The Prodigal Daughter

“Isn’t that just like a wop. Brings a knife to a gun fight”

The Untouchables

“‘Hey, nothing’s impossible.’ The hippie seemed annoyed. ‘And I’ll tell you where you’ve been living: in someone else’s dream. Probably still are, or will be again soon. So relax.’”

Jonathan Lethem
Amnesia Moon

i went to the bottom of the earth via an explosion
i came back up to the top via an ice pick
it was a blue sky patterned with emerging stars and a harvest moon
the best and worst luck i have known was when the earths’
shadow did not caress the moon like a sickle
and all of this is random and all of this is coincidence
but let us ride it out into an evening
on thundering horse hooves with blinders on

In Dreams:
I always start in the house that I live in but it always looks different. Sometimes it’s white and clean and large down the stairs. Other times it’s dingy and the windows are covered with old sheets. In my dreams I’m told I’m gay. I meet black men with diseased daughters that have bumps on their fingers. I hunt down girls that call me in reality late at night and demand that I stop talking to my ex. I see people that I never see and feel repulsed when they touch me. I ride in a magic car with a maniac driving into other cars but we go right through them. I feel awake in my dreams. Men cut me with chainsaws and I can feel it. Marylin Manson stalks me outside of a strip mall but it turns out to be Brian Setzer and he’s quite pleasant. I meet a cat with glowing eyes. In dreams he tells me he loves me and then turns his back. In dreams I get to touch her hair. I’m not awkward and I’m not strange.

In Reality:
I always start in my house and it’s the same. My day starts before dawn and I’m not sure how much longer I can take it. My days don’t vary much. I see the same people. Today I did get to touch her hair. I feel strange and awkward. I am confused and numb. I always feel tired. A continuous loop. He’s never divulged such intimate information.

Shit I know. But I made another soup.

1 leek
2 red potatoes (you don’t have to peel them)
1 carrot
2 cobs of cooked corn (whatever that is)
oil, garlic, salt, paprika
3 cups of water

same deal
coarsely cut leek, carrot, and corn off the cob
cube the potatoes
sauté leek and carrot until slightly tender in oil
cover with water
add potatoes and corn and seasoning
bring to a boil and then lower the temp until the potatoes cook
scoop a little under half out and blend with hand blender
recombine with soup
serve

>>>>>>>>>BEGIN TRANSMISSION:
                            lining windows and curb sides(stop)
                            bottles are being emptied by singles(stop)
                                    (a reach for brightness and a push
                                          to become yer own god)(stop)
	
humans can feel alone with
wrong translations of the
good book. book. book.
	
we all know that it's all the same
story told in a million ways
passed through learned noise
patterns that we label as speech
	
                                  we are derivative(stop)
	
in a church on sunday she learned her sins
and imagined that god was a big bearded man
sitting on top of a cloud and looking down
on his experiment that he named human existence
later she decided it was all a lie and left
it abandoned on her mother's doorstep
now she looks up to the sky and sees the space
beyond the reaction of the atmosphere to ocean water
and she knows she is one god among many
	
chaos can create destiny
as can one human being created
at first an obsolete to become one
among many others in a throng
of voices and stories and
human experience of connectivity
	
                            lining windows and curb sides(stop)
                            bottles are being emptied by singles(stop)
                                    (a reach for brightness and a push
                                          to become yer own god)(stop)
	
humans are never alone
when re translating their own
good book. book. book.
	
even if it is the same story it
can be told in your own way with
an earnest will in the voice
that your parents gave you
	
                                  we are derivative(STOP)
	
                                  :END TRANSMISSION<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<

>>>>>>>>>BEGIN TRANSMISSION:
                            concrete never rests on haunches(stop)
                            slow moving emergency vehicles in traffic(stop)
		                     (suicide sirens shriek in the distance
                                      at the top of red cherry lungs)(stop)
	
violence reacts with violence
peace is an idea in paper
tearing it down. down. down.
	
this city by the river was once
a nation's political capital
now a nation's killing capital
while culture perpetuates its ignorance
	
                                  we own murder(stop)
	
the killing of the innocent is
always a tragedy that every one reads to
discuss in break rooms and living quarters
it is not something that they can
do anything about but talk because it's
an accident in a circular pattern
of human violence and makes for a good
news story that becomes exploited
for a greater cause within the city limits
	
terrorism is localized on city streets
the populace only fears each other
international threats are abstractions
read about in head lines; a sense of
apathy washes over them like fountain spray
	
                            concrete never rests on haunches(stop)
                            slow moving emergency vehicles in traffic(stop)
		                     (suicide sirens shriek in the distance
                                      at the top of red cherry lungs)(stop)
	
words should react with action
violence is a city's reality
tearing it down. down. down.
	
this city by the river can be beautiful
when the sun sets by the bridge
while ignorance is chosen so that
an overwhelming sadness does not prevail
	
                                  we own murder(STOP)	
	
                                  :END TRANSMISSION< <<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<

“The Motorcycle Boy!”
“I wonder why somebody hasn’t blown his head off.”
“Even the most primitive society has an innate respect for the insane.”

Rumble Fish
S.E. Hinton