Carrion birds followed me to this place. Where wilderness is marred by the same plastic picnic benches found in the urban oasis of sin. Primitive doesn't mean what it used to, but I suppose such a word is really a reflection of the plumbing situation.
That's not what matters though,
Warm boulders of granite the seemingly smooth counterpoint to the green and yellow thistle.
The large birds looping the sky as I am supposed to be reading about Pi. Such numbers are irrational in his place. Across the lake an imperfect pyramid of uninhabited terrain. Are there primitives their? Do they worship the God who makes the burning bowls of fire and the holy tables? More circles, it's the ratio between man and all that was before him.
Can we divide by zero, yet? Until we are undefined. I came with gods sages and kings but the Vedic doesn't reach this far west.
My heart sees the wild-eyed Baptist on the shore but no doves.
We writers have complicated relationships with solitude. We are never alone there is this character creep. Notice us. We see dead people only they never lived. If you deny them they will find another writer. One day you will hear a book review on NPR and you will recognize Meridith's facial scar. She got it from her first pimp and the braid she has worn since to reminder her to be a warrior. Now she's living in the suburbs and some cunt named Susan is chatting up Ira Glass about American lives and how she found Meridith hitchhiking in the desert. Characters have no loyalty.
Now there are only birds and Appalachian Springs drowning out orange tented families. Who needs childish merriment when you seek nothing. That's selfish of me after all who was dancing on the rocks topless with an umbrella? There is no female equivalent of man-child because we expect prolonged pubescence.
Subtle arts and tyranny where today's companions. This week is not meant for subtle so it contrasts was by design. Fail hard! Preserve institutions! Absolutely don't obey in advance! I wrote that on my hand. Think different for the next generation. I wonder how these writers feel about juice and turtlenecks?
A bunny, curious, enters the camp and I wonder what kind of house would choose a bunny as it's sigil? Captured for the girls, photographic vicarious existence. They will live full lives without me it's fair.
The sun is dying and I wonder if spending the night with HST or Pynchon is better. Different kind of lovers.
Quick dirty alcoholism. Who turns a phrase in such a way that we know he has that fiddle of gold and his soul intact. Hell bent for a candidate no one wanted. 3 2 1 boom! No flowers for Algernon just dicks tricky and each successive one grinding against the cervix of the American dream a little rough so there is no question of purity left.
Or careful Pynchon. Surreal and lurid best in starts and fits. One wonders at the IQ to grok such a man. I'm certain I am missing the point but we keep up appearances for the sake of the children.
That's life choices. Celibacy is not an option. Or do I let this red pen bleed out the last few pages of this book? Two tired for reading carnality. Indecision and rambling. These words seem hardly crappy.
Perfect practice pales against sticky red death. Oh, what would the common man give for just one cask?
John's still seeking his dice on was it the lamb for the equinox hare. He's crowned the whole lake with asymmetrical drift wood. The king of water. Son of salmon. Against the streak. Wave on wave breaking on us but never do we see the sea. That's what the disembodied voice said today of the good news
The light holds out and the fire dies!