Scattered Sun Prayer

We are all white light sparks thrown from the sun, or drifting little glowing worming watermelons or spoons or bottles of clear liquid or dildos or any manifest or unmanifest thing on this plane or any other. Cut, we go rocking, drifting however (as previously said), singing praise to our own sunny selves, always a star that’s a sun that’s a particular path squirmily or elsewise to the brainy mushy pulp matter. What is that you mean when you take, say, an ambulance, toss it into the glass chamber of your mind and perform your crude tests on it? Well it’s really not for me to decide you star, you angel, you phantasmal illusion of my desire and volo aquila and I too only an illusion of yours my deary fear (only not fear– fear of what?). Now don’t cry about green ink spilt across the face of the earth cause as wise ol Tom said all the world is green and pretend that you owe me nothing cause they’se serving fish in the jailhouse tonight. (Daddy O, that cat was smokin so lay some bread on me cuz you bet they was gonna screw the pooch.) Sew what? That’s what we do with our mouths closed and writing in blood across walls of nebuloid brick states and all that jazzy stuff. I think of stars of Irish Catholic sultry Virgo chicks dancing to seduce every man in the room (let her be loud and adulterous and shameless before all men), and stars of old men who drink Pabst Blue Ribbon and paint fine art in acrylics and oils and stars of nineteen-year-old chill ass kids from Cancun who hold their shit together even after a quart of Jameson to quietly walk themselves head high to vomit in the kitchen and stars who may notice, please, that I ain’t really talking about plurals but each beautifully unique flame cast from our very own Helios our natural god glory glory glory. Now take this circle squared and forget not your every move or the Aquarian current (as if you could) where we wander close to congregate, to gather for reals– no false start– and cast our light about each other. Remember this star drawn for love, for Tehuti’s hand that guides the pen, for broken beakers of chemical bonding and Quantum Impossible Probability Factor, for success, for death, for Isis, Apophis and Osiris chanting glory glory glory, I adore thee to every brightly fucking magnificent perfect center of a starry universe. Aum ha! Amen.

How I Waste my Life

Oh great, another movie about carrots– at least that’s what I think as I sneak in through the back trying to disguise myself as a watermelon. Then the girl with a streak of red something or other across her face approaches me and clears her throat loudly. Nothing ever works out in this absurd little place. So I just turn around and let her take my arms, glad just to be touched by a woman, even if she is throwing me out on my ass... hard luck, no change in my pocket, just another cold night scrounging for excitement and trying to barter for whiskey. I try to catch a cold, but it keeps getting away, scampering to hide under Uncle Surf’s skirt– Uncle Surf, who keeps talking about this absurd cleavage and this girl he’s always bothering at the comic book shop who just replies, “there’s a fee for hitting on the girl”– trembling with fearful intent and whispers of golden time happy noise. Those were truly good days, only three walls per building, but still we managed to bring together a rusted trumpet, a shitty old bass drum, an umbrella for Allah only knows why, but what else can you expect from somebody like Gerald who wastes his days scraping anything adhesive off the sidewalks and cataloguing them in sealed plastic. That was it, just honking out sprawling tunes of imperfection, each note more uncertain than the last until the setting sun threw its end-of-the-day socks at us, trampled the last of our daytime music garden under its big orange toes and we sauntered out from the three walls like stupid children trying to spell the word psychoses, turning back and waving frantically lest it miss us when we’re gone... How could I spend my days after that? So I hit the road with John, just a simple farmer, good time guy from Arizona, straight as broom handle on the surface, but we smoked pot from here to Scarsville and me dressed up like Buxley Clown still from the previous night’s gathering where I had somehow promised a performance of the goofy sort but ended up hypnotized by gallons and gallons of icecream, rainbow afro wig glued to my head by some mad hair gel shit and face paint smeared. How we laughed though, not even sure what we were laughing about, John and I. I think we started on the horse with the hiccups and got round to something like 25% off coupons and how to demand that a sword be a dagger or a dagger be a sword (we never figured that one out for sure). Anyway, tonight I just stumble upon a bag of oranges, eat a couple myself, and throw the rest at this raggedy old dog, think his name’s Chuck or Buck, who just looks at my confused like, then wags his tail and licks at the them. I probably would have made friend there, only I wind up wasting the next 20 hours of my life handing one after another of this little glossy flier announcing a party to which nobody is invited to the same guy who keeps standing there grinning at me with ahead full of cracked and crooked teeth until at last I just yell “shut up already!” and throw the remaining handful across the street....
End