Eye Control

Eye control mama in the least astounding ways by belly up singing or Billie Holiday braying by the light of the moon nothing remains diatonic or dismorphic if it’s not recreational I pass the strangest man on the subway he was going interstellar and I waited all day to infiltrate the bus depot with chromatic meaning especially as your soporific was hibiscus fruit juice out of a triangle spigot it was sometimes in the chirring of those large cicadas which aspired to paid fellowships and residencies that I dreamt of playing pool at Pedro’s house as “Chevy Van” trilled from an AM radio then it cut to a few years earlier as Martin was building bunkers and lecturing me about nuclear war in the year 2000 and its millennial certainty as he claimed and I went on droning in the back of my own head in the depth of my sorrow in the shadow of a psychotic episode.

It’s all so lily pad hermetic. So how could you possibly know? But I remember these things.

What I’m Reading:

A raging river of gurgling snowmelt churned in the ravine far below where I squatted, and as I scanned upward I saw the sun was cutting a shaft of light over the monstrous Andes mountains.

What a breathtaking place to take a shit.

— Kristen Jokinen / Joy Ride: A Bike Odyssey from Alaska to Argentina