secret motel

Put your death in the water. Stir your gathered sunlight with a spoon. Import shade from remote orchards. All my isolation theories begin in uncharted territories of the brain. I gave up on smoke signals. I sleep in fog. I don't fuck anyone. Uncover a new page of the calendar--and why are all those pure white squares so foreboding? I visited Modesto last weekend. It's not easy being an atheist among fragments of Christians. Everything is a fucking lie. Your god is a fucking lie. Your government is a fucking lie. Your favorite television shows and your favorite celebrities and your favorite drug stores are all a bunch of goddamn motherfucking lies. You goddamn fucking lie-swallower. The only thing on EARTH that is pure and honest is the fog creeping over the street lights in the dead hours of morning while you sleep in your fucking lies. And my spine is so loud and painfully truthfull with secret broadcasts at two in the morning. I drink my spine quiet. And match the cobwebs with vinyl records that sound like dust tones expanding in a carpet of universes. This love affair with hopeless obscurity is the only love I can hope to sustain. All the diners at the lunch counter asphyxiate on a grey afternoon, We waited so long for an empty seat to take us somewhere where lungs are allowed to breathe. I suck nutrition from street lights and privacy novels. This hill that winds down into the fog and away from memories of a haunted house. You and all your goddamn satellite imaging and tracking mechanisms--you'll never see what I've become in the fog. You'll never know how long it took me to die.