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Tuesday, June 4, 2019
Ethertown: A Prose Collage (excerpt)
Antique music coffee poured and swallowed enough bad free verse she says grabbed her coat and put down her $12 to leave the listless fisticuff Ruff Cuts dispersed Insidious to invest in and retrieve The Ghost hollowed-out and Ghastly grinning hangs out front for her with head-spinning what else but one of three beginnings how weird will it get.
Ariel Baxter walked into Wilson's bruised old bookstore just another 20 years old graphic design student in need of cash. There was a dust-covered old Bell rusted sitting neatly on the corner of a giant table that appears to act as a register. she rang the bell.
Steve Wilson stammered out of the back room, an arm load of books in his hands and wildly unruly hair on his head with thick black glasses perched on his face.
"may I help you" he asked Ariel.
"Yes I'm here about the job posting in the daily Raven."
Steve's face sunk in like an old couch.
"...the job posting?"
"Yes I clipped it out I have it right here"- Ariel took a clipped piece of newspaper out of her bag and handed it to Steve.
"This is the place right?"she asked.
Steve, visibly Flustered, said "why yes it is but this well this has got to be a gag I bet Bobby that's my friend who works here too I bet he put that in there as a joke I'd be happy to help you find something but I'm afraid there is no job openings."
"There sure as hell is a job opening!" a uncouth old man with beer gut and santa white beard walked out of the Shadow hall that connected the bookstore to the bar. It's Steve's father the owner.
"I put up that and you're brain-dead Buddy ain't worth a s*** so I advertised for a college graduate."
Thereby and truly turning.
With indignation he begins his rounds to a Sceptre season that knows no bounds the grass cut fiercely across his face the class cancelled in the day ready to waste all options open speaks his path not needing history or English or math.
Pipes and drums signal has a scent light in hums on a pale cigarette the Subways always crowded this time of day he thinks as he releases the stub into the ashtray out in the world it's morning and cold about the town crawling with the young and the old.
Describes some silver and drops it on down above him he hides from the face of a clown. he speaks to a friend not seen for some time two weeks of booze and never has a dime she hits up the arcade a retro game is played Gauntlet 4 hours the last of youths Powers drained away.
"And what's your name girl?"
"Arlee" she said.
"Well welcome aboard early I'll let you know right now you can get paid minimum wage but half off drinks and books and if you steal your ass is out of here got it?"
"Yes I believe so." she said
"Oh one more thing you ain't no communist are you Steve here is always reading Nietzsche and all that Nazi bullshit."
"I'm not A Nazi dad."
Steve spoke up, somewhat embarrassed in front of this pretty young girl.
"I read Nietzsche, as well as many other philosophers."
"Yeah but no Bible I noticed!" his father replied.
"I don't care much for fiction." Steve said.
Shoot the experimental filmmaker.
Thrilling Triads of tectonic Triton's tell me I am getting too old to remain in some kind of spectacle landscape that welcomes Wanderers into it's rotten Maw even in this town, lich-like strange things to Ash and skin rash completes complex bibliographies with only moments to spare and leaves a woman's worries to die in the dry air. Stop.
Sore or something.
The way it was. Freedom, achieved through open Graves and open sores stepping out dead grass killed by the fumes of corpses.
life taken by War, by men, the great score crashing Crescent crescendos over the hills. signal of your time. Not foreboding , monolithic. Instead serene, a song of Peace and the final understanding
The toys of our childhood. Lying rusted from too much rain. to clear two feet before your breath runs away
So truth is gathered, truth is saved.
polyrhythms and syncopated drums they go up to desire to releases a fire that has burned inside the turbulent sorry could called drapes of your eyes sing. Is the game plan reversed and some etiquette of systemic selection?
Draw near the sacred boar,slay that awesome Beast.
Another Trident stuck deep in, the mother for torn between, the Feast of Gods Among the Stars, the rot flesh of the Beast.
Music soothes you. moves you. creates a new born to a thousand trumpets 500 guitars sticks falling in bushes rustling it was like a recording for a small independent label like soul. Fables told by the one-eyed snail the teller of tales good stories but lots of slime besides.
Coughing up wisdom there are beings in the trees lunatic feelers who write perverse fantasies their fantasies are black tar to a white smoke of snail Tails their fantasies are real they suck away all the hope and happiness.
Torment, the underlying camera of our subconscious photographing our most private and dug deep ideas memories dreams with one flash of light it is all now art to be stolen from you no personal worth and put on display at an art gallery in New York.
I have smashed my internal mental camera. Now I am what they call insane. I will paint my Visions myself! damn the demon art that is photography! Mental pictures. I will burn them down then sell my paintings for a large sum of money. Rich, I will have no more reason to write, act, or paint. No longer will I be a starving artist I will have the green paper which allows me to Feast with the Stars upon the Beast forever
I want to tour the light seems like the drought is over can I stay sober? dying laughing helicopters that speak with Spitz and flutters tomorrow tomorrow we'll eat some beats and goateed Saints explosions crash the shutters.
trapped!
Unholy!
Not speaking up!
But writing!
And thinking!
Meditating!
Finding reason to dream
Pause. Retreat. The silence, so neat.
my cloak that wisp in lying
sat with the creature a creature undying
so many trees that have been calmly deciding
the loss of your innocence and hell's ugly Garden
believe these prophecies see the stinging covered in cream.
you lie awake the sad gypsies of your eyes and think do not let these truths go by and in. Let it all begin. Read words but select with caution. See images the ingraining of your memory.
why the collapse the dorky relapse the finger that snaps. saplings sappy there creation to Sun doves or harmonic toads we must always travel those roads.
those roads.
The rest of the men had already wandered, scattered over to the stream which is bleeding the dead Soldier's Blood-
Before Joe could finish the line his father had interrupted him again.
"Oh nothing in particular just wondering what you were writing"
"I will tell you what I told you exactly 5 minutes ago what I told you exactly 10 minutes ago and 11 ,13 what I will tell you 5 minutes from now I'm trying to write my novel."
The father's expression which seemed very jubilant now dropped to a more bitter phase
"Your novel? a novel about what?"
"Well there isn't exactly a plot per se Joe was growing excited. although he resented his father he was happy to actually discuss his work with someone. "you see it's really just like a flow of words like free jazz beat poetry but with definite roots and Kafka and Beckett."
"I don't know what any of that means. is there a hero?"
"Well he's what you would call an anti-hero. he's thin pale blank face and dark brooding not the nicest guy. Sick all the time. On drugs."
"Sounds great." The father by this time showing obvious signs of boredom and exasperation
sitting under a tree by the concrete stream my books bought are my seat the trees the birds they are so inspiring
I can see sunlight glimmering on the water. Pretty girls just keep walking by. I smoked hydro with Dave. Got very stoned. A transcendental hi.
May I walk amongst the screams of holy men who have lost their eyes? Can I read them my words and calm they're hanging spirit?
I bought a hamburger. Life never leads such promises. There are good times.
Imagination dead imagine.
My father never told me to see the Poetry in anything I'll stand on legs made of sand to crumble lift me high above the sky levitate me
The slow speed creeps nowhere to sleep dirt in the locks never working
Jammed up mud clocks no use for time
Succulent pornography eats High art low art forgets and forges its name
So long to ritual dance at least, for they never stop moving without a net
Screen over the Stalls all horses shot dead hungry workers no food. No reason to go on.
Direct automatic reaction. "so long", he said. Turning away from that reflection, his reflection. The walk home would give ample time to think. look back on this day, forward to his future.
The noisy static traffic that clogs all sensory was particularly loud at that moment. No matter how he tried to could not think. His mind was not clear. Cluttered with the static ironic distractions. He knew of ways to clear his mind though. When he arrived at home later than usual all inside his mind was chaotic and dissonant the Squad behind his eyes but he knew of ways to clear them.
He sat at his Stereo and pulled out a record. Stravinsky's Rite of Spring in the player. Turned up loud. He closed his eyes and meditated while the magnificence of the world Of this music did its work
The trap door is never open, and needs to be unhinged in order to gain access Within. the Goblins all know this. The spasm flies don't know this. man did not know this. He obtained his knowledge From a brochure. Man was obsessed with French existentialist literature of the thirties. Man is strange. Earth is a closet case. He develops his art by planting it in a small vast Grove they call the mind, sometimes the fruit born is rotten. Sometimes it's squirt sweet juices. Sometimes my hand can touch the floor, my hand can feel it's cold. Bleed from your pores to re-establish Unison with the spirits. To add one lucky sentences on your neck.l an alphabet Medallion, a longer try at human thought. A Extraterrestrial laughter at our stupid plights
so long to silence we bring out our violence or our worthwhile cannibal scene that we started ourselves in this dream obscene a paragraph rancid buds burst on my journey to be one written home to Mama neon meate dream of an octofish dark. Cold. A small band of light, but not sunlight
A painter's canvas. The Horizon.
If I could only wallow in these footsteps forever and reject my foolish to spare if only I could be satisfied I got my GED College awaits the materialization of Dreams truly Alchemy
College, disparage, reflective, forward seeking, creaking doors open not shut, the Hornet Whispers swollen stings for silly things.
And we bring him anything that he asked. Right down to the scar the tears our backs. Mount Colonel matrimony I'd like to see them try I'd rip away with stone Wings I'd lift up towards the sky to break free to establish me I see that it's all childlike games now no one is sincere they do not care they polish The Mask they wear.
Sudden, selling, scowled and brought into this world kicking but not screaming, healthy but on my knees, the breeze shoots itself out of style and into reverse worse.
Psychology unwashed philosophy. the Carefree diminutive light show of our heads, drinking warm buzz from under our deathbeds .
It bled. All words flowed red. The grief moved in without location, dismember a situation.
I was also stuck out and rhyme and conscious change, that rattles, rattles, practically Falls, for all incest purposes sinks the ship that calls from Yonder asunder, we plunder.
mono mix down. Cascade, creative, inflated, flabbergasted, gasket gasket blown by Wind chords who restore the cleaved heads of mono mix down, she who is best to speak of in hushed Whispers. They all want to feeding, hungry guppy mouth open and waiting.
We can do no better than to write another letter wearing three days dirty sweaters because of the plague climate weather.
1000 hands clapping. please a moment of your time young sir
What time is so precious in my mind is a stir I cannot be stopped on a subway of dreams and I cannot be subdued by your parody of themes I cannot be Concord or bequeathed or standstill I must get to Lemon to tell him I was the Fool on the Hill. and that I need some advice on how best to end this brief poem
Keep your eyes locked in combat with the wombat sneak a secret from the fridge to Arkansas Bridge boil the feelings till steam Rises distribute the prizes search for snow in deep is summer in darkest summer.
The days stretch on and ennui hold me in its grip steadily and stealthily. return to Old Friends love, sex, books, films, and drugs. A sample new ones College. I designate a small compartment of my mind to hold a secret Vision I look to find. How do I reach beyond the ordinary and sustain a sense of heightened Wonder without really into the anxiety-ridden how that is perched upon my shoulder for all of my twenties?
The disguises we wear our talismans for a unjustly forgotten age. The system of waking and sleeping, the very awareness of being caught in a cyclone of drudgery makes me real into insanity and insane denunciations.
Jim walks into his dust colored gray apartment in grabs a cold beer from the fridge
Make up your mind.
In a Solar City sorted soaked ransacked by rain, with sober approach I rack my brain, to the Insidious presence of lawyers and peasants, I discovered several layers of dust on the space Rock players.
Fairy designs were manufactured to fail I lit on fire the author for chasing his tale oh, and not checking facts for his book on the whale. Reduce to a burnout Only The Dead headed hell is progress slow the pace of a snail.
Mary moonmen spotted me on the ground with old coffee shouting their heads off an ancient lunar song they taught me the words and I still got it wrong.
At least I still have my will, steeled and strong.
Spirit to a child.
A a spirit yes that's floating mixed way on down. Short twists of tendril Green Smoke drift out into the air, hang for a moment, and pass away. The spirits form is of a cloth ugly green and tattered. Snakes on fire burns who empty holes for eyes. Call the spirits touch, hands I see over the shoulders of a sleeping child. Into his ear it speaks:
“ low child, soft child, whose head is wrapped in dreams and Laurel, who's I shall see what no man sees. Your exception. When you they're lazy as yet on grown flower of potential sleep, dream child, but the strumming drumming sounds pour over your head. Spill out onto your ears. Let your eardrums Buzz with cacophonous whale! But sound set sale, little one, make your music.
From the Slender hands of the spirit a black string acoustic guitar is sat beside the sleeping child.
heavy metal rock and roll psychedelic Celestial Souls, soaring through uncertain Futures with the hot glow of the termination, hell in our eyes, nothing to stand in our way.
Contemplation. We're Hearts breathe heavily will speak with brevity of our interests and illumination logo scores can conceal words that soaked in contemplation. What's this music feel?
I can feel your presence, Jack Kerouac, kindred spirit of the Massachusetts tonight I can feel it here in the small motel room in Waterford Michigan I can feel it as I read your words as they write mine I may be wrong for I am young adventurous and reliable but I feel you telling me to keep writing. I keep writing in to find my own way. Home. I think writing is like a long walk Jack, A Long Walk Home. We keep walking along these fascinating roads trying to find it all out. And it's so sad funny that that death is the only real home?
We sit in the grimy Cambridge Pizza Shop me, a poet, and a friend. Discussing Rites of Passage guitar riffs we follow Concepts to their end.
You see old gray standing just outside Grand Musical Hotel. Fishes electric swim through silver flutes forming in a sky of strings, skins, Holes, metal, wood, and words
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