Oh, and if it isn’t bad enough that my thoughts continually go to the fact that I have severe doubts about Kerry winning the presidential election… John Peel is dead. Who will save us now?
Out of loneliness, time is going to turn back on itself. Time is lonely and I am too. All of the friends have moved on to the promise of better lives far north of this place. Nothing good ever happens south of here: abductions, mass mudrerings, rape, disappearance, infidelity… I am working on an atomic machine that spins out of whack, to help time in its quest. Nothing is funny about this. If certain rhythms are reached, waveforms are created, the wheel of time will spin backwards – irregularly – the same way the spinning wheel of a hot rod seems to do when you stare at it while cruising beside down the highway. This atomic machine wil take away all bad things. The last four years included. I don’t know what you all were thinking. I have decided not to write much lately, at least not here, but this is a call to anti-arms. A call for you to bring your asses home. Whether or not you heed, you will be here in the end. It is the nature of the machine. I will be a 12 year-old boy when you arrive. You will all be relatively the same – twelve or so, pimpled, and in the throes of hormonal upheaval. You may not understand at all now, but understanding comes slowly under the auspices of the machine. I have made time my friend. I have turned the bastard foe that takes my weekdays away from me, deposits me in the arms of the “man.” I have taken it all and placed it into my little machine. I...
This is public writing. Like radio Clash. Twain is observing over my shoulder, and there is a picture across the way of the the courtroom in the movie version of a book written with Truman Capote loosely the originator of one role. I am becoming notes tonight. Little blips and bleeps – and it is football season. Your friends are mighty I would say to you if you were here. I will become heat and rising and little pieces of cotton candy. You ate them. I am silly still. I want to fill a page. It is way too late, but not early enough. What will happen in the end. Even Thelonious Monk’s wife wished the jam to be over sometimes – that all of the boys would go home. This is...
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