hell hole fist shifting
This is entry number two for today. Because crash and boom cyclye thermostat the drinking needle has plugged my metaphor screen. I brought a bottle of wine for the receptionistas last LAST friday and we didn't get around to unplugging it till THIS FRiday and so I think I did the most of the sampling as they are both drivers==lovely beautiful drivers I'm sure, such saucey young fingers laced around the streeting wheel and so neatly folded--their bodies--into driver seat--and one of them just headed out the door, the other hours ago after we unpluggled the bottle and so here I am with you and my blood going bang snap and swoosh around the loop race. This is my second entry for the day and I don't think this one is so good as the last one not that the last one was any good but better I almost said "butter"==hah, butter than this so well, fuck....
This office is emptying out little by little each day. As long as the wine keeps flowing I'll be fine with that. I have to keep the wine flowing--for me and my receptionistas, my beauties, my lost lovelies....they go, they go...gone. And the sun is almost gone. I'll be glad when it's gone. I'm never glad when my reception angels are gone. I miss them already.
I should not get so far gone with the wine road until sun cuts itself in the grass ruin. Picture the tractor house celebrating with light the pile of dead cows in the dairy ground. SAid march your body into the river air at dusk, walking alone in the dust at night fall because there has to be alittle country store over the rise and I want to feel good for a while and walk and drink and listen to the insects buzz the air--but I don't live in a place like that, I live in a place like this with office towers and traffic trying to run me down and goddamn street people staining the street and too much noise--the only good noise is my own self-contained noise. So I think I'll take this final cup of wine and walk the bayside to the clock point and underground myself back to secret motel. Except I don't feel quite like leaving yet. I will have to secure another bottle of wine along the way to keep the damage fresh and the window bent.
I'm so tired of this. Say good night to the lepers in the pool hall and good-night to the burn victims in their tournament bowling alley. Good night to the candlemaker sleeping in the orange light of lit wicks and frost the windows and drown the sleeping bags. Row my body into the casino lake and gamble my lungs for the fish show. Fish invade your laundromat and old men masturbate your coin slot. clock towers fall when the freeway battery runs down. And your children are skateboarding through hell and getting blowjobs from functional transsexuals with big tits in the bathroom hole. The referree is punctuating an omelette of parking tickets. Someone snuck into the neighbor's garden after midnight and pumped the roses full of hydrogen and nuclear error. Free speech is an absolute. Fuck American newspapers. American journalists are gutless pussies. And so are the politicians. Grandstanding cocksuckers, democrats and republicans--all of them can lick their grandmothers assholes in hell. Free markets and free minds--that is the only America I could ever love. And this ain't it. I hate everything. Death to all religion. May the christians and muslims eat each other alive.
And now the amputee advertises the keyhole. And it's snowing in the sewer. The rats have sacrificed themselves to the snowglobes.
That's a really ugly word, you know? "Sacrifice." It usually involves YOU giving up something you value for someone else's gain. Don't you do it. Don't you goddamn dare do it. People in government are very fond of sacrifice. As Ayn Rand defined the term: Surrendering a greater value for a lesser value. It's irrational, and it's evil. Sacrifice nothing!
The sea water is calling the sky. And it's calming all our favorite edges. Racecars hallucinate the parking stall. And I recall a patch of grass the sun searches for some sign of Sarah. And she's not there. She won't return their again. So return all your time to ice. Sleep through this. And sleep through the clock's incessant pricking. The freight trains that rumble past your landscape of memories, they don't run on batteries--they run on regret and disappointment. They run on fear and a full stomach and light slowing draining from a steak house by the freeway. I wish I was there with you now, dear imaginary reader. I would order us another round of drinks and we could watch all the cars flash into the sunset. And when we stumble outside well after dark, someone will remark about how the breeze blows the vague scent of motor oil past the street lights and library cards scattered by the wind blowing out of the university tree span. Park is safety in green shadows of our midnight. And you might gaze thoughtfully at my hand and tell me honestly if it looks too old for the rest of my body. And the radio increases its own volume as I get terribly distracted by women in plaid skirts and black tights and the shapes they make in street lights.
I should take my cup and go now, dear sweet imaginary reader. Take my cup of red shadows and shade my blood stream, disrupt the circuits curling around the steam of fresh car wrecks disupting my word processor in secret motel many footsteps and transfers and bottle flashes across a city that falls down. This city falls down and never gets back up and I will leave it later or later. I'm so tired of watching these people do that to themselves. It's sick, it's sick, it's sick--from the mayor's office right down to the gutter.
That's enough. I go. I go. Goodnight, dear sweet imaginary reader.