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Picking awkwardberries from the tree of life

A subway car injects the city with shaking souls

Human fluids in the test tube

With windows and lights and broken dreams and cataclysmic days

Green and amber are the aching colors of another dark noc (night)

Round heavens bloodied with tar

Heroin tracks are stars

Red forests all alone

Black trunks and branches against a pale pink horizon

Motorized carts rolling overhead

Heaven is a shopping mall

You must have money to get in, to play the game of life

Then the mechanical beep beep beep when someone goes backward into a wall

Holiday maze mess head

Christmas in September

Halloween in July

That doesn’t click with the elves and the ghosts

Murmured nonsense ticks through my brain like numbers on a ticker tape:

Ticker tape was the earliest electrical dedicated financial communications medium, transmitting stock price information over telegraph lines, in use from around 1870 to 1970. It consisted of a paper strip that ran through a machine called a stock ticker, which printed abbreviated company names as alphabetic symbols followed by numeric stock transaction price and volume information. Source: Wikipedia

That’s the Internet for you. Is it true? I don’t know. Is anything true these days? What exactly is truth?

I don’t believe in the corporate news. They’re ghouls.

It’s manufactured bullshit. They feed us to control us. They brainwash us with fiction while we read fiction to escape the horrors of the real world. Horrors flooding America, the globe right now. We all need to escape to a better world…

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I went to a bookstore in a little town on the coast of Maine. I was wearing a toboggan. (A toboggan hat is a type of knitted wool hat, often referred to as a beanie in many regions. In the southern United States, “toboggan” specifically refers to this warm winter headwear.) That’s what the AI machine says.

It’s black, my brain emissions keep it warm.

I was reading some Kerouac, and the words took me back, forward, present…

I am mentally exhausted and spiritually discouraged by this shit of being, of having to do what everybody wants me to do instead of just my old private life of poesies and novelies of yore.

~ Jack Kerouac

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To an alley, a greasepaint store, a yellow funeral home

The bodies would come out at night and walk up and down the street looking for their homes

But they never find them

They have to crawl back in

Before the very first crack of dawn

In through the heavy, ornamental front door of the funeral parlor

Down the hidden staircase where the realities of death glisten with fluids

Silver tables, chains, tubes, instruments…

And they climb back into their $10,000 coffins to be covered with dirt forever

In a cold, wormy ground

To never ever see the sun again

Only blackness, stillness, quiet

Forever tapping to get out