parallax rodeo

i shattered a great globe with my feet hands, wavering now, light fogged my vision and gave birth to floating star spots. A moron in fussy dungarees smokes, unzipped, burned by a hot button. The story of his toothache and his headache and his stomach and his nerves and his shit and his mind and pancreas and whatever all else was written in bits and pieces, objects and garbage speckling the room in their gravity prisons. I often imagine the ashtray drifting in a cloud of carbon dust, my tobacco slouch clutching crusty puffs, sending off the lamp like an air balloon, until the tug of weightlessness gently wrests its plug from the wall socket. i retreat to fantasies of this kind in the desert of my life. parched, mad times, tall as saguaro and just as thorny. a jungle time came and i soaked the lobster of my mind in a buttery roil of tiger blood rhythms, sticky tree fronds caterpillaring with poison, catamaraning with lemurs for skis down a mountain of skulls. thats when im cruising. Through the bevoodooed eye of a caribbean puffer fish i noticed some things on the walk; the possum corpse lingered on the spike at the end of a crumpled fence for as long as the dead squirrel remained impaled on the wrought iron post in the acid rain holocaust theme park. There are also a bunch of fishsticks drinking mezcal in the carpark. fleshies and trapezoids spotted hobknobbing in the grain silos, anti-political mouth terrorists pillaging libraries with a congressional identity crapped in the district attorney's clubhouse. A carefully planned tuna heist carbureted the getaway to polynesia, monkey-wrenched kiwi poachers, and coughed up a misty lake of desires. plenty going on out there. it is not some parallax rodeo on a scarfy level. its charlemagne. it's heck thomas, a tough lawman in indian territory. it's alan lomax recording a butterfly with a rectangle. it's blackbird, the first blind ping pong ball champion. it's the Tlingits reenacting family sagas, or the plaster coated robot bird head chewing affectionately on your finger while the theremin breaks the sound barrier in a dream where johnny cash keeps on changing into george c. scott, a scotch bonnet that radiates a cow family farm carpet.