Letter Never Sent

I was gas huffing one afternoon, by the train tracks near the smelter, trying to shotgun iso nitrite through my paint gun and boom — whoosh! — it hit me.

It was a wrap, and on came a visual rap of distortions through time — shit I hadn’t remembered in forever, cascading — distortion to static.

Momentarily I was up on a Brady Bunch screen: Momma, Poppa, Uncle Justus, Chelsea and Me — the other four were faceless homonculii, who despite lacking features had silver metallic paint smeared all over the bottom of their faces. Well, we had a Brady Bunch, anyway, in garish dayglo…

… and there were leeches, cherry blossoms, attenuated frequencies, and a throbbing tulip.

Avoid the brown Kool Aid.

A letter never sent. 

An ideal copy.

What I’m Reading:

… the
moment when you are on a swing as high and as far back as
you can make it go and everything even your heart pauses
before you lean back and kick your legs forward.

— Anne de Marcken / The Accident