untitled prosepome yet still again: august '98

Swish, swahh. A good cult of movement pushes its supplicants along. Too many times am I allowed to tithe this beast.

(switch to blue ink, how much time has passed? the transcriber and former author shall never know)

Now I earn my keep by waiting to go home. Detail-oriented folks will place their heads on the pikes of the minutae when they rise to unchain their meticulous nature. Meanwhile the music of my fluids is a little percussion-heavy today. My body's at war in a season of activity, not peace.

Homes will cost. Choose: Food, Shelter or Mobility. Actualization is for the rich -- what else is new, Abraham. I'd like to make property a vice along with usury. But the Pope wouldn't be able to but little boys. The lights wink out in a predictable fashion. The Great Leap Forward bangs its head on the gate of plenty. Fuck All.

untitled prosepome still again: august '98

Transition is the feeling of sitting your ass down and waiting for enough cars to drive by after the concrete turns into precious mud. The shapes of former tickers litter the implanted mold like a patient killing-ground.
-Tick-
I got a new one. Instead of an empty room with no sockets for the tube, I recommend sliding into spots before the occupants get there. Guerilla living in the blank tofu chunks of time.
-Tick-
Or you could just get there late and be like all the other folks stroking their way to leg-arteries. I only notice the ground when everyone decides to do something else.

untitled prosepome again: august '98

Manicky -- icky how loud can you fuzz your inner-monologue and slow the movie down? Solitude can slow things a bit unless you got caught in the edge cities with a bad car radio. Pick your nose and cry -- everyone else does here. I'd prefer some Schlitz and a Heavy Metal Road Game to the real thing. My meditation is med'd and Mediated by the luke-warm slide of pretty blue and red shiny lights. The covalency of my thoughts to starve-back loop stretches to a usual point -- I leave the light on to pretend I'm sleeping at 3 in the afternoon. I dream of inevitable community sacrifices that the Alliance for Progress never could figure out. My night is stealing secret surfaces in the pocket of a common office denominator. Lowest is Middlin'. August looks at its watch and tags Autumn. Thank Goddess.

untitled prosepome: august '98

Plod, plod, scrunch, scrunch we think it's all the same. Aerodynamic paint scraping by a reminiscence of a brain itch, I thought it I heard it. The pebbles halo out on us just to keep the picture steady but I don't know why my ears haven't started leaking grey wax. Actually hearing the wind reminded my nose to smell Virginia August -- another reminscence but the magic of my adopted world is the novelty of its antiques. The red clay is aboriginal ichor, I've said it before, so has Arthur Miller. Now I remember why the sleeping collective tangs me. I may normally need sense-bricks but a single note catches more my love.