Musings of the Reverend Meduri and Dr. Jackass
Experimentations in Literary Groin Punches
Friday, July 11, 2003
 
underneath the morning sun setting later than usual up in its perch as summer would have it, fit and wistful for the sleepy drudgery of the winter months growing swift as the immediate rain. he stood screaming at the traffic from the catwalk prisonyard protected height hung teasingly above the danger and speed below, nothing registering to his plugged in mind about rationale, about the life of a human being in general. Instinct alone had him screaming at those herds of grinding squealing burning combustion beasts as they attempt to expedite the trials of free movement as much as law allows.
Out at night, in alone trapped and isolated by the constant blackout, the pitch walls regularly smothering the liv function, subsisting on resiliency and the luck of life to sustain willpower to carry breath on over to that future time when the walls are pulled back again for a brief period of agonizing hell. Like now, screaming at autos and their buzzing humming organic central processors. he screams a bit more eradically when he gets warmer to the center of all of his misery. He unravels the black cancerous wrappings as if he would enjoy ripping the skin from his body slowly and erotically, a few layers at a time until he bleeds the pure red and the pain is so lovingly pure that he could black out forever; put the big black lock box on the consciousness.
The temp job blackout thing does have its upsides in subplots and thrilling amusement. He rides the black wave in to the bright shore with uncontrollable speed and a jarring sense of discontinuity, watching the tapes played back uncut, with no smooth transitions to explain the action.
Smiles, laughs, yells, black.
SCREAMING blood fucking murderous hell about foreign policy to a congregation of transportation aides assisting the murky and stagnant morning commuters.
Screaming bloodthirsty battle woes of the unemployment trenches.
Shouting obscenities of a full bouquet at landlocked and smog ridden tree prisoners.
cowering at the realization that he hates nothing except his own inadequacies; but he exacts revenge for this hate in the most warped, unholy and generally unproductive and destructive manner.
System overheating jolly fat killing liquor swilling smoke blackens his inner pouches as consistently as there is food money to sacrifice in its honor.
I wished to beat him, suffer his addiction for anger misplacement and personal abuse.
But he would kill me. So we're necessity friends like gravity, pulling each other towards stability so as not to concede an indication of frailty for the other to exploit.
we are our own title and body, just fanciful playthings of some other mind some other place so we can continue to shed the too tight skin of reason and accountability in favor of a more free form interpretation of the path of the living.
 
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Home place with writes from guys both one Meduri Preacher. Two healer of Donkies. E-mail drjackass@gmail.com with question.

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