-To the reader, dont look for purpose. No oedipal complexes or hidden fraudian meanings. I am trying my hand at free hand, a ghostly appartition on what goes on in this hollow space between my ears.-
Little lessons, i need a tyype writer, my face is strecthed upon the concrete the beaming san francisco sun is alighting upon my face. I am a dharma bum , here i am free. perpetually free in this minute moment waiting for the bus.
My fedora, the symbol of my status, an individual, is here, it is my pillow, below my head. My head. Am i smiling? never can i ever really remeber the face i had on, on like a mask, WOULD YOU F_ me i would F me says the serial killer with his junk tucked in, MANGINA, yes a compilation of words, combined, like the souls of me here and yesteryear.
Goddanmit. Why cant anyone here get me a coctail. i am the hunter, not a wolf, not a lion but a thompson. yes a thompson, crazed and chatoic, there are way too many bats here to count. The proper way to deal with a traffic cop is to speed up, gve them a challenge. FEAR, the first rising fiends of an acid frenzy. Yes spout, but do not pout.
I had friends once. Close, intimate friends, we lied down next to each other in our beds of ferns and sunshine and delved into hope, fears and whiskey. Yes the bottle was full when you got here, yes this is grasss, tea, sodium pentathol. Sitting under the stars on a road to nowhere. We were friends, close intimate platonic friends, that laughed at each other, and cried for each other, feared nothing but disease and strife. Drinking partners and violent offenders, accesories to crimes. Ranting, but listening friends and there i was cool, there i was indeed a round peg in a round whole. hip , cool. digging it. i had friends once, close intimate, platonic, beat friends.