. There's gotta be a lesson in that. Six hundred times around the wheel and you start to feel it. Ten to the power of six and you begin to see it. Your pinky fits your nostril exactly, pixels, perfection, telescopy. You lick your nipple, you suck your own dick, strawberry fields forever. Don't shut off the valve. Let it ride. Everyone knows you can’t leave the mole alone, no one expects you to try.