Freewriting (Hairy red rocks, emotional alligators and defying God)

This is some wicked stuff, I love doing it. Anyone can do it. Take a pen and a pad and write the very first words that come into your mind, and follow the path that it takes you. It works better on paper, but typing works as well. Whoever the hell is actually reading this (Thanks, by the way) should do it and show it to me.

An airplane or an unbalanced forfeiture of thought and grievances is what it takes to live in this land and be realized, be a king or an emperor, or anything even remotely close. It is like being a child only without the worries, and with more strength and balance and coordination, it takes a while for you to truly understand the grasp it holds and what it has on you, so much more skill but less class, like an onion peeled revealing the layers below, each one more lucid and more fantastic, more unappreciated and farther away from civilization and the light, the spotlight and the American dream. Why don’t we go for a walk on the stars, hopping from one to the next, treetrop to treetop, solar complexities like that are something we don’t see enough of, too much violence and perverts in the newspaper, even working for the newspaper, it would be better if they were in the sky or shoved away somewhere to stay for a while, a pleasant vacation or a snack for a queen that has a thousand mouths and no belly so they would come right out unharmed but changed, like ants in an insanity ward.

It is for the dogs when you realize your hand is red and your face is droopy, the skin on your left finger has grown old and pale and less spectral than the rest. It looks distinguished like a bearded old man but appearances can be very clever and important to handling peace and other terms of endearment, especially globally. It is a true sigh being the only calf in a whorehouse or a lie in a milk jug spinning around and dancing with the last droplet left, loving it and kissing it until it dries up and leaves and marries the air and the earth and then jealousy comes, your second wife, and the marriage is turbulent but it lasts forever and is committed, not like the succulent droplet of milk or the apple combs in the wavy hills of England or the sweat beads on an exercise machine, they love you too but it would never be the same.

Giving birth to fog and to a ferocious king, waving his scepter at all the clocks and all the slaves, waving it at you and his people, he cares little but he wants to look like he understands, maybe he does but who is to say, it is a trial of mind when you go down that road, the same road that an axe or a purring kitten will take you, golden and worn, trodded down for centuries and beaten with baseball bats and fallen trees and rain, the feeling is like greasy leather when you touch it’s pavement, but it is never warm to the touch, only cold, but it is a warm cold like Christmas or an ice cake, or the penguin sculptures grandma used to make out of coal and the tire fires of Winter.

Strife like the texture of a paper, winding and turning and throwing up pieces of childhood, fenced away for later pondering. If you time it right, maybe you will get pity, and the animals next door will come for a tea party, for a snack or a jazz dance. That seems to be the pattern, people complain about the economy even though they don’t understand what an economy is, like jumping on a train that goes to another universe, another plane of existence, where your skin turns inside out and the bugs inside you are finally freed, and people can see who you really are, an alien.

Your fingernails grow because they try to escape you, like an embarrassed friend at a family outing slowly inching away, until finally you cut them off, and they disappear. It’s like that with the rhinos and the dinosaurs and mammals of the beach, and the very high Gods who attack the low Gods, it merits a certain award but none is given, because we have none and do not have the skills to make such a thing, but we want to oh so very much, we would rend our own limbs and present them to you, steaming on a plate with vegetables and curry sauce, with tomes of garish beautiful pelicans etched into existence by our own identities and our own false bearings on life.

Try it on, pat it dry and then squeal to the kingdom that raised you. They think you are one of them, even look up to you and think you are perfect, but your ears are devious and the floodgates will soon open and bring you to the ice calf of the golden surreal.

You might want to cry when you see the people with baseball bats are swinging it at your favorite sun, using it as a ball and sending it across the ocean to the next series of quiet events. It will take a while for you to get used to it, used to the quietness, used to everything about it, but day by day you will grow another pair of arms and be able to catch it and throw it back, and they will catch it in their teeth, and cry a flood of tears so rancid it will make the universe quake and gag. At least, that’s what the kids at school tell me, they tell me a lot of things but that is one I remember, it reminds me of a fairy tale or a bear on stilts maybe at a Russian circus or a Czech play, it is like running Dime in football or killing a man with a jackhammer, but those are awful things, you might not want to partake. There is one thing though called Table tennis, a rock and roll concert named by Athena, she brought rice to the homeless people once and they gathered up the pieces and threw them at the rich, at the snobs and the mutants in the sewers. They were punished by being tossed into the sky and struck with lightning, it was a horrid day in Rome.

It takes all the ice in Switzerland to remember why we cry and dance and sing, or why the eye on the pyramids in Giza is so long it stretches the nile in two, or why the cupped glass of pocket oil smells so sweet, like apple cake or a new tricycle seat for two, but the reason is we can’t even fathom the possibilities that are otherwise, that fail to bring us to the brink of sanity, that do not touch us as the other things in life do, it is kind of like that, only with better food and more miracles, like a sunrise or a dead man walking, it spins around in our minds and jumps up and down for attention like a child, eventually it gets what it wants but only by yelling, even when we don’t pick it up it still shouts, but one day it will stop and the world will stop breathing, and the roaches will cry instead.

You feel it between your fingers when your toes are feeling grumpy, or when the animals next door are fighting, throwing knives and spells at eachother, one day they will kill eachother and history will remember them as the mongrels they were, it makes me sad to think that but it is the only possibility. I have witnessed the other animals, far away in Brazil and Tokyo, they seem more timid, afraid of eachother and afraid of themselves, but who is to say that they are cowards, I think the only right way of judging a man or an animal is by his cherry soled shoes, or how much he can lift, or how many berries he can crush with his fist and throw back at God, these are the only ways to judge a man.

Lace your bowtie across an alligators chest and he will willfully accept the apology, his arms do not reach and he is embarrassed of his dry skin, the bow gives him a touch of humanity, a touch of light in his dark room that he sleeps in, maybe like an old friend to talk to, a listener or a pretty lady, these are the things the alligators are interested in. They do not like being threatened or being eaten by other humans, this is why they sleep, why they talk to eachother in the water where humans cannot breathe or trudge or dirty themselves in, this is their home and they would have it no other way, so give your bowtie to an alligator and watch the leaves rustle by.

It brings me to the merry old brink that England brought the dogs to, that they raped India to, that South Africa and Germany and all other pedestals of light and butter were burnt down to, it is the void in the hole of God and loving lesser men, or of the better men in cages and in countries that are unnamed, away from Earth and it’s battlefields, where princesses sleep and where belts of faeries and pixies dream of ruling worlds of their own, but they dare not to for they are modest and love too much, they care too much but get too little like an old tire, worn and beaten without the air to breathe.

Living with a life that loves you or even that is apathetic to you makes you think that there is little to be desired in Africa or the Sahara, or anywhere else in the world that is covered in salt and beans and juice and apple butter or kings and love but where else would you go when you want to scream, when you want to try your luck at a palm tree slot machine or a thieves den, where else would you go when you want to lie like the grizzly bears do or cheat on a test or hold tight and tender the mist and the clouds and the sun, even the sun will become less angry when you hug it, it is very unusual for a human to be so committed to things, why else would he do it? It is for the only ones left, the giraffes and the sealions and the antelopes and the sky pillars of crystal marks and marksmen to take the rest of the bounty, the rest of the plots, the ones that don’t twist or surprise you, those are the good ones, you can sell them for more in Hell and the Ganges.

When you paddle downward the current will take you in, below what you want and over what you don’t, it is a horrid path where the pixies and creatures beyond pixies have gone to mate and dance, like a unified club of ecstasy, humans are allowed in but they must bring their own enjoyment, they must bring their own wives and their own children, they must bring their own souls and put them on the table and inside the revolver next to the silver bullet, or inside the silver bullet with the gunpowder, then the taller people will take the revolver and spin the capsule, and then the smaller people will line up and sing, and the best singer will try to gorge the soul and the living bullet inside themselves, but only for a moment, because they don’t want anybody to get hurt, nothing like that, the ants and the other fireflies and living entities recoil at such things.

It is a feline's truth of paw that the end of the world will be swift and relentless, like a horde of naked apes running through a grocery store, tearing apart the symmetry and rending it to pieces with their bloody fangs and old toadstools. This makes the mites shiver and the dead pterodactyls ponder, how can one be so cruel? Perhaps it is revenge, the unassociated bean of mortality, the level of manhood we seem to be stuck on, unevolving like an octopus shard, or a tree with only three leaves. It takes weight, thousands of pounds in blubber and steel and mass, to throw the apes back to the antimatter, back to the mercury and the grass that spawned them. Only then can we have cease fire, and a universal jury to rectify the situation.

Maybe it's something like a bomb to blow up the world, or maybe it cures hunger and disease, either way it's big and needs to be handled well like a gorilla or something wild and crazy, like a bratty kid you don't really like but still love and you treat tender but the future is scary and none of us dare stir it because the future is unsure and we don't know if it loves us maybe it doesn't maybe it's friends with history but the present loves us and we float between the two like a raft upon it, and we try to be good but we are collective and its hard to be sure and sometimes we wonder how much we're worth and maybe we should move like the others but how and we don't want to anyways its like a pie in a windowsill and you want it but you can't touch it and you're in tune and in touch but how do you find the right receiver to send you starbound? It's like something you only hear about like a calamity or a heart attack, but it can be nice too it can happen and have mercy and be still and calm and not be a battleaxe or a murderer, it can love us but everyone has to try.

It's kind of like a test, something you really don't want to do or take, it's like having a kid and not knowing what to do with it or how to feed it or clean it or hold it or shave it or bathe it, it's not really something you have to do a lot or a little but it takes time and money and effort and a little courage but not a lot, something like a forest on Venus and exploring that, or going outside and seeing that the road is cobblestone, and you don't remember why or how it got there, or where the road goes and you try to hunt down the person that made the road so you go to Venus but only cry because you don't know where to go and you can't run only walk and crawl and you feel slow and gritty and like you might explode like on the cartoons so you go far away like a businessman and rent a hotel and bring back something to calm you down like warm food or animal skins or old books or candles or a wife and time to make bread and build a house or a lawn and fly to a mountain and take care of it and wonder where that man is, or if he is on your mountain and get him off your property.

Like chiming bringing it back to the shower to the earth is something like a dog like Charlie and his teeth it hurts but it's okay because he would've wanted it like that but only for a little while is something I can't bear very long or much longer, something like a weird looking animal do something I haven't seen before and it's funny to see that but sometimes it's unnecessary and it hurts to even watch it, it's crazy and I don't like it sometimes it's just sick and I want to scream but thats okay because Charlie was there and he never did that because he was alright he never would've done that so neither will I sometimes it hurts but it's for me and not for them it's kind of private like a trinket or a locket or something you hold near and dear to you like a rocket ship or something else you would send into space like your hand or a shirt or a palm tree and it's husband and wife it's sad and it's crazy but it happens because we have the technology and it just so happens I have already done it and so have you so please don't try.

It's envy and it's a feeling you were born with but like all the other ones you get over it like a log in a river or a waterfall that goes up not down and you have to climb it and you almost jump down but sometimes you stop and think if it's really worth the time sometimes we all do it we wear masks and dance and sing some of us cry and some of us laugh and some older people die and decompose and laugh in the dirt for a thousand years until they go to heaven and dry out, and sing songs and hold hands like in the '60's, only now they do it forever but I think they still hold hands in hell like they do on earth and pluto and mars it's a lot like college only the girls aren't pretty and the rocks are big and red and hairy and too high to climb and they breathe and pulse and instead of singing they scream and claw.