Parrots with Neurotic Disorders… Weekend Train Schedules… Thick Packets of Fresh Cash…

The hot all-day sun, the hot all-night. Hot, the sink sweating, the clammy floor, all the lights off. All the neighbors asleep. The shirt sweating. All the wrong socks. Only beer, only cigarettes, autobiopic. In fast reverse and fast forward. A lump in my shoulder. Driving at the speed of a soft wind down the desert range; a distance that can only be crossed with force of mind. Wheels spin, nothing moves. The cacti clones chase us back the way we came. Every power line, if you recall the effort it takes some days to tie shoelaces, must be a testament to diligent and massive projects from an era so distant it must be feudal, or melancholic governments erecting monuments to their own prophesied demise. The Emptired.

The cars smelling each other, rubbing bumpers through Castaic, Tamarak, Copperopolis-across the San Gabriels, along the San Andreas, driven and pushed by the Santa Ana. A trail of sainthood. It takes only ten years or so to find the saint of these roads, and only a leap of imagination to become the saint. An ungendered thing thankfully beyond our language. Only a feeling like being scratched by a phonograph needle. Analog life, prostrate at the foot of the stairs, where all lives face the great daily test-to ignore the truths that split and are piled up behind the shed-stacks of lives high as the roof. And green lights from a different planet. You go ahead, I’ll care for the place while you’re all gone. Seen the sunrise, and not cause I’m an early riser. It comes all times-even the hundred clocks show that. Cut corners on jewelry.

 

That’s not all. Texas. California. The Empire seems as big today as the world a thousand years from now, from the thought of space flight. Where do we find (y)ourselves in such a future, empty pilgrims, admired only for the hardship of our mindless endeavors… And picturing us, locked in airy tombs, transported into ubiquity. That it is possible to be two places at once, being as “at once” is a term related to the generally accepted limits of travel. In a month, I travel by foot 200 miles. Were this the accepted upper limit, to be here today and 200 miles away tomorrow would constitute being two places at once. Whereas not with airplanes. But to be 200 miles away in 5 minutes; you might as well be coming back from the kitchen. I am a person. Still living and wreaking acts of mania in every place I’ve been. Does the universe need revision, or is there simply no jacket to which I sew this button. Only a button. My testament to the terminus of beauty in simplicity.

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One response to “Parrots with Neurotic Disorders… Weekend Train Schedules… Thick Packets of Fresh Cash…

  1. Here lies David. He was a person. He lived and wreaked acts of mania in every place he’d been. Don’t know why I thought of that line you wrote as an epigram, but it’s a good one.

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