the fast food wisdom of lsd

 i like fast food
“lou, stop!” timothy leary is here and wants me to stop.
what are all those icon?
 like 99 cent shamans, right?
99 cent religion
my vagina hurts
i was on a rock smoking rock sucking cock
when my hair my long hair
paul revere
hair whipped into my eyes and said
cut you hair or i’ll kill you
and i stopped looking at all the tatoo’ed law students
and wondered why my hair
the flip hatz and the pedal leads
the bro’s like those dudes that drive those big trucks
monster muggers with nutsacks on the hitch
anyway why did my hair grow long?
why did i let it get into my eyes?
because i need the feedback from
your eyes it is what i live for
 the feedback that you give
the reflection of my projection
it gives me reason to live
arent all tatoo’s meant for others to look at?

carry on

love is coming.
love is coming to a funeral near you.
lonely roads are lonely roads by definition.
no one else is there.
recumbent velocipedes/
now that’s a lonely road.
‘67 dodge dart with an eight track
RUN THRU THE JUNGLE
RUN THRU THE JUNGLE
AW DON’T LOOK BACK
ditches
cornfields
harmonicas
give me a taste
a taste of that strawberry hill
 a taste of that fidelity
innocent fidelity

paralysis by analysis

aurges a child, with a neighbor family on the other side of the wall, Lou stretched  high as he could and chirped, “Big fat Fay; Little skinny Bill; Pee-pants Roberta; Grouchy Sandy.” to the fat mother wife.   I can’t write music, so I can’t sing the tune to that for you.  But it’s been something about him I’ve always remembered, and mimicked at seemingly (to me anyway) appropriate times.  It seems intimate.  I look forward to expressing my love for you to you – instead of being mad all the time.  What a drag.  What a drain.  But you give me a glimmer of hope.  We’ll see how it goes.  All I know is that I spent the happiest 5 – even 6 – years of my life with you.  You’ve “made me happy” as no other human.  You put up with my moodiness and you listen and consider (usually) what I have to say.  But when you drink, it’s all about you.  Now I don’t think much of myself, but I do like a little respect, just like anyone, as a human, or creature, deserves.

Exclusion freaks me out.  I’m claustrophobic.  I’ve tried to face it by making myself stay in an uncomfortably full elevator.  I can actually do it most often now.  But the last few days I’ve had to claw my way out 3 times.  The last 2 times I was hep to it so I

Why are there faux pauxs?  I don’t get so much of this life.  I feel so disconnected. 

We’ve never been this fat together before.  We’re both overweight.  Granted, him more than I, but I’ve got a big rubber fat roll on my belly – and I had abs not 10 years ago! – So in a way, we’re experiencing each other in a way in which we never have before.  It’s awesome when you look at life from different perspectives.

I was a nasty little girl.  I mean I must have learned stuff way before my time that I have no recollection of.  Was I molested?  I’d hate to just imagine that something happened and it all be a ruse, but something must account for it.  Or maybe I was just “advanced”.  At about 5.  It was those books Hazel kept down in the bottom drawer of her dresser in their bedroom.  I’d found then.  I could read.  The horrible perversion that was there.  I know now that it was probably really literary pornography – in a very ill way.  What does that do to a child?  Do you have a memory of seeing a butt pressed against the top window of a hangover camper – the driver & his passenger (the parents) totally unaware?  That was probably my young butt.  Maybe that’s why I have such a big butt.  It bumps into things and I’m surprised.  If any ones there, I have to joke about, ‘oh, I guess I thought I could get by that!”  I remember once my mother, Hazel, and I, went to see “Conan the Barbarian” starring, of course, Arnold S (I don’t want to bother spelling out his name, you know who I mean – he was kind of hot at one time – in a (hheee) barbaric sense -  Writing is so cathartic.  So relaxing and fulfilling.  Satisfying.  I really do wish I could do more.  But it’s those urges I need.  Plus a little help from my friends.

 

 

breathing

  i have a job its a filthy job its hard to describe but i like it.
  trailers have tires that grind in an asphalt yard. the grind powders the tires like so much rubber esspreso.
 i work there in the grind and i give it a lot of help whipping trailers to and fro i am a spotter a hostler i drive a goat an ibex.
  every couple of hours if find a restroom and wash my hands and arms and face. it takes a while.  i force myself to wash in a slow languid fashion.
 i breathe to slowly wash. i learned to breathe at the dentist office he was preparing my number 18 molar for a gold crown. it took a while he and his assistant working in my mouth and my body and mind met and found a little stash of panic somewhere.
  i breathed out. and i was alive and i inhaled and was still breathing.
  i was a cool day but i could not see my breath. i was all flannel and jeans with my black mane and my innocent brain walking down a street in cottage grove, oregon. it was 1970 something and she was smoking skank ass weed on the covered front porch of a big old house as the rolling stones echoed “wild horses” inside.
 those were the days of recognozing pedigrees and we both new utopian seekers when we recognized the pedigree.
  we got so slant eyed stoned and were all wide ass smiles in the rain with a frisbee at the old folks home where there were wide stretches of green grass to run in laugh in slide in.
  old folks yelled from their balconies and and authority figure of some kind appeared and that was the funniest falling over laughing joke of the month.
  she had a grey vw bus with a trunk on the front…you know..the kind of trunks that elephants have.
   dunno what happened. just lost intrerest in each other when that one day could not be found again. i kept breathing and i really hope that she did too.