I. Think. I

Eyes open.

"Do you want to know?"

Handbill.
There is a handbill. In a hand. It says:

"Do you want to know"

Who's hand is that?
Is that my hand?
Who's handbill is that?
Bill's? Hand. Bill.

Who is Bill?

"Do you want to know"
Do you want to know
THE TRUTH
Do you want to know
THE TRUTH
Do you -

Who are you? Who am I? Where is this?
What?

She was standing on the sidewalk. With a handbill. In her hand.

"One might wonder if the Minutemen first met in such a room."

Who said that? Bill? Bill. Hand.

Door. On the sidewalk was a door. And there was
"Do you want to know
THE TRUTH?"

And that was the handbill in her hand. And then there was the door.
She opened it. Who is she?
With her hand. Who am I?

"Hi, my name is Bill."

Bill. Handbill. Handrail. Stairs.
Did you fall down the stairs?
Why are you lying here on the ground?

You are lying on the ground, girl.

If you down the stairs you fell did you find yourself with a handbill in your hand?

"Do you want to know THE TRUTH?"

Did you fall for it?

She opened a door. Then what? She was walking down the stairs.
She was standing at the bottom. There was a man. His name was Bill.


"I see you have one of my handbills."

"Yes, I do," she said with a handbill in her hand that said,
"Do you want to know
THE TRUTH?"
Do. You. D.O.U.
Who is U? D.O.U.
D.O.U.G.H. Dough. Nut.

"Do you want a doughnut?"

You were standing in a room near a table full of doughnuts. Doughnuts full of handbills.

"One might wonder if the Minutemen first met in such a room,"
said the man by the door. "Hi my name is Bill. Do you want to
know the truth? I see you have one of my handbills." "Yes, I do,"
you said. He offered you a doughnut. "Do you want a doughnut?"

With a doughnut in his hand. A cream filled doughnut. A doughnut filled hand.
There is a handbill in your hand.

"And your name is?"

She answered his question. His name is Bill. Her name is? He knows her name now;
she told him.
What did she tell him? There is a handbill in her. Hand. Rail.
Hand. Bill. She is at the door. By the table. Full of doughnuts. Full of
handbills. In the room. In the room there was a table with a...

What is my name?
You answered his question. What did you say?

Oh. There's that table. Not the table full of doughnuts full of handbills. The other table full of machines. A slide projector and a reel-to-reel-to-reel audiotape machine. A table full of machines.

And the doughnut on the floor. And this ugly carpet. Stinks. Ugly old carpet on the floor.
And the handbill. And the hand. On the floor. And the tattoo. That's my tattoo.

"Hey, tattoo!"

My swastika tattoo. I did that myself. With a needle. And a pen.

"I like your tattoo, sister."

In the room. By the table. Full of machines. There was a chair full of a man he was a Brush Cut Man. Before the handbill on the street on the sidewalk she was standing on the sidewalk on the street and there was a Brush Cut Man. He said, "I like your tattoo, sister." He gave her a handbill. There was a handbill in her hand.
"Do you want to know
THE TRUTH?"

My head hurts. Must be hungover. Where's my head? Where was I last night?

You were standing on the sidewalk. There was a door. Stairs. Bill. Handbill.
Table full of doughnuts full of handbills full of machines.
There was a handbill in your hand that said "Do you want to know THE TRUTH?"
It was photocopied and folded. There was a graphic on the front.

There is half a handbill in your hand. Torn in two. It says "Do you want to"

There was a Brush Cut Man.

"Thanks for coming, sister. Take a seat. He'll start soon."

She was a tough girl sitting in a room next to a table full of machines.
Projector. Screen. Table. Sitting with a doughnut in her hand. There was a
handbill in her hand.
"Do you want to know
THE TRUTH?"

Are you where are you where are?

Where the fuck am I?

Sitting in a chair by a table he was a Brush Cut Man.
Standing on the street
with a handful of handbills
he was a Brush Cut Man.

He wants her to know THE TRUTH, the thick-soled black lace-up truth, the camouflage truth, the tight t-truth, the clean-shaven truth. Pectoral bicep truth. The handsome Aryan Brother truth. Serious concern. Serious. There is a handbill in his hand he is a Brush Cut Man. He said. "Thanks for coming, sister. Take a seat. He'll start soon. Only the two of us,
sister. We're two in a million."

There were two of us. And Bill. The Brush Cut Man and me. In those chairs next to the table full of machines.

He called me "sister".
Is he my brother? Do I have a brother?
Just the two of us. Two in a million. And Bill. Two and a Bill at the bottom of the stairs
in a basement full of tables
near a man full of doughnuts,
a Brush Cut Man, and you.

Come on, Gloria. Stay awake. Focus.
Where am I?
"Do you want to know" in my hand on the ground on this ugly carpet who am I?

On the street there was a girl talking to a Brush Cut Man. He said, "He knows a lot. He has seen, he has learned the secrets of the world. Just take a handbill, sister. It's free. What have you got to lose?"

And the man full of doughnuts spoke about THE TRUTH. It's a free speech. It's a free doughnut. And the Brush Cut Man sat. Next to her he sat. Deceptions? Elections? Projections! There were projections. Project the illusions that we accept as truth but in fact are lies,
"Do you want to know
THE TRUTH?
and the man full of doughnuts, doughnuts full of handbills full of doughnuts asked do you want to know THE TRUTH? Bill?
Bill?

Bill, no. Please, Bill, no.

"Do you want to" in my hand. On the floor. On the carpet. On the stinky carpet.

Between projector and projection. In a chair full of. You have swallowed half
his doughnut in the chairs between. Between projector and projected. Between
Bill and you something is going on between Bill and you. You are tearing at the
handbill in your handbill in your hand. Bill in your hand in hand in Bill in
your hand.

"The currents of our history"

The Brush Cut Man said,
"The currents of our history have been guided by a secret
and the secret is projected. On to you.
The Jews manipulate the machinery behind the curtain
they have done this thing forever
since 1862.
Emancipation.
Proclamation."

In the chairs between the walls of the room beneath the surface, you are sitting in the darkness with half a doughnut in your mouth and half a handbill in your hand and Bill's hand is in your...

"lights out"
Bill said,
"Lights out."

My head hurts.
Aspirin? I should get up and go buy some. To the store on the corner.

"I wouldn't go in there. It's owned by foreigners.

She was standing on the sidewalk.

She was weak for his moustache she was dreaming of his daughter
she would be his mute apostle
if he only asked
she would be his Mary Maggie Mother Mary May I
stay this way forever? Since 1862?

Is it 1862? Think, Gloria, think. I. I think. No. No. They did not have fluorescent light bulbs in 1862. I think.

"Lights out," said Bill.

"This is the slideshow I was telling you about, sister," said Brush Cut Man.

He called her "sister", her Brother-In-Aryans calling her ME "sister". He was
ogling me ME Brush Cut MY breasts Brush Cut MY tattoo putting his handbill in my
hand. "It's free. What have you got to lose?" I was standing on the sidewalk. I
was opening the door. I was eating his doughnut. He is my brother. I always
wanted a brother. I am an only child.

"Do you want to know"
With a half a handbill in my hand.
"Do you want to know"
Where? Where is the rest of it? Where is
"THE TRUTH?"
The handbill. The doughnut full of handbills? The truth is in the doughnut.
The table full of doughnuts the table full of machines.

From that table of machines in the room full of darkness came the slide show of
THE TRUTH.
I must have. Dozed off.

"This is my wife and I. We are waiting for the elevator that will take us to the." Said Bill.
"CLICK" said the slide projector.

Maybe the slide projected we are already lovers.

"This is the 27th. CLICK"

Maybe Bill is your secret father and the Brush Cut is your brother and you are a family hunker bunkered with a table full of doughnuts but not like helter skelter and in your hand is half a handbill asking "Do you want to" and you want to whisper softly "call me Eva, yes I want to, call me Eva, that will do".

"This is the ped. CLICK"

The slide projector is staring at you.

"This is an interior corridor in the. CLICK"

Don't make eye contact with the projector. It is ogling you from the posterior view. It is ogling your tattoos and your tits.

"This is a double door on the 27th floor of the. CLICK"

The Brush Cut Man imagines a life in the mountains after the fall of society.
Himself and you but you are Bill's woman now and nothing can change that not
even history. Bill and you. Whatever your name is. What is your name? Do you
have one? You have to have a name!

"Do you Bill, take Gloria to be your lawfully wedded wife?"

Yes. That is true. I have to have a name. Yes. There's no denying that. I must
have one. Now close your eyes and remember Bill Bill Bill Bill Bill and...?

"This is that same door opened and this is the. CLICK"

In the shadows of the. What's the word? You just said it. Procession?
Protection? Projection! Projection in the shadow Bill is projected in the shadows of the projection I can see
that I love him. Bill and. What's my name?

"This is The Assembly. CLICK"

I must have a name. Or did I give it to him. Does Bill have my name now? Is it
on the other half of the handbill? He should give it back. It's my name.

"Who is The Assembly?" asked the Brush Cut Man.

I think. I.

Trouble. Where am I? In a room in a room. What is this what is he? My name is. Tired. Why am I so tired? Close your eyes, Gloria, just close your eyes. Why am I lying on the floor? This carpet smells ugly. Whose floor is this? You need an aspirin? Who is You?

"An excellent question," answered Bill. "The Assembly is the third inner circle of. Their power within is. But they are without exception extremely wealthy and tend to be."

Is this a revelation? Is this is not normal.

"Isn't that?" asks Brush Cut.

"Yes, it is. It should not surprise you that the man behind him works in pharmaceuticals. The men in the pink pyjamas are all. The ones in stripes constitute one-half of."

One-half of what?

Who put this
"Do you want to"
in my hand? Do I want to what?

"Why are they?" asks the Brush Cut Man.

Who am I?

"I don't know. It's just what they do. CLICK"

Do I want to what? Sleep? Who's doughnut is this my doughnut this is my
doughnut. Mine.

I. I. Think. I. I think. I think. I think I am in trouble. Pay attention, Gloria.

There's the projection screen.

"This is my attempt to warn my. CLICK This is their dismissal of my. CLICK This.
CLICK This is the. From. That have arrived at the. To thank the. For their. And
for all. They have. Done for. This is the nation of. CLICK"

I was standing on the street. My name is. I was. I am in?

"This is me. CLICK"

It is Tuesday. Tuesday. My name is Gloria. Yes! Gloria!
"Do you want to know"

Yes yes I want to know it, me! I want to hear it, Bill, I want to find THE TRUTH. I want to, that's what I want to do. Eternal. Sleep and. And TRUTH. Such machines such glorious and capable machines of innovation and wonder wonder how it did that?

"This is the sound of glory. CLICK"

Glorious games and distant explosions. Glory. Glory.

"CLICK This is my wife and I. CLICK"

Bill and Glory. My name is Glory.
My name is Glory. It is Tuesday.
I am standing on the street. I have a handbill in my hand.
I am naked down the sidewalk by the door down the stairs.

"This is me naked. This is fornication in a supposedly secret place. CLICK"

My eyes are swollen. Must be hungover bad.
The stairs. Something about the stairs about the handbill.
Naked Bill and his moustache. Is Bill my husband? Have we lied? Have I lain naked before
Bill? Bill is. Naked.

Another place. Something about handbills? Interest? Emotion. Hands. There is a
handbill in my hand.
"Do you want to know
THE TRUTH?"

I will keep my eyes open for THE TRUTH.
"Do you want to know"
There is no ring on my finger. My finger is naked. Which finger is it that makes
you married? Hands something about hands?

"This is the city with no secrets. CLICK"

Handbills. THE TRUTH

"This is it. CLICK"

Door. Stairs. Let me.

"This is your life. CLICK"

Let me know. Handbills. Hand rails.

"This is. CLICK"

This is what it sounds like when doves cry.

By the door down the stairs I laid down and wept. How can you just leave me standing. Alone in a world so cold. The reel-to-reel projector. The table doughnuts and Bill. Handbill. Handrail. Hand. Rail. Handrail. The stairs. Where am I? I think I might be in trouble. I think I might have fallen. Out of my clothes. I'm naked. I think I might have hit my head. Who am I?

"This is my. CLICK. In the parking lot. CLICK"

Was he talking about me? What was he talking about? To me? Still tired. Just five more minutes. Wish I was in my own bed. Or just a bed period. Whose floor am I crashing on this time? My name is Gloria. I was on the street. I had a handbill in my hand. It is Tuesday. I am fine. I have hit my head, but I am just fine. That is my doughnut. This is my handbill. I am here to find THE TRUTH.

"CLICK"

THE TRUTH.

"The power outages. CLICK The memory crashes. CLICK"

THE TRUTH will set me free.

"THE TRUTH. CLICK"

THE TRUTH is.

"This is an empty building. CLICK An empty room.
CLICK
CLICK
CLICK
CLICK
SWITCH
This is quiet. CLICK"

Eyes open.
Lights on.
Empty.
Room.

I think. If my daddy was here, he would take me to the hospital.
I think I should go to the hospital.
I think I should say something.

"And that is my presentation. Do you have any questions?" said Bill.

Is there anybody else here? Do you have any aspirin. Oh, my head feels like The Brush Cut Man had questions, lots of questions. Strategy and organization and literature. I had no questions. I saw the shape of things as they are in the words that he used. I doughnut need to have it explained to me further. I read between the lines, I saw the man the moustache
the big picture the brush strokes the Brush Cut. Why am I so tired? I think I should. Sleep. Sleep. Sleep.

"I like your tattoo, Sister."

I like your moustache, brother.

"Do you have others?"

Oh my god.

I am pulling down my shirt. I am showing him my tattoos my naked breast my swastika. My head is swirling he is my Brush Cut Man. I am kissing his moustache. I am eating his doughnut. One of them is my husband. One of them is my brother. I want to know THE TRUTH.

"Suck it"

"Suck it"he said and she did and her knees burned on the ugly carpet.

This is an ugly carpet. Whose carpet is it? Whose table?
Whose fluorescent lights? Whose chairs and tables and
machines. And her. Who is she? She looks like me. What
is her name this girl this girl in the mirror? I want to know
if she lives here in my city and where she and what her
and if maybe she and I might be music and movies and
travelling to Austria and how did she get here in this room
with her shirt around her and her mouth around his and
her hand around the other and half a handbill in her hand.
And why is she lying on the floor?
And what's around her eyes?
And what's around her mouth?
And where did she get those tattoos?

She's looking at you. She's been beaten. Look away. Don't stare. Close your eyes.

Those tattoos.

It doesn't matter. What matters is that THE TRUTH is I am his sister.

"The secret shape of things. The greater reality.
The bigger picture. The pride."

She wants to leave. He won't let her. With Bill in her hand and his doughnut in
her. She wants to vomit and I. I. I think. I think. I. I.
Vomit. On the ugly carpet.


Mine?

I wanted to vomit and I could only be. I. I think I am in trouble. I think I. I vomited.

"Yeah, sister, yeah."

And then I. I. I think. I. I did.

"What the fuck? That's disgusting."

He has a thick-soled boot.

"Bitch!"

Lights out. Eyes closed.

the Dream that never was

This may turn into random musings or it may not but I shall begin by telling you the story of
the Dream that never was
and from there
we
shall
see.

A few nights ago, or perhaps a week ago,
or maybe an hundred hundred years ago I found myself in an odd situation.
Or maybe it was an awed situation.

Without regard for homonyms I press on with my story in which I was in a situation that seemed "not quite right". The details of this irregular situation are not important. I might have been flying or there might have been some pig speaking English to me
or some other uncommon, rare, or supposedly impossible thing was happening
some peculiar thing that provoked my sensibilities to mutter...
"hmmmm, perhaps this is a dream".

Have I told you of the technique to acquire lucidity in dream state?

Have I told you this technicque for lucid dreaming told to me by a person who shall remain unremembered?
in the case that I have not told you of this prior to this moment, then I am now going to instruct you of a technique passed on to me by a forgotten source on the ways and means of encouraging
the lucid state of dreaming.

It is this:
Train yourself to ask the question 25 times a day: "Is this a dream?"
Train yourself to consider and to honestly answer the question each time you ask it. "Hmmm.... No. No, it is not."
And then carry on with your day.

Eventually you will start to ask yourself the question in your dreams. And though you have answered the question in the negative 25 times a day, if you have honestly been thinking about the question, you will eventually answer the question
"Hmmmm.... Yes. Yes this is a dream"
while you dream.
This act will give you an awareness of your dreaming state
that is the first step
towards mastering dreaming consciousness
in a sense to become a god in your dreams.

What you do with this lucid state is up to you, but I caution you to not underestimate the power of your subconscious mind. It is much like that damn monkey claw. Consider carefully what you wish for. Tred lightly. Even gods have nightmares and such nightmares they have that would make a Bronte sister mad.

* And beware the DreamPoliz. *

Does that cautionary note make you tremble?
Do you dare continue on with this story after this tangential interjection?
Why have I begun opaquely with theories on lucidity?
Will I ever return to my original story of an odd awed situation?

As soon as I suspected that this situation might be a dream I did as I have said. I asked the question.
"Is this a dream?"
And then before I could answer the question I discovered I was actually asking it of somebody else.
"Is this a dream?" I asked myself, but unfortunately, I did not actually ask the question of myself. I asked it of some... I dunno who. Some Guy? Gal? Monkey? Somebody who was there. Somebody who appeared as soon as I asked the question.
And I asked over and over and over and over and over and receieved no answer. It might even have been you, but I cannot remember and that is my ultimate point.... I CANNOT REMEMBER.

You see, there's the power of the subconscious. The subconscious has spies everywhere.
And the most nefarious of them work for
The DreamPoliz

Whenever you pierce the veil of memory between this world and that,

between the wolf and the scorpion,

Whenever you open your jaws to swallow the moon,

or shout so loud to wake the sleeping clown

The DreamPoliz are there.





Memory. Why is it so hard to remember our dreams? It is hard enough to remember the little details of waking life but... remembering dreams...some force wipes our memories daily of the adventures we have at night. Who is doing the wiping?
The DreamPoliz.

Why can we not remember what happens when we go over the rainbow?
The DreamPoliz.

The giant peaches that chase us - Forgotten.
The erotic performers that we become. The blood of the bull in the pit of the hills - There are no memories of these.
The secret language of electricity that defines us - Invisible.

These are not small things. They are large and momentous. Would you forget that in your waking time you ascended Mt. Fuji? Will you forget knowing that you had the strength and ability to conquer it? I think not. You will not ever forget that walk up the mountain.
But do you remember that
last night you
were swallowed
by a flame from
the hat of night emerged unburnt
from the tip of your ears to
the tip of your roostery tail?

No, you do not remember that.

And a thousand thousand other moments equally momentous have been forgotten by you alone. And you were alone. And if you can't remember what happened last night while your eyes were closed, then all these memories will be lost in time like tears in rain
(if i may borrow an image from Blade Runner).

Why can we not remember the other universe that we live in? Have I met you in my dreams? Have we shared adventures? Were you the screaming banshee that prevented me from planting my flagpole in the top of the world? I am sure that you have guest starred in an episode or two (just as I am sure Anson Williams appeared in an episode of The Love Boat) but I cannot recall. Perhaps I have even told you of a time that you appeared in a dream of mine but still... I have no memory of it.

Why?

The DreamPoliz.

A secret surreal intelligence organization who's function is to keep Dreamworld a secret. I have recognized their operatives twice. Once they appeared in the form of a Keystones Cop like chase scene. I had just discovered that I was in Dreamland and was intent on using this opportunity to fly when instantaneously I was being chased by a riotous squad of cops who were intent on stopping me from exerting control over my dreams.

The second time was a few nights ago. Or perhaps last week. Or perhaps a hundred hundred years ago. I had just asked the question of myself
"Is this a dream?"
Before I could answer it, a Dreampolice operative appeared at a table reading a newspaper. She had appeared so as to distract me from answering my own question.
I asked her instead
"Is this a dream?"
She didn't answer.
I asked twenty five times. I implored. I instructed.
No reply. Because I received no answer to my question, the veil that I had pierced was able to mend
and the window onto that other universe was closed to me
and I cannot remember what I saw there.

And that Dream never was.

What would I have done had I gained control over the dreaming, if I had earned my Godhood? The last time I found myself in that situation I was prepared. I had told myself and others for years that if I was ever in a lucid dream state that I would use that opportunity to fly and that is what I did and I have probably posted the written record of that adventure in a story entitled "Tybalt On Running".

This time I was not prepared though. I do not know what I would have done but I am sure that it would have been sexual in nature. "Sexual in nature"... what a silly phrase. A polite way of saying I would strive for a fucktakular event worthy of the lust thirsting audience of Rome's Colliseum. There are many fleshy adventures I would like to undertake with a select roster of fiendish females... however, I should thank the DreamPoliz for stepping in when they did because if I had gained lucidity and gone forth with my half formed horny notions, I am sure it would have been absolutely disastrous. I have already had dream sex with Margaret Thatcher once, thank you very much, and once is enough. I must plan this out. Determine the details. The costumes the setting. The music. The story. The conflict. The colours. The characters. All this must be done before the first day of rehearsal. So that when that lucid state comes again, I am ready to take advantage of it and so that The DreamPoliz do not take advantage of me.

Spinzia B

It occurs to her this recurring

this vervant plastic bag that dances and twirls in the sky and spins and most importantly

she flies this common white plastic bag not unlike a trillion other bags available at Terry Van's General Store

is a superstar in the Superstore parking lot
spinning up the airways to the great blue.

The plastic bag says "wheeeeeeeeee, look at meeeeeeee, I'm an artist!"
and the West Wind says "No, you're not. You're a film of plastic trapped in the current, captured on magnetic tape."
The West Wind punches the bag in its gut
Bag gut Punch. Bag gut Punch. Bag gut Punch.
in a tremendous volley of blows. The wind knocked the wind from the bag.

Then sprung from out of that plastic dancing thing the gentlest tornado.

Her name is Spinzia B and laps she runs round the squarish parking lot
lifting up the rusty dust and carries it away

She spun the cars in their stalls.

She cleaned that place up a little.



Nobody died by whirlwind that afternoon.

A Visit To Dr. Sticks

He was about six feet two. Orange hair. Rectangular framed glasses. A kind of out of focus kinda guy. Didn't hate his job. Didn't love it. It was just what he did. He was my doctor.

He instructed me to get up on the... whattya call it. Bed? Bench? Paper covered examination table with cushion?

"Well, we might as well give you a physical. When's the last time you had one?"

"I've never had one, Doctor Sticks."

"Well then, we might as well give you one."

He vaguely rolled his hands about six inches in front of my heart, and he mumbled, "Exercise". Then he had me lay down on the examining table and asked me to roll up my shirt. He placed his index fingers on the left side of my abdomen and drummed. The same placement of fingers on my right side would have been directly over my liver but on my left side... ? I don't know. I didn't ask. He didn't tell.

Then he took those two fingers and placed them over his own right eye and drummed again. "Do you know what this is? By palpatating the eyes we can determine resistance. How pliable the lens and jelly of the eyes have become. We should find similar resistance all the way down your body from your eyes to your belly to your toes."

And that was it. No goodbyes, no explanations, no instructions. Not even a platitude about apples or laughter.

And that, I think, demonstrates the problem with specialists and our culture of specialization. Now, I suppose that if you reading this are a doctor or some other practioner of a specialized form of diagnostic medicine, then you probably know exactly what Dr. Sticks was talking about. I, however, am not a medecin. (I am a dreamer which isn't much of a specialty because everybody does it. I'm just better at it than most.)

I do not have the tools to decipher his ways, but why should I have to. It is my body and his observations and manipulations should be obvious to me. The true specialists - doctors, lawyers, clergymen - hold on to their secret ways to the detriment of communication, expression of true knowledge, and the benefit of us all.

The Other Tora Nado Sister

Those of you who read the tora nado report on Spinzia B may be interested to learn that I met her bigger meaner sister Spinzia A the other day.

I took the Golden Lab, the Blue Heeler, and the Norwegian Elkhound out at 'bout noon. I started at my great grandmother's homestead and I guess I must have walked about a mile North towards Bethesda and then East to the highway. I was pretty much at that little ravine that dips before the crossroad, you know where I mean.

And it was one of those days where everybody in the world who was behind a steering wheel was wearing reflective sunglasses. I find those make you look real thoughtful even if you're not.

(This is the same homestead that I was sent to for my "retreat" some time back. You remember the pig armies, the leper squatters, and that mile high tree? That's the place. If any of you good people have a record of that time I would much appreciate if you could send it back my way.)

So, out on the gravel north and east of my great grandmother's homestead with these dogs of mine which most of you know are not the most obedient mutts; I guess I just don't have the knack. They might as well be deaf and me mute. Half the time I think they're just fucking with me.

I mean, I know that they know the pickup truck is coming. I know that they're going to trot into the ditch at the last second. And I also know that they know which is the business end of a swather. I know. I know. For christ sake they were born farm dogs and I was born city. I know all these things but that doesn't stop me from having a thousand petty core sweats every time I scream at those fucking dogs to stay close to me... every time I see one of the dustcloud Koffry boys coming down the road in that old blue Fargo, everytime the Heeler goes off into the canola that Vernon's harvesting.

Every time. Makes me shit my pants every time.

If one of those dogs were to catch it... that would be the end of my walking days... I couldn't handle it. And that's why I yell at 'em. I yell at them dogs so hard some times it feels like my eyes are going to bust. Louder I yell, the less they listen. Go figger. So I'm yelling at the Lab "COME HERE COME HERE GET OFF THE FUCKIN ROAD STAY OFF THE FUCKIN ROAD" and that Lab she just pretends like I'm not yelling at her and the Fargo zips past me at like 90 miles an hour and the Elkhound is prancing off behind some sign waiting to dash in front of Vernon's combine and I don't know where the Heeler is except that I know she aint at my heel and when my yelling hit that pickup truck... When my eyebusting yell hit the side of that dusttail rock spitting pickup truck, when my words hit that rust... that was it, young Koffry and I knew... Spinzia A was born.

Yeah.

Now I aint worried about the Heeler or the Elkhound in a tora nado. Those are two smart dogs they was bred that way to be smart. But fuckin Golden Labs. They were bred to be stupid. I don't mean that the way it sounds. I mean, I love the Golden Lab, but that's one stupid dog you got to admit. It's the scientific genetics of it. They were bred to save people's lives even at the cost of their own. Now that's just contrary to your survival instinct, and that's as good a definition of stupid as you'll ever need. And what's a stupid dog going to do in the approach of a tora nado. Tell you what she's going to do. Nothin. And that's what she did. Nothin. Just trotted along and ignore me all the time and I'm yelling at her "HEY THERE'S A TORA NADO RIGHT BEHIND YOU GET INTO THE TREES" and sure enough Spinzia A just bore down on that stupid dog and picked her up and spun her around like a top. Probably dropped her in the Saskatchewan River. North or South doesn't matter. She's a good swimmer. That dog'll be back.

Stupid dog. Just stood there in the midst of a tora nado coming on. I saw it all coming. I tried to warn her. Now she's swimming in the Saskatchewan.

But then Spinzia A decides that she hasn't had enough fun yet and she starts coming for me. So. Can't outrun a tora nado. Don't even try. I just went limp when she picked me up and went along for the ride. When she saw I wasn't scared of her I think she kinda warmed up to me that tora nado. I mean she still was a tora nado and it was still a bull ride you bet it was but she wasn't trying to kill me at least. Just scare me. Make me shit myself or throw up or something. It was fun. And man, that Spinzia A, she knew how to fuck with drivers with their sedans on the highway.

She had me hanging over the highway for a little while and the rain's coming down the way it does like that so the tarmac's pretty slippery, eh. And then, uh... so I'm at the crossroad right. Kinda hanging there about seven feet off the ground. So when they come around that corner there, eh, and there I am hanging in the air. So they're slamming on the brakes and screaming and I'm dancing on their windshields and over their car rooves and scuffing up their hoods with my boots. Hilarious. That was the funniest thing. And that was like, you know 80 miles an hour.

Yeah. So. Yeah. Telling ya. That's how it happened.

Post Cards From The City Of Lights

Dear So and So,

As soon as we arrived we went to a concert. A really lame concert at some famous auditorium. Hollywood Bowl perhaps, I really don't know. Shitty American Band and Shitty American Beer.


Then we met up with some local type who gave us the obligatory tour. Yawn. The latest fad down here is apartments themed like college dorms. Trophy cases in the lobbies, really small units with hot plates, and hall lockers. The trend is away from the beach houses and towards pseudo-dorms. Incomprehensible.


Most of my time is spent in the back seat of a car going from stupid place to stupid place knowing that the real action is above the horizon but they haven't invented heli-cars yet... soooooo.... Who's car, was I in? I dunno. And then...



The Moon Arrived.

Maybe it was the smog refracting the Moonlight and maybe it was the mushrooms blending the neon into the sky... but we all saw it and we all saw the same damndest thing. The Moon danced above the hills of Hollywood. It's corona phased from red to blue to purple, it's aurora from lightning strike to rainstorm to heat wave. I have never seen the Moon behave this way before (except in my dreams and once while awake I witnessed a lunar eclipse in which the moon was reflected across the sky 9 times. For one frightening moment our planet had nine moons).

We watched the Moon traverse from new to full to new again. The three of us were transfixed like apes beneath a monolith. This was the Moon's true face. The Moon was sending a message and we were the only ones paying attention. And then, with lettering bold and varied the messages came, displayed across its fiery icey face. After each message Danny howled with comprehension and joy shouting out the parts of the messages that were kicking open his doors with the greatest force. The L.A. guy was trying to pretend that this happens all the time. I cried at the magic. I don't remember all of the messages consciously but I know they're stored in me some where for some purpose. I do remember the parts of the message that Danny shouted out so vigorously that the sounds still echo in my cave.



"Memorize Me # Look Me Up"



"Re Flex! Merely Look In Your Glass"



"Re Member? For Memberation."



"? Hookhan ? Ukhan ? "



"Prime Palm Stripe Comes, Altimeter Is Carded



"Afterklog: Permsenta"



"this space for rent"



So... there you go. The Message has been delivered.


from the city of angeles
moonboy