Pretty Memories

You don’t know me now and maybe you never will.

No matter, we’ll all meet someday, way underground.

I’ll knock on your casket and ask for a cup of sugar.

“Sure” you’ll say.

FM 1, "Ride, Ride, Ride the Wild Surf!"

"Come on, come on, let me show you where it's at," elbowed by, "I want to show you!"  "...where it's at.  All together: "The name..." X-rayed skeleton beat inside flesh of song: bum-bum-bum, bum.  "... I like it like that."

Fade out.  Climbing pitch mountain: "Doop-doo-doo, the greatest hits of the 60's and 70's... zoop-zoo-zoo... Oldies ninety-five point seven."

Wiggling, hulaing harmonica: "Wha-wha, wa-wa-wa-wa-wa."  Broken, beautiful croon only some black singers can pull off:  "Oh, girl."  Then bouncing toward you: "I'd be in trouble if I left you know.  Then he's just telling you.  "Cuz I don't know where to look for love.  I just don't know how."

Some voices cut through a speaker.  Phil Phillips or Johnny Cash, among others, can hum through it.  The right r & b song by a band whose name would look tasty neoned on the gate around a roller coaster... The Exciters... The Olympics... The Marvellettes... it's like strawberry ice cream melted in the speakers and seeped through the grate, it's fragrance climbs up to you, you lick your lips.

"You gut me huh like a guitar humming."  Neil Diamond.  Okay song, but with a pale hue, like it was recored in a space station, grown with brita pitcher water and 60 watt light, robots backing the man.  Still, it's growing heavy like an erection swelling with deep blood.  "Play it loud.  Play it loud.  Play it loud.  My baby!  Cracklin' Rosie bum, bum, bum."  Yeah.  It's a good song, but it has been the favorite Diamond radio cut of the last year or so.  Played out.  I would stick around for "Brother Love's Traveling Salvation Show" or "Solitary Man," surely.  Got to travel on.

Press in the "4" button.  Jerk to ninety-one seven: The Mighty Ninety-One, broadcasting live from the campus of the Milwaukee School of Engineering.  Science segment.  A primitive flute beds a cottonball voice and there are caterpillars chomping crisp leaves, down at the microscopic size where a blade of grass could be a telephone pole, a yard could be a metropolis.  I want music.

Press "1."  The loneliest number.  Eighty-eight nine, radio Milwaukee.  Journalism spot.  "Ding-ding-ding."  A bell in a classroom.

"6."  "... in a lo-ove so..." pulling on the vowels like you stretch dough for a pizza pie crust... "...ong."  Marshall Tucker's flute, the signature of the artist.  A heavy voice, pondering whether the radio has been lying to us.  "Heard it in a lo-ove saw-ong.  Heard it in a lo-ove song."  The thesis, like three finger tips rapping in sequence on a hard table top: "Can't be wrong."  Maybe it is a lie.  I've often thought it was interesting that people talk so rarely of love in everyday conversation, but it's nearly all anybody sings about.  Is it just for commercial appeal, romantic escape?  Or is that what we find when we reach in deep enough to discover the place where song is born?

One oh six nine big buck country.  "Well, I got friends in low places/ It's a family tradition/ I fell into a burning ring of fire."  "That's todays big buck country.  "Hi, I'm Richard Kessler of Kessler Diamonds."

"4": dreamy chimes, like from a crystal palace.  I almost see the lips, alone, red, in a recording studio in some stranger's dream.  "Don't mess with Bill."  A posse of girls, young 1960's dark-skinned girls, mischievous, shrouded in smoke:  "No, no, no, no."  They're trying to warn me, to knock some sense into me.  "Don't mess with Bill/ No, no, no, no."  They're picking up momentum, then you see it isn't just girls behind the smoke.  It's not even smoke, it's steam.  And there's a fucking steam train coming at you, whaling, "Don't mess with Bill!"  It has the effect of two paws smashed on piano keys.

Marty's got to be the one pulling the strings.  This is how I realize it's Tuesday: Marty on the Blues Drive, the Marty Party.  Saxophone bridge.  It curls round and around like a shiny slide, plops you in a ball pit of primary colors.  More Marvelletes, "Uptight" from Stevie Wonder, some scratchy 45 I never heard that rubs on me like a friendly house cat.  Fuck yeah.

Baby raindrops dot my windshield.  I flick a lever and they're wiped away.

Monday Morning Dirt

I have barely left the house in two weeks. Sometimes it seems like more. I really don’t know anymore. I have been on the internet a lot. So thats good. I also get to hang out with some cute dogs. So thats good.

You can download this feature called Sumbleupon. It’s pretty cool. It picks website for you to check out based on your preferences. I apologize in advance for all the wasted time.

Looks like Aaron Rodgers may be hooking up with Mila Kunis. Which would be pretty awesome for him. He’s still a Californian though, so whatever.

While were at it lets take a trip around the NFC North to see what’s shaking.

It’s reported that Minnesota could be angling towards starting Donavan McNabb next year. And I cringe at the thought of it but in the short term the Vikings still have a lot of talent, at pretty much every position on the field. And McNabb has proven himself to be one of the finest quarterbacks still playing today (at the tale end of a career mind you). So he may be the best answer at this point and time as the Vikings try to maintain the present while building toward the future.

Honestly, last season was terrible for the Vikings and McNabb. I would be surprised if it was that way again.

Kevin Kolb is another fun option.

I hear from my sources that the Lions are drafting a huge wide receiver or a glass boned quarterback.

The Bears, the Bears, the Bears...

And the Packers won the Super Bowl. So until they ARE NOT world champions I won’t worry about them.

I saw Somewhere last week or so. It must be sad to be famous. Seems hard. Stephen Dorff was excellent and Sophia Coppola’s shot selection was stunning and fitting. I would recommend it to anyone.

Man ON DEMAND can be a real boner sometimes. I do like re-watching episodes of The Sopranos at least

My friend Parker once said that the say that the Mona Lisa or the Statue Of David are considered great art but that there is no greater piece of art than the entire series of The Sopranos. Which seems true.

Baseball season is coming round the bend. And there are a lot of reasons to be excited in Milwaukee because Eric Gagne is coming back to play first base. He’s not really. I remember when Gagne and Derrick Turnbow were on the same team, now that was fun - No Brewer lead was too great that they couldn't make it disappear.

B.O.B Brewer bash is on again for this year. I hear there will be two barrels. Which means I will get punched in the head twice as much.

I love baseball. And I live right by the stadium now so maybe I’ll start riding my bike there. I just need to slim down so I don’t feel as miserable powering down ten hot dogs on dollar a piece night.

In other new Modus Operandi will be playing at two film fests coming up. One in Texas and one in Denmark. Check out the web ads I shot with Modus star Mark Borchardt. Cool dude.

I’m going to start taking more pictures. I don’t take enough.

I started eating healthier about a week ago and it has been going pretty good. I feel a lot better day to day. besides the whisky swimming around in the old brain. One thing at a time.

My (budget) food suggestions for the week:

Ground Round Happy Hour !!! - 25 cent wings, 5 dollar sampler platter, 241 drinks and free popcorn. Dope.

Number 1 chinese - Chicken Teriyaki sticks

Rio West Cantina (Humboldt) - Dollar tacos on Tuesday.

Also, I suggest drinking Kefir, it is tasty and good for your stomach.

Five Things I Learned This Week

1. Dogs are awesome.

2. I’m glad yesterday is over. terrible.

3. Even a small amount of planning when it comes to diet and exercise can help. Just think about it. If you don’t feel good. Do something about it.

4. Casino’s are for Satan.

5. Everything can’t be blamed on someone all the time. Life is not an endless cycle of faults. Sometimes things are what they are. No use agonizing over it, just take care of it and move on. Just move on.

Also Happy Birthday Deb Williamson !!!

Thanks for joining me for this weeks installment of Monday Morning Dirt

True

It doesn't matter to me. I know the difference between a house and a lampshade.

Not Saying You Like Church And Stuff...

this is insane. CHAPEL

Please Get To Forgiving

I buttoned the last button

took the last walk

sang all the wrong words

talked the bad talk

That Was A Doozy.

Maureen called and we went up the road to the Toys R Us. We couldn't anything and rode the scooter until a worker kicked us out.

We snuck into a movie at Rock and I spilled bong water on the floor.

Eventually someone decided to go to the Hostess outlet store and get some cheap muffins. We didn't have enough money. We poked some stuff and got out of there.

I found 75 cents outside the mall so we went to the arcade and played the Dungeon and Dragons video game. We got pretty far then died.

And I would have gotten an Orang Julius, mom said they were the tops. Went to the hemp store instead and some pretty girl chatted with Maureen. She may have been a lesbian.

Eventually we drove past the Best Buy and the run down gas station and then out of town. She wouldn't turn the music on I put my hand on her thigh.

We pulled up next to a busted motel.

“Wait here” Maureen said and got out of the car.

She dropped an envelope in a black box on the wall and we drove on.

Phenomena

"A man is whatever room he stands in," I heard someone say.  What room does a ghost stand in?  The cosmos is his only room.  Wall are vapor, night and day a strobe, calendars compartmentalize alien characters that blur and imitate each other.  To be a ghost is to not be attached to much, to have the whole world be your black and infinite dream, with no landmark but the incinerated ruins smoldering in the lacunas of their thoughts.  To be a ghost is to be nameless and shapeless and without confine, so diluted you no longer exist.

Life concentrates us, the skin parameters us like the turrets and chain links of a death camp.  When it rots away, the wind blows through and scatters us like the christening toot of a newly hollowed piccolo scatters it's inner sheddings with a flat note.  And so maybe the two-dimensional flecks of sensations past, like chips of glass slides soaked in a bacterial ooze, could be swept together from the floor and smelted into a new form with a familial trace of its ancestor.  Maybe at night it would dream of the whoosh of wind when a door opened or the nameless thing that hovered about an acquaintance's face, something that chimed and then faded when we swiveled to look it full on.

Kisses are lost.

I know the difference between a taco and a pimple. Thank you very much. I know a lot of things you think i don’t.

I know what collars are.

I know teeth aren’t.

i know what a cage is for sure.

I know why trees die.

I know how to get out of the box.

I know what a mirror won’t show.

I know how small a penis can get.

I know everything.

So on. and so forth

Goodbye, so long, sweet nothings.

Your love forever,

Arlo Onasis

Hot Sausage And Mustard !!!

quit making tired excuses, I know what to do, with the kittens at home,

crying all alone on the kitchen floor, cause they hungry, and the only way to feed em,

Sleeping with a man for a little bit of money.

enough to by a little smidge of milk or a little bit of tuna,

and you open the can and they so excited. Running up to you all crazy.

They don’t understand tired excuses, might as well keep them to yourself.

Un fantasma en la casa

for a moment doubt that it was the same

I hate you too, well, you first.

A dog ready told you

Siblings, cousins, sweethearts - either way they got somebody.

a letter

Hi guys,

I don’t know what’s wrong with me. Probably a lot of things. There is a bunch of snow, things seem hard but they really aren’t. I can’t even bring myself to do my bullshit online college work. I want to move but I don’t know what good it would do.

I don’t know whether to stand or sit or read or write - so I watch movies I don’t really like and order chicken teriyaki from Number 1. Which is good but it won’t make you happy.

If only appetizers and Madden could make you whole. but they can’t.

No point in this really. But sometimes you should tell your friends how you feel.

love, Sean

The Year That Everyone Died - Part 21 - I'm Not Here To Fall In Love

follow the adventures of Steve Wilson in WWD's new series The Year That Everyone Died

I got the dead, this is the witching hour.

i got the dead, this is the witching hour

and I know the witching nothing don’t mean good damn nothing and my head - it just spins like a thimble balancing so nimble, just like that we the same. Not borrowing nothing, fighting with claw feet, deadly, nothing, ashamed.

And I can see the crow struggling, the one that he told me about, his friend, his friend, his friend - I don’t lie em, not at all, -

It’s time to get down.

So I tear myself from the bottom of an endless dream, where I’m nothing - I lost ever thing - ash mark fool of the modern useless and foolish and hopeless - all scars.

And gasp for one trillion pounds of air I’ll never receive.

And I may as well be dead - but I’m not. I see the girl from college and a few more now, standing in the field , shrugging, so useless - and Im just pushing away from a hill - I crash landed, was no one and going so proud.

-

And I get splashed in the face by cold smelling water.

And then he’s right in front of me, this Powers Boothe looking mother fuck, craggly ass dude. staring me in the eye. and his friends are behind him.

the long white haired dude. the bald dude, and they all got stupid ass Carhart’s overalls.

but I can only see out of one eye, because they caved in the other one - but fuck this cock sucker - I’ve seen Deadwood - Powers Boothe is a pussy.

So I take a straight swing and biff into the ground because they tied me to the chair. Who would have figured? And then these old douche bags stand me back up and laugh.

-

They tell me something.

-

I am dead. I should have assumed I was done for.

These old dudes are drinking out of weird jars and laughing it out. The contents of their jars are glowing.

And this Powers Boothe looking mother fucker just keeps eyeballing me.

and I look down at the ropes that are keeping me tied to the chair. A little bit of twine, some sinew if you’re lucky,

let em say this now -

if you arent ready now, you never will be.

And I tip over really hard and i think for a second I black out.

-

I wake for a second and they’re fighting. can you believe it? These fucking idiots, I have read the lord of the rings. I know how to escape some shit.

And some old guy crashes into me and all of a sudden my hand is free.

They are fighting over me and I get my foot free and my other hand.

I lay still for a second and look at my car still in their parking lot. They must have moved me to a pole shed away from the bar.

Carter peeks his head up from the back of the car and i know, right there, i am going ... to .... fuck ... these ... mother ... fuckers ... up ...

And I punch as hard as I can into the dude right in front of me ...

And they are surprised and he buckles and falls back. And I turn real hard and punch the other way and that dude - the one who looks like Powers Boothe goes down.

-

In the end I don’t know what they were fighting over.

and I am running -

this fucking place is insane, it is endless corridors of liquid jars with different labels. And I run -

G Vivanco

R Vanlandut

G Smith

G O’ Leary

T, Basing

D Groom

P Wind

D Carlton

-

I loom over all their jars before I find one that seems right.

It is her name after all -

Jordy Nelson

That’s right, her name is Jordy Nelson - and there is a zero percent chance I would remember her name if it wasn't the same as a Packer player.

but i do remember - and you better get used to me.

I grab her jar and run.

I push through a swinging metal door and run to my car. I get in and start it. Carter pooped on the back seat. I'm not angry.

-

And these fuckers, Powers Boothe looking and silver head and beardo - they are mid chase.

I stop and stand still. The jar glows on the seat next to me.

-

It is a long weird ride to Milwaukee.

We stop the gas station outside of Oshkosh and I get some Fritos and a Pepsi ... ok, and some peach rings. but that was it.

I look at the jar in my hands, it’s slightly glowing, the memory of someone else’s past - I see glimpses of the girl from college's past, dancing in the jar.

And though Steve Wilson, you may not have been there, but you're are expected to keep these memories safe.

And you realize Steve Wilson - you have seen something that people don't see and things will never be the same, god bless.

-

I sit in my uncles basement and pour the contents of the jar on the ground. It is peaceful and the contents softly coo as I pour them out.

down the drain, down the drain.

I see the girls from the dreams spiraling out.,

she does not leave for good. she turns and looks at me, I turn away and smile a pursed lipped smile.

god bless.

-

one thing that is lasting.

this tale may have been badly spelled and non-sensical. but I don’t care if you don’t.

I would like you to keep some things in mind.

If you’re a girl I may kiss you, probably would, low down, no frown, happen I should.

If you’re a man I may miss you, will do, no shoes, I promise.

I took a cab to Rita’s house house and knocked on the door, and she answered and I all of a sudden- said the best thing I ever did.

I said.

“And I am sorry, which I can’t say enough, wanting to catch up, with every terrible person I am, but I can’t, I wont, I wont. And after I turn to dust and all my friends turn to dust, and after everyone I ever knew turns to dust”

And I took a deep breathe.

“And after every Big Mac and Whopper or Whopper Jr, or Crunch Wrap Supreme, or Wendy’s Double Stack or Nacho grande or four piece fried chicken meal or (good forbid) the double down - when all these distractions turn to dust -

I will be there waiting.

For all of these sweet nothings, to turn to dust."

And I finally know who I am. I am a ghost hunter. Steve Wilson in a ghost hunter. I finally know what to do.

Not sure what’s going on? Click here for the pilot episode of The Year That Everyone Died.

The Year That Everyone Died - Part 20 - Are You Ready For Some Foosball?

follow the adventure of Steve Wilson in WWD’s new series The Year That Everyone Died

Most people haven't been to Ashland and unless you like camping or hunting or hanging out in an old woman of a town.

But I guess by that logic nobody in the world or in time has really been anywhere because collectively we haven't collectively been anywhere-

of course you could say that in that same token - we have all been everywhere. But some glasses are one way and some the other.

I drive into Ashland on highway 2, man thats a little number for a highway. Does that mean it was the second highway ever?

If I find the first i can trace history.

For a while I drive along side of Lake superior which is an arrogant thing to call one of the Great Lakes - They’re all great right? It really is magnificent though. I stop and get out for a minute and breath the lake air. Huts sit on the ice as far as I can see and I long for the solidarity of one small shack, a twelve back of beer and a mini television - shit, I prolly wouldn't even drill a hole in the ice.

I’ve been stalling long enough, wasted enough time. Twenty Five years to be exact.

It’s time to find him. Lester Puloski, what kind of fucked up name is that? Sounds like a character Gabriel Byrne would play.

There is a swooping main street that leads down a long hill and back up towards a school behind swaying branches and high power lines. And I hit the gas station and buy a butterfinger and ask the gas station attendant if they know Puloski.

“Sure” the attendant says. “Good guy. Runs the taxidermy half mile from here.”

“Do you know where I can find him?”

“Well, super bowl is tomorrow. I don’t know if you’re from here but the Packers are playing.”

I don’t tell her I am a Vikings fan. Its a good way to get lynched when the Packers are in the playoffs - which is a bit of a stretch - but natives may feel genuine disdain for who you are and everything you stand for - its like that.

I nod and say “I know”

“Well, all the old timers been drinking all yesterday, all today, all tomorrow and all monday. And if the Pack wins they’ll keep it going for a few days after that - till one of them dies or has a stroke.”

“Devotion” I say.

“Devotion” she says.

-

“McCoy’s” it was called and snowmobiles and pickup trucks surrounded the tiny structure. Behind the bar streams separated a system of lonely drifting fields. The wind swirls and mashes against itself as the sun turns towards the horizon. Pulling my hood over my head I run inside.

Carter would be fine in the car. He liked the car.

-

Wisconsin doesn't fuck around when it comes to the Packers.

Inside McCoy’s two plasma televisions replay the Packers three previous playoff games. And old timers and young timers cheer as Jay Cutler pouts on the Bears bench.

and the wings are going around and the pitchers are emptying as faster than they can be filled.

And if I wasnt looking for some grave information this could be the coolest day of my fucking life.

But I walk to the bar and ask the tender if Puloski is in the bar. He motions with an arthiritic hand to a hallway that leads to another smaller room toward the back of the bar.

I walk alone down the hallway and turn the corner to see three dusty old dudes sitting under a giant poster of Elsa Benitez - who is painfully hot...

Don’t get distracted Steve.

I clear my throat as I approach three men in Carhart jackets and say “I need to ask Puloski a question, which one of you is Puloski?”

“I am.” Says a man with thick glasses and a Powers Boothe grill.

“Someone sent me to ask you a question.” I say.

“Who?” he asks.

“I can’t remember her name.” I say “But I think you stole her heart.”

And his eyes flare like a dragons nostrils.

And then I’m struck in the back of the head. I go under.

Not sure what’s going on? Click here for the pilot episode of The Year That Everyone Died

are we here now, where the futon tends to fly?

the spine of days

from the shift freedom overword experiments:

a cowlicked lemondrop's
hiatus on the plain,
scorpio-haggled tentpole stars
shroud his stallion loose again

his minute marriage's climax
to he table of catawampus sand
as the moon steeps in mountain peaks
compañeros sojourn from their bivouac again

The Year That Everyone Died - Part 19 - Monster Sandwich

follow the adventures of Steve Wilson in WWD’s new series The Year That Everyone Died

“Hello” I say and the wind and snow streams between me and a cloaked figure. It’s so small and doesn't say anything to me. It wears a coat with a fur around the hood. Over the wind I can barely hear it say:

“Don’t worry, I’m a woman not a man.”

Which was weird because I wasn't worried about that.

“You should come with me. It isn't safe here. I heard over the radio it won’t stop snowing tonight.”

I don’t know her. Or anyone and it’s getting darker. So fuck it.

-

She leads me and carter through the blizzard to a shack settled in a cluster of trees and with some effort slides open a door. I shut the door and the world outside turns to nothing. It is silent and the figure pulls down her hood.

She had a small wrinkly head and tight curls of shock white hair. She looked at me for a moment before smiling and winking her one dead eye.

“What happened to your eye?” I asked “I’m sorry, that’s rude.”

“It is, a little” she said.

-

It was a small shack but cozy. I must say, I always wanted a shack. She’s got some canned goods a bed a radio. A tiny black and white television flutters near the center of the room behind that a wood stove and a little cupboard area with a sink.

The was a also a shit ton of water filled jugs lining the wall.

She turns the dial to an episode of the Lawrence Welk Show. She stares for a while at the screen before motioning to a chair to the left of the television. I sit.

“I saw Lawrence Welk once as a girl. He was doing a show in Milwaukee. Me and my sister ran up and kissed him on the cheek. He smiled and hugged us. That was some night.”

I nodded. it sounded fun.

“Would you like some of my sandwich, I bought it from the store, can you believe they only charge six dollars for this” She produced a mammoth sized sandwich.

“I know” I said. “Makes you feel stupid for getting anything else.”

We shared the sandwich and drank some Pabst she had dangling off the back door knob.

“What are you doing out here? didn't you know the snow was coming?” She asked.

“Paying attention to shit was never my strong suit.”

“Fair enough.” She said.

We were silent for a while.

“I’m stalling.” I said after a while.

“It’s dangerous stuff.” The one eyed woman said. “You’re life isn't individually precious. Individuality is the worst thing to ever happen to this world.”

I chuckled a little bit even though I knew she was serious.

“You excited for the super bowl?”

“Yeah! What day is today?” I ask.

“Friday.” She shook her head. “Kids these days.”

-

And we talked for a while about how I’m stupid and how her dad was an alcoholic and how booze couldn't kill north woods petrified wood - whatever that means

Then she cackled for a long while and screamed:

“WISCONSIN BORN, WISCONSIN BREAD, AND WHEN I DIE - I’ll BE WISCONSIN DEAD”

and we both laughed our asses off.

And I fell asleep.

-

And I dreamt there were more. Clamoring towards me - telling me the work is never over.

-

I woke and the one eyed woman was shaking me. It was roasting in her cabin. little fire has a lot of power contained like that.

“C’mon son. I had my cousin come down and plow the road. Storm is over. Time for you to go, stop stalling.”

And me and carter staggered out to the car and got in. The one eyed woman knocked on the window and I rolled it down.

“I’m Carolyn and you’re welcome here anytime you want.”

I nodded and looked down at my lap.

“Thank you. I’m Steve.”

“Son, I don’t think you have a clue what you are.”

And she walked away. And I drove toward Ashland.

Not sure what’s going on? Click here for the pilot episode of The Year That Everyone Died

Sven Briar, '87 Fleetwood, I-77 S

LISTEN TO THIS WHILE READING (open in new tab)


In the backseat, resting on the soft fabric of someone next to you's sweatshirt and you're mostly gone, but sometimes occasionally the headlights of oncoming cars break into your dream and some part of what's playing on the radio, maybe just the bass or the backup singers' part seeps into the snowglobe world behind your sealed eyes and feels like something vibrating out the surface of your brain instead of thundering in from outer space.

Maybe you wake up and it is true night, the kind that doesn't exist in a home, the time where there is no time, when the numbers on the radio are green blurs and your head feels stuffed with old quilts.  It is like a dandelion seed knocking around in the breeze, it's free.  You're nostalgic for what you've left and hopeful for what you approach.  You're the light from a dying star on its journey to the big wet eyes of a fluffy young stargazing earthling dog, on an infinite journey, half-conscious and taking in the view.

You could put a potato chip in your mouth and crunch it against the roof of your mouth with your tongue, let the sound and the texture and the flavor dissolve into your nerves together, anonymously strumming on your senses.  You could smoke a cigarette right now and it would perforate your soul like a shot of heroin and let the night wind make concourse inside of it.  Your soul is on a zipline and the real bottom is death, that is the sub-basement below sleep that you know by its scent, fruity and decrepit, in this earthy cellar of sleepiness.  Death is a silver pool, cold and cushy, but that's not where you're going.  You can't grasp the handle that long.  Something may occur to you.  Just an idea, but one that's dense, it is a hub of other ideas that turn on after its activation, it's a domino figure 8 or a design painted in gasoline after just one corner is ignited and then your whole head is on fire and you have to remember that you have a name and a place that belong to you, that you've cuffed yourself to rails and bedposts all over town, not even that you've made mistakes, just that you made decisions, that you steered the rudder instead of floating up and with the wind like a helium balloon to be hugged by vapors and gawked at by gulls.  You have a pair of pants and a toothbrush with your spit drying on it, there are papers, hundreds and thousands of them, that bare your name.  You take up space instead of spiriting through it.

These proteins that are vehicles for your images and thoughts slide into slots like numbered balls in a lottery drawing and it burns your head like when your arm wakes up and the blood stabs back into your veins.  And then you're just a man in a car and it's late and you're tired and there's 8 more hours to go.