Stain on freshly washed clothes. Almost immediate. As if the bleached whites are asking for tomato spatter. A caprese accident Jackson Pollock style. It's not enough to look like a design. It looks like an accident. A "before" photo in some godforsaken detergent commercial. This stain warrants Billy Mays to rise from the grave and sell me Oxyclean just one more time. Alien slime stickers from early-aughts vending machines that beg for quarters. The colors are cheap, the materials are toxic and made in China. But the childlike satisfaction at turning the germ-infested metal knob and having that prize come out is worth it. The price of the experience. The token is unimportant and will probably get lost, break, or collect dust in less than a day. Wine, coffee, and tea stains. Stains on teeth. Wine-stained cheek bone pleasurous treasure. Gumption and guppies and parafin wax. Skateboard, surfboarding. Storms coming. Better get inside. Stains of ash and electricity on a shocked tree stump. As if getting cut down wasn't bad enough. Wilder notions have come to me during storms. Cut down all the power lines. Leave it up to God. Some people would. Some people can. Racing down freeway with gum strips in cup holders. Welded together by some heated miracle.


1940s silver bracelet, in good need of polishing, hangs on the wrist of some curly-headed blonde bombshell in a tacky pink suit. There is a beret on her head, matching the exact hue of color she displays. The outfit is plastic, Barbizon. But the bracelet, stands out. Some time machine robbery? Some heir bestowed? Saved by a relative from the Great Depression? She walks around like she doesn’t know what it means, doesn’t seem to understand the value that heirloom had to the woman before her. How was it wrought? Long days and nights in a hot room? Filled with heat and the gently clanking and tapping of tools? I can smell the chemicals now. Some pirate’s treasure molted down into a dangerous liquid to be recast, born again into this bracelet that served as a makeshift ring to make good on a promise on a marriage. Engagement. When the bracelet’s all you have, the bracelet’s all you have. And sometimes a talisman, a symbol, a metaphor is better than none at all. When you’re out of slack on a lifeline and tug for them to pull you back up…A chorus of courage. A bushel of trust. Down there in the dumbwaiter there is a gift of flowers. In some Hollywood mansion that does not fit the price tag of our life, of our caste, of what was expected.


Whale of a tale diamond studded starstuff buried and embedded within the fabric of Time. As it’s cause to this causality let me know when the lemonheads cascade and align. Sour grapes over the moon, grilled cheese torture chamber. Medieval fish heads and this is just some stupid conglomeration of everything that’s going on in my brain. I don’t want it to count, but it counts. Letting you know about this unadulterated stream of everything that’s been going on. Any and all minutiae. The dregs of what has not been filtered out. Because I don’t know what to tell you so I’ll just tell you anything at all, say anything at all. Rubber eraser friction smell. Like carbon, like sulfur. Storybook pages glossy and colorful, decked out in sketches and drawings that I have remembered. Light blues and grassy greens and perhaps a frog or hippopotamus with dialog. Surfboard with a stripe running down the middle. Paranoia melancholy paralysis harbinger drug, safety ripped away and I will not dive too deeply into the Alice in Wonderland puddle because I know if I jump, I may not be able to get out. And once you submerge into the unconscious, that reality, those experiences become distorted and strange. Fisheye lens on acid. Marshmallow.


Into the forest I go. Green trees and thick brush, swarms of mosquitos do not dare touch me because this is my dream and I make the rules. Two taps on the back of the hand, back of the wrist, as I gaze at the full moon in the day time. Still here, still in this schtick, the experimental glass orb, Simpsons Movie. Same day sameness, alterating mind/body experience. Spectacular sundance kill, sawed-off shotgun with the ammunition being this word salad I spew off to you now. Too much self-awareness, too much reflextivity. Those who live in glass houses should throw no stones. Shattered preconceptions. Stench of the rot under the underbrush. The steady stream flowing downwards and that trickling sound, constant. Like a hum to the mantra. Like am ‘om’, to the mantra. Hiking stick and sneakers and merchandising mayhem. New Hampshire outdoors store, just outside the mountains. Mystified mistakes, lost at the crossroads, indecisive at the crossroads. A true disconnect needs to happen. You’ll know when it hits. You’ll know when it hits you. Modern marble mumbling madness. Line-dance conga line, high school prom. We were just kids then and didn’t know our privilege to be there in that moment, drinking sprite and Shirley Temples with extra cherries, to be picky with the dinner on our plates, and with plans for jello shots and alcohol later in the evening. Crying emotional about it. Just at a place of a mental break. I used to love smoking weed with you and finding peace walking laps around your street feeling like we were in a mystical storybook. The way the light of the lampposts hit the pines made me feel like I was in Midsummer’s Night Dream.


Only son, chosen son, favorite son. Green Day, B-Side, Savior. American Idiot B-sides so sought after in illegal digital downloadable files. Won't you forgive me for my past sins? It's not that I don't have a conscience, but when music saves your life minute to minute in such a way that your teenage self finds reason to wake up again and willingly suffer when the morning comes, what would you do? What would you do to save your own life? Father / son relationship, foundational up on the altar. Mortor and pestle technology at a time when time was flat circle, as was the conception of the earth. Reigning down up Dumbo-like acid trips each raindrop a different tye-dye color. Raspberry Godiva bar at the Barnes and Nobel checkout. Some magical experience when a purchase is made and the air is cool and quiet smells like coffee and pages of books unopened, begging to be read. There is a sparse sparkle inside my soul where I feel like those books, and when I pop open that cover and crack open those pages, gently scanning and turning, it is almost as if the same is being done to me; I am being opened, I am opening myself up to knowledge and new worlds and new possibilities and an opportunity to dive into solitude and love myself somehow. To teach myself something. Let it teach me. Scant shackle shanties spinning away from time now.