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fresh scribbles..

I stepped on a dried-up crow’s husk laying on the edge between the lawn and the sidewalk. I tried to miss it by tripping at the last moment, but it still made a puke-crunch.

Woke up inside that ravine between life and dread. I found a day in that time that doesn’t let you forget the drunken night before, doing all those things you’d sworn off. I promised I wouldn’t fuck any more girls too ugly for the sober, just because I’d put myself out of their league the next day. The less a virgin, the more egotistical I’d get.

I’m in the best shape of my life; pretty soon I’ll be covered in herpes sores. For now, I’ll stick with sweaty novices, bumpy-backed and a little toothy. The worst thing about my trot back home is the taste of my mouth, cigar tar and gummy spit. The rims of the sky are overglued to the trees – I can see the excess white leaking over. Didn’t take my contacts out last night, so the distance looks pixilated enough to be someone else’s rendering. I can barely force my eyelids over the lenses. There’s a bruise on my arm from the coffee table, and I’m a little deaf.

I flew a fighter through nine layers of explosion and all I took was a tickling under the wings. All I took was a riveting through my nude reclining pinup. I realized my ace dream of pre-war carriages, then stayed behind in the ‘20s long enough to get drafted. Sans birth certificate, whatever. No idea how handsome I am, but seems like in these times all that matters is the decorations. Paraded through in ugly messes of purple gauze, I’m as likely to cum as get three strains of syphilis. The latter’s more likely, climax or not. I’ll take self-stimulation at 10,000 feet, moaning on a blank channel.

These planes don’t come with stereos. Did they even have radio back now? Probably at about a thousand watts. No college radio, yet, or if there is they’re playing the football game or the Glee Club. This is as close as I’ve come to being cut from leather and metal. I had tried my cowhand, but didn’t dig the saddle sores. I’m fighting insignias in a 20th century war with 19th century tactics. Rush the Gatling. Torch the kamikazes coming down in their hailstorm skids. I learned one thing: there aren’t many perfect explosions. If I can time it right, maybe I’ll go down dramatic.

Pumping that whore full of holes was wonderful. Rode her on a rag mattress in a sunny Europe. Lots of spirochetes paddling around in that trade juice. I couldn’t tell in all that light. Lots of hairs growing out of both of us. Back in the air at 0800. I’m getting under this skin. I’ve got dreams of a saltbox house, beehive hair, and a radio cabinet.

Missed out on all of that. I woke up in the wrong place with a billboard stake through my shoulder, crushing bone out the hole. I turned the thing over, day and all, and finished mowing the front yard. Those stakes killed all the grass, but one of ‘em slipped down a mole hole and finished off the pesky bastard, ran him through the shoulder. I tuned my machine a little and got myself big enough to buy a few more acres. There were a few houses on the property, but I tossed them in the lake.

I realized that was all a dream; I’m still too small to throw those houses myself. Hitched them to the back of my Big Wheel and dragged them to the ocean instead. They should thank me – they’ve lost a basement but gained a view.