my music

 

it's the streets
 -or-
an answer egg

 

 

 

<woke up in the pm, thought it was the am; phone woke me>

 

bizarre abasement, a fleeting, felating thought, but it was over. the time shifted to 2008, this i felt more in my marrow than knew for sure. this maze was intimidating.

 

<called the del-del, got no answer; it may be out of business>

 

dial-tone, not the extension i was dialing, but it infinitely reminded me of something. a clever reminder, a jest in multiple takes: it was a deparment-store security feed. i guess i had tripped it.

 

<septic answer: the dreams are just that; dispiriting, yes>

 

stirred quite the fry in an imagined wedding. i was actually invited, but imbibed, and made quite the scene. for some reason i was upset that shrimp cocktails consisted the only protein. i take that seriously. the rest was just trippy. maybe i should rethink my stance...

 

 

 

pin-wheeling

 

a loosie
 -or-
no chance

 

 

 

over-whrought w/ confusion, hysterical w/ mania, i chanced a single cigarette. happened

to have a lighter in my back pocket, so it all blows up in my smoke-screen: a deft rouse

in cleated form. i think i covered my escape previously, i think it's all on tape.

 

apparently i had traveled to 1987, a mr reagan lot. my mind vacationing, a rivulet in the

mirror, yet a pool beckoned out back. i had invited the gang, it was our last resort.

 

just jeep: a pun that runs non-stop on radio, like spright and it's a 'gem.' one last

puff before i look in the mirror. the story has been derailed, but suffice it to state

that i made it to a bathroom. relieved, i ran into i. suggs and he mentioned b. wanless,

associates in make-believe land. i didn't cry.

 

it's a dick of a height, a nap that's not mapped. da vinci didn't imagine flying things

this ornate, yet it happened. i peeked at a reunion, felt recrimination. call the police,

call the doctor, call the box in question.

fervent ye faithful

 whither you come from
  -or-
the magic eight-ball

i venture into something, it's a mind-blower, but i gotta keep it under wraps for j-rand.

see: i had envisioned a wry conversation/transcription that was intertwined. red-vines

and mr. pibb; chronicles.
 

adjacent antecedent (i.e. addendum): the spatial discrepencies had been a problem, but

the chronological shifting was downright vexing. first it was 2004, then 2007, then 2003,

the years and specific dream ramblings resemble a rorschach test; it's another brick in

the wall.
 

the wood desired chasing, and the family desired spaghetti. sorry, but my thoughts get

confused, like waves in the midnight surf. german balloon aka led zeppelin: it parks its

dreams @ ground zer0. eros may have called, but failed to identify himself, leading me

to this shell of thoughts. it could be an atkins of fiction.
 

outra-verted, a word i wordlessly think when i encounter 'yar.' i consider the rivulet to

my s(l)ide, but conclude she's w/ the tall man. i'm obviously hallucinating. the police

have arrived and i've simply said the word 'plant.'
 

realizing i had entered a house of mirrors and drugs, i texted j. still and nick s. they

were part of my cleaning crew in the mid 90's. i suddenly understand that i'm alone and sweating,

in a basement, no shaman. the disorientation slowly dissipates and my carb-stricken mind intuits 

the next phase may require an umbrella, inverted.

get the gist

tightly knitted
  -or-
the wry catchR

the walls still surround; i was currently (and apparently) in an impregnable prison. it

had the perplexing layout of a university but no bushes to hide behind; it was mostly

underground. the only way i made it out of the dungeon was the fact i was wearing cleats;

it (still) seems like an anomaly. if i could only travel back in time, i would avoid this

mess.

the moments started to pile together: how much trauma can one endure? it was a bodacious

question, complete w/ memories of a mysterious girl (em?) that didn't quite add up.

(still) attentive, i figure there must be secret passages. the journey won't require

hiding; it will, otherwise, require some direction.

distraught is dire

claymores
  -or-
stray-shots

i finally climbed out of the pit (incidentally, it was slattern red in many places, a detail i strained to recognize and remember) and resumed my investigation. the chemistry of the rocks infused me on a cellular level. i am/was genetically modified.
 
i essentially codified my plan of attack while climbing. although i had been trapped, i still believe stealth and acuity will play major roles. the adjointments were simply too much. an adjunct would simply list the 5 reasons for my dissenscion, but i remain human and set up a tent in my mental attic. the ties that bound have started to surround; swerve.

sojourn of the lonely soul

russlin' loose
 -or-
a death race

ensconced, my mind starts to fractal/fragment. i realize either i'm hallucinating
or

predicating, both viable options. under my dire circumstances, i reason the ladder is

the way to go: literally. i choose to screw reason and start to climb the rocks

encompassing my cell. this place is more conflicted/complex than i imagined; it was

clear in its dank symbolism that it was madness; more emphasis on the 'mad'.

entranced, my body begins to articulate the situation i'm currently experiencing; no

mirage, but simply a matter of conviction. this is a journey of confliction, a paradox

that lies outside the box. sleep wasn't an option, nor a dispersion: in fact it was not a

viable option. i meditated while i still climbed...

yes, the fire rises

contentious litigation
  -or-
still charging extra/ahead

my journey began six or seven years ago, depending on my memory and not counting the

implications of some lost island (both referentially and metaphorically), it was

convoluted to say (write) the least. i laughed cause we nicknamed a dog 'rufus' simply

b/c it seemed appropriate; i cried when we disbanded simply b/c it seemed unnecessary.

my head is a swimming pool at moonrise; a maid saves me from drowning. she's older and

poised. i cough up some liquor and ask if she has any pills. now, this is getting knitted

pretty deep, so recognize the weavings (esp. the one cutting fate). spied, screed or

scroll, pull/stich together the recollections.

to be continued...

add to queue

spreadsheet
  -or-
trap-doors

time was looping, thus fragmenting my mind and memories. one instant i was on the butler

campus, appealing for a journalism job; the next i'm a detective, pursuing some ambiguous

lead. some guy, operating under the alias lt. beam (a bond villian if ever), had stolen

some intel. my head buzzing, these thoughts oscillated btwn very visceral and strangely

un-embodied; a violent shift in immediacy and distance; disassociative to say the least.

                                   ^

the structure i entered seemed smaller on the outside, and seemed like a simple blue-box.

inside, on the other hand was an escher of a head-scratcher; i laugh internally at the

thought of both a compass and sakawagea. i am in the dungeon, my mind in doldrums, but

the exploration was really the point of the journey; swerve.

one for the road

insulation
  -or-
the coldest

i believe someone once wrote about the cruelty of winter and its said effects on the

heart. another iceman said that these aren't crack advisements, but rather commandments.

in any case, i had entered the building, the tinder-box as we (royally) playfully called

it. the irony of nickname and the present icy conditions were not lost on me. in fact,

they nearly pre-occupied my musically inclined mind.

                     
                 ^

the timbre of the place suggested a hard and distressed look; there were ghosts in the

air. for the moment, i froze, forgot to move and focused on an antique chest in the

corner. i was a criminally breaking & entering palestine/philistine but needed to inject

some tnt into my veins. i drifted off thinking of re-connecting to some interesting

folks; it was very jung in nature.

so cemented

 

 quir-key detective
  -or-
sur s(l)ain

 

 

 

i enter the music-box, a theatre long closed. a chime plays in my attic; let's

investigate. renegade, this man was; an anachronism. i paid to see his return, albeit

somewhat taciturnly. not b/c of him personally; it was a recriminating crimson prison

(prism) i had constructed. the investigation was an on-going exploration of depths, this

simply an entry.

always tackling the amazing

 

a fuzzy mechanism
  -or-
architect of straws

 

 

 

it was cold at the bottom, reflecting in my mind of debasement. it's odd, nowadays esp,

to feel protective of a woman: it's both expected and derided. but i caught a scent of

someone looking to perpetuate some violence and i followed my nose. this led to my

current predicament.

 

the curious incident w/ the dog, is, funnily enough, incidental. my true goal was to

reclaim the term 'chivalry' which, ironically, i lost through ineptitude and at night.

the convoluted answer would require too much backstory, too much detritus; i can't erase

it all, but the class in regret seems to never end.

 

electrified or terrified: these were the options i faced. i chose stoic.

just another crime

dynasty
  -or-
dallas

my sister hazily told me to snap out of it; i shook my head and realized i didn't have a

sister. i was post-plastered and slowly regaining consciousness. my surroundings appeared

to be that of a prototypical cheap motel room. i chuckle while on my back, realizing the

linguistic difference between motel and hotel; it's a dumb thought, but somehow wholly

relevant. then i remember i had shot someone, or at least i had a memory of shooting

someone: an owner of reknown, i think it was deserved.

the problem, however, was this mess (and clutter) i was currently rising from; the room

was most definitely trashed. now, more memories, unsure of their accuracy, i feel

deflated. if i did perpetuate the actions running through my head (painfully, btw), then

i was a bad person. instantly, i knew i needed an out, a patsy of certain stripes.

staring at a wall (apparently i had smashed the mirrors), i notice a snub-nose that, for

an instant, i think offers an out. luckily (if you believe in such things), i also notice

an un-opened bottle of wine, glass i guess i had declined to break during the previous

night. this triggers a memory: it was vintage wine, dating back to my grandfather's days.

a small smile crept from my face, and i remembered.

                                               ^

paranoia, fear persist in troubled minds. despite my dire circumstances i locate a gift-

wrapped corkscrew, hidden under the mattress (don't know who hid it there). and in the

middle of a room of chaos, amid the uncertaintude of my future, i calmly pour myself into

the bottle, reflecting that i'll probably need an uncompromised lawyer. the wine was

underwhelming.

the book of regrets

a soprano nap
  -or-
bygones by sea


reacted to something that i didn't know; over-reaction would seem normal, but
maybe i was

too rash; i haven't even seen/watched my title reference. so, you know, no
biggie, just a

lil wayne. shot the world in words, a nexus of reflection. maybe i just need a
new year,

one where the scars of the past convene like rival gangs. i'd smoke
approximately one

(un-cellophaned) pack of american spirits, a convenient parlay for convalesence
and

regret...

in the end (is the beginning), i think certain wires were crossed and the
connection has

been compromised; in the end, i think there are more important issues for each
and every

one of us; is the beginning now?