It was somewhere between Q-Town and the LA basin of all that glitters and orange grove cathedrals that there came the great snow and I was forced to shut down in some Arizona town— I was in between lives, feverishly dodging the corruption of compassion that come raining down all over the world like a meteor shower, and I watch them soar through the sky and hit the snow land with a restless thud, they vaporize, we sterilize … every sense known to the jungleland juke joint spread all haywire on fire through the spires piercing the all heaven sense bandage bowl of God’s finely-bleached robe.

I sat out by the pool in my parka at The Orange Motel watching the bar maiden get ice for my drinks from the ground. She was still wearing shorts and her legs were turning blue as she walked over to me carrying a tall glass and a snow shovel. She passed me peacock periwinkle strangulation and I asked her to clean the pool, for I wanted to take a polar dip before 6 and when the news came on to spill all that bloodied guts on the monitor screen, so it seems, always screams and rarely a tender hug at the tender claw ripping the sky wide open and screaming for a cleaner to vacuum the golden halls where I walk with purpose, as the world spins so recklessly, so topsy-turvy beneath a linen-scented sky blanket, and gas blue demon dryer chewing on the laundry in some long-lost, perfect Wisconsin town.

On the memory ship … every drip of her laugh as we tossed the witch puppet skyward and to the outer cast regions of all mind space lest we forget county fair good times and smells ripping through like vibrant magnets sucking on the carnival lights, of night, of altitude flight, harmonious vapors all twisted in glorious gut roar, and the corn smells like machine, dive deep down deep blue baby blonde beneath the tree, you smell like Arabic perfumed, bleached cotton, and I colorize every breath you take beneath this butter-yellow moon, beneath the old pine in the backwoods of grandma’s joint, I was honking for you late into the night like mad cap Harpo Marx, going around in circles and circles, sucking the eclipse like a drag stone, hoping you would fall forth from your window like a mannequin come to life, to light a fire to the day, to burn deep down together in the brown hut on the hill, that place that smelled of sour wood and inky red geraniums, my brother in his death suit, eating potatoes all alone in the corner, he already knew, God would punch his lights out all too soon, with drugs fantastic ferocious and with the tortuous scrape of a metal spoon.

Monsoon mind as I dig into the ice bin flickering in the outer hall of The Orange Motel. TV bullshit is blurping through the cinder-block, comatose, American fuck night walls … down the cascading lighted halls, the yellow puncture of deep night, the road raging right over there, the snow falling like chandelier light, the color of milk and tequila all spit out on the falls, like pastoral glitter bombs raging shoulder to shoulder with sun flares in the soul of all she rips from the veins, brother, brother, brother … do you remember the orange kitchen floor and Daddy doo smoking Kent fags at the supper table? Do you remember all that up in Heaven as I sway and sweat in The Orange Motel in some Arizona glow on the highway between here and there and ever after?

Locked in room and thinking about how disappointed I was that the sick ass fish joint Smith Bros in the Port Washington had somehow collapsed and shut down on that dreary day I arrived under that electric sun to watch the waves crash and roll … how I so looked forward to the perch, the fish sandwich all dangled up in my mind like fat ass tattoos and circular taboos wailing mad at the peaceful street at Beach City where I once held your hand and collapsed to the beat of your beautiful heart … all static and mad now down the river head where I breathe alone in room 6 foot 12 and all the walls look the same and it’s all caged corporate heat up in here … knock, knock, four-o-clock … “I’m afraid all the highways are closed, even so you wish to float away, to LA.”

Static fissures burn a hole in the roof of my mouth as Parka Pam comes pounding on the door … “Sorry love, no time for the old in-out, I’ve just come to wish Mars good luck in its search for extraterrestrial life!”

And so I want to keep going, but it’s Canadian orange vinegar that’s got my head all knotted up and thinking about razor-sharp love, you know, the kind that cuts you and leaves a trail of blood behind you as you walk home to step into the empty flat and you can think of nothing else to do but turn on the stereo really loud to chase all the heartbroken voices away, back to the clouds, back to the period of time where indigo beauty at dawn in the radiation void desert wasn’t so beautiful after all … but you shake it from your head, yet she does not swim to the other side of the ocean, but she lingers, like all scent exploded, forever in the air, forever, everywhere.