Musings of the Reverend Meduri and Dr. Jackass
stiffle the natural way:
give me open air.
baby boy needs food
dad has no money to spend:
now he drinks his beer.
to all the fringe of the bell:
now it makes no sound.
--silly haiku's from rev. m
Walking along a wooded path
Torrents of cold biting at my brow
Vision nothing but drab blue
It's dark, but the neon-green/blue infrared warmth of a pig apparates
He/she is trapped behind a fence, moving with utter silence
it tries to smell my shoes
I hop the fence, eluding the animal
Descending the hill, a strip mall comes into view
I can't ever recall this being here. Maybe in a dream I once had...
Endless rows of rear/service doors materialize
I reach for the door, grasp the cold steel handle
Open to reveal a concrete rubbish depository
Piles of filthy rags, obscuring sleeping transients
They shift and irk
So many of them, piled on top of one another
One of them speaks: "..."
No words expelled, no air displaced
He has an accent
how did I detect that?
I advance throught the concrete room, around
stone gray bends, around
overflowing dumpsters, around
intense gradient light refracting around
The cavernous tunnel leads into a giant parking structure.
Rows of tightly spaced and stacked carports give way to more above and below.
Here I rejoin my party:
4 or 5 of them (I can't make out)
fresh faced and nostalgic; so full of rememberance that I can't
remember at all
We make our way up (down?) out of this place.
It smells, I think
We find a discarded vehicle
Jeep-like, in working shape
We start it up, the engine grow echoes to infinity growing in intensity replicating splitting oscillating
We pass hundreds of derelicts,
[cyber]punked out. Dressed in trash and black leather
holes in nose and ears.
Eyes black as ethereal singularity
Wielding trash weapons/sharp-edged metal
I pound on the accelerator
We see the exit
Motor cries out as we leap into the air, triumphantly escaping
Crashing as the frame hits the pavement
Emerging in an open sky
slate-gray and flame-peppered
suffocatingly close to our heads
valley of the dead
The corners of my vision close in,
Iris closes in Darkness
feel the body limp
shaky hand and head so wrong
then it says, "watch the wind
and hear the francis bacon
up the nose and through the brain
all hitched on the tails of the train
that pulls the stuffing right out of me.