land of reeds middle

I open the door and almost loose my balance on slippery wet metal stretch of storm drain until he catches me and pushes me inside the cab. He tells the driver the exact address but I can’t hear anything. The gestures of the two men are slowly pantomimed and as he leans back even with my head on the bench seat his image flows in multiple vision as though the mind, slowly shutting down has reverted to placing memories of old music videos on top of reality. I say nothing. His lips and hands move in slow motion but I can comprehend nothing. I push my head up to stare and the ceiling of the cab trying to free whatever drips are left. This is a bad idea. Some nerve burning Faustian deal has been reached but I can’t remember the terms. The drink and the rain have exhausted the last symphonic notes of reason leaving some old crumpled washed out jazz hand at the helm.

Burroughs spoke in side slice language and all the orphans screamed. We heed our baskets and roll the drums for Coleridge and Eggers. These are thoughts- the ice of hard words that drives a man towards awful things. One may ask is not music the saving sin of those too lost to care? But I would say that the spike of word on page is the greatest of all the templar hidden risks. We – not only me but you – you, you fucking thing changing reading wanting – thing making fun in back rooms of drug addled suit starved bums by city hall. This is it. A hard – deep starved bagged like a hiccup hard – thing.