I dream of me and a beauty. Naked, buxom, and bold she is at the doorsteps of the Budokan. We cover each other with grains of dried white rice. Under the summer heat we start to sizzle like Japanese yakatori. We embrace and feel each other's desirous flesh till the morning brings light to our expended souls. A dream goes up in smoke like origami paper.
I I Got a friend who's straight-laced. He has no fun. He's a square who turns round in a small circle. Someday, for sure, he'll find himself ground up on a joyless earth. He's still a friend, but he's got to let go before it's too late. Like his uncle found dead at a green top desk.
II I Got a walky-talky in a cell phone age. I got a Morris code contraption--dot, dot, dot--against a blackberry coda. I got a one speed Schwinn Roadster against titanium metal and laser welded steel. I'm ready to do something. Likely to go back rather than forward.
III I got a quill and old paper in the time of the blog. I got a manual typewriter with ink on ribbon in the time of kindle words. I got ideas to write of the future, in long hand and on clattering keys.
Calumny of the soul. Crudities of a whore-night. Curious cat. Filched canary from gilded cage. The bell tolls three. Dance, local yokel. Woolly eyes, blanket stares on hybrid highway of melding rubies and yellowed tar. Calamity to the whore spirit. Ethereal doubts, guilt, wishes, hopes, on hairpin turn. Hark, a telegram!! Charles Bukowski of Ghost Past: ASSISTANCE NEEDED.STOP.STUCK IN BUTT CRACK OF B.H.ASS. STOP.
Aid to be rendered says plastic statue on dashboard rung: "Tortelli to Chinanski, alter-ego we'll be. Smoky fighter of ghost imperil"
I sat atop a red brick school and espied madness in a burning sky. I saw planes in a tailspin. I saw the wings of Icarus melt under a broiling sun. A doubting teacher said: Tsk, Tsk, you have the visions of a boy. Stay in school, study hard, someday you will be a blogger of some renown.
For that renown I await, and I keep my heart singing under a burning sky.
I drink coffee off a Formica table. The cup I use is old and plastic, maybe from the 70s. A collectible find, Zigman Zibanski says. But I doubt it, like I doubt most of his wild claims. The coffee is old too, but not as old as the cup, just a bit stale tasting. But at least I got a Formica table to rest my elbows on. And I got a talkative friend in Zigman who I haven't seen for awhile. My other friend Boyce Boswell is quiet, lost in his own thoughts, but he's still good to be around. The three of us are happy to drink simple stale java from out of date coffee cups. And who knows, maybe years from now they'll be collectibles after all. So I'll keep 'em. Just like I keep memories of friendship in a yellow blog.
I watch a motorcade of mannequins masquerading as men. They move in a long line of Lincoln Continentals under the shimmer of a morning's first light. Mandarins, they are. Mandarins of the day. Mandarins of the night. Mandarins of government offices in a Bauhaus relief of grey and concrete. I know of these false men. Their waxy skin. Their rubbery hearts. Their veins frozen with black ice. I, too, feel cold in this Bauhaus tower as I spy the steady procession of horrible them moving closer. My fingers lose their touch. My heart beats slowly. The fire in my belly burns low. How do I escape these government men. A flight to Mexico? A walk through a Manitoba plain? There: a last pay cheque I leave behind in haste. I touch my skin; it feels human. I feel my pulse; it beats. My blood, I know, bleeds warm and red. Alas, a desperate salvation taken in a blog. A 200th post. I live to write again.
Sandbag biceps. Indian clubs, submission in wooden pins. Turn the the body to ancient rhythm. Strengthen thee. Bridge builder core, wrestler grip, grappler hands, calloused skin on steely bone. Connective tissue enlivened, awakened to the new spirit, the new body: Reborn to the muscular religion of the last modern soul. Reinvigorate the shoulder, sculptured anew. The back redefined. Go back in time: to young days. Flexible sensibility. Ancient exercise born again. Sandbag biceps. Indian Clubs. Manic Monday. Prince song to Bangles Star. Wish it were Sunday. Susie Hoffs spangled to the new body core.
Balinese mask on Whirling Dervish. Pray to the Tibetan Bell. Sacrificial lamb, bloodied at Heaven's Gate. Bleat to the devil's gaol. Oracles strapped in glory watches, speak to the sands of time. Excise the word. Excoriate the verse. Exorcise the serpent spirit, the snake's burning soul. Balinese Mask in tear drop drone. Spring to the defense, spring lamb. Clumps of knotted, blood red wool. Whirling Dervish, dizzy the mind. Pitch the tune on cast iron bell. Exercise the sinewy threads of eternity. The elbowed stars and pulsars...galactic tangles of eliptic tales. Turn inward, twist away. Read the Balinese Blog. Hum the Jakarta Jingle. Two-step the Turkish Whirl. For certain, pray to the Tibetan Bell. Hark, the sounds no more.
I wore an overcoat in a hospital corridor. It was a long black wool Crombie hand tailored in Scotland. I bought it at a Thrift Store with sleeves that hung past my palms and a missing button. But this was a bad hospital in a bad part of town, so by these standards I was dressed for success. Besides, my makeshift cane was beat up and splinetery. I had a confrontation with a barstool at the One Lucky, the loser bar I mentioned in a prior post. I'm a regular of sorts now, even though I don't drink much. My confrontation was with a barstool that collapsed under my weight. My right knee swelled up like a balloon. The manager was apologetic and let me use one of the broken legs as a cane. I fell on my head abit, too. But I didn't tell the doctors. Being a bit punch drunk is about the only way I can make it through life at the moment. But I do recommend that if you go to a Thrift Store, grab yourself a Crombie. Just make sure you get the sleeves fixed up. That is unless you hang out at the One Lucky and plan to go to hospitals with a barstool cane.
I saw a ship on fire. It floated on a black sea of oil and smoke. I heard the cries of lifeboat sailors. Save Us! Rescue us, our burning flesh! I heard, too, the sailors curse: Against the ocean leagues! Against Captain Ahab! Against the Ancient Seafarer, they bemoaned.
Rise up, God Neptune. I demanded. You, the noble spirit of the deep! Rise up and save these mariner souls!
Nine o'clock. I took a bite of roasted quail and sipped brown beer. Time to change the channel. A network special...ersatz diamonds sold and worn. War picture...wait till morn.
I got a swivel chair that wobbles. I got new wrinkles on a body I thought would always stay smooth. Time to write. Time to blog. Time to find the very best of what I was. God is telling me, subtly for sure, that the days of my youth were a yawn, a short gasp in His eternity. Time to write. Time to blog...I got new wrinkles and a swivel chair that wobbles.