I feel good...I'm looking into the sun...seeing the impression burned into my retinas when I close my eyes...that black circle...that not-so-mystical third eye...I'm on the inside now. I feel good ... the total warmth ... hot like two rats fuckin' in a wool sock ... like slowhump lizards doubled up on a hot log ... I like that. I've been negotiating a closing price on a piece of property with the agents of Alternate Realty.
I go inside for coffee and eggs but fall asleep in an upright breakfast table chair. I awake to the R2-D2-esque chirps from my two little kitchen birds as they prepare their nest for the baby they're going to hatch next month. 'Paging Dr. Bombay...paging Dr. Dildano...You're needed in the operating room...stat!'
Then work happens. Paid for playing ultra-competative Scrabble games with extremely bright students in Somyon. Ain't nothin' wrong with that.
Then subway ... the close quarters staring game. The check-out ... the up-down look. If shoes make the man I'm doomed, 'cause my Adidas are still covered in tractor grease, industrial test red paint and pizza flour from my last three jobs in the States.
I arrive at the Hogwon a few minutes after two. The director greets me and immediately begins a session of heavy ball busting over my lesson plans. He doesn't place the high premium I do on the art of abstract brainstorming on paper. He doesn't like my lesson plans ... lesson un-plans? 'This one is school not art class! No more drawing! The President want to see you.'.
Inside the President's office.'Mi-kru-er, frankry, you pranning is very poor.". I smile like a hebephrenic whipped bitch, ' uh...sorry.". Class...these kids are so smart. Too smart to swallow the retarded material that floats these Happy English books like buoyant turds in the bowl. To smart to take a stone-freaked-idiot from the States seriously as an authority on learning English as a Second Language. I feel like I'm made of clear jello when I'm in front of them. 'Teacher, you shoes country.'. Teacher, you head beng-beng.'. 'Yes, Student, me head is pabo-beng-beng-psycho-crazy monkey-mafia boss ... repeat after me ... I like bananas ... I like bananas .".
Thursday night. Walking down a street with Gibby at 2 am, seeing the specter of another man's doom smeared across the concrete and pavement. Ominously large puddles of deep red blood and chunks of fleshy matter that may or not be brain. I'm flashing on the two human heads I've seen explode in my life. Once in downtown Brownsville, Texas, when a cranked white mill worker Glock blasted a Texican gang-banger at point blank range over a bad deal. I just remember the cancer-brained motherfucker laughing and referring to his young victim as a 'fuckin' beaner', as he turned to take off and the sirens wailed in the distance. The other taking place on the edge of Alphabet City in Manhattan, around avenue's C and D and Bowery ... It's late and dark and I'm on my way, when I hear tires screeching on a peelout, and then screaming ...'Oh my gawd, someone call and Ambulance!", and 'Who the fuck did this to you?', I look back and see a man stooped over while the contents of his face pour out. People are moving to make the phone call and I don't compelled to stay.
Those things happen so fast.
Later, riding bitch on the back of a crotch rocket ... whipping through Somyon traffic ... my helmetless head begins to blur with visions of a gruesome, violent death ... my teeth and lower mandible wiped away in a flash of pavement ... legs freely contorting in directions they were never meant to ... the flesh on my arms and exposed legs washed away like smudges of dirt ... my wristbones seeing the light of day as they were never intended ... then I catch myself. Decide to clear my mind and enjoy the rest of the ride ... high as a god ... right? Getting those sleepless flashes of superhuman abberance ... dancers on arcing beams of white light ... Russian Sports Terrorists, dressed in the obligatory Addidas running warmup suits ... slow rythmic throbbing, dancing vegetation. Is the Earth's core just one giant molten supercomputer ... the tide a lunar algorithm? This is heaven. This city ... in it's perpetual state of disarray and frenetic lawlessness... this is no city ... this is Entropia!
The digital dark age is upon us. At night on the streets of Somyon's dark canyons ... so many people talking on handphones ... the future of interpersonal communication? Bah! Barriers being thrown up to avoid it. Like living with robots whispering in your ears. Doomed Megalopolis Blues? Sure, and I know it. So generic. Webs of intrigue carried out to illogical conclusions in stuffy office spaces by stagnated middle management men. Mindfulness compliments of the Transdimensional Buddha Corp. Feeling so generic ... like when the guy from Nebula sings, ' Now the world is growing old ... all the stories have been told ... there's nothing left ... it's all been sold!'. Like asexual amebic single cell reproduction ... those overnight won millionaire but not a blade of grass to smoke blues? Sure. Those goddamned malignant cellular hand phone microscopic daphinae blues ... just another manic case in the revolving door of infinite ... on ... off ... no ... yes ... on ... off ... no ... yesss.
It gives me a welcomed laugh when I hear old Elvis Costello singin' that line ... ' I'm just a soul whose intentions are good ... oh lord, please don't let me be misunderstood ... ' The goddamned cellphone company should buy that one for a commercial, if they haven't already.