Choking on Sand in Berkeley

In weird horrible Berkeley I stayed and read in the hotel under the yellowing light of the lantern, the words of the old book inked with time upon the pages whispered to me a remedy to the hell on earth -- the truth, it said, is all in the words. The cat purrs at the salt shakers I stole outta the kitchen to keep my insurance in (keif), it purrs at the window at the birds in the air (birds with no envy), and enjoys its questionable existence. I read and extract phrases that lick my soul. Cat doesn't leave me alone rubbing itself against my legs and I toss the senseless book aside and pet the damn thing. 

The winding winds wince while I do as well in the dark when I take my s***s, silently surprised at the coins dropping outta my a*s into the cooling refrigerated water of the gentlemen's toilet, pissing orange pulp out of my lemon head in the shadowed cube of privacy. Lyrics written in pen on the stall walls (did I write this?), making joyous reference to love and sex and lust, as I s**t out what once was a presentable plate of breakfast essentials. Static (in my lonesome heart) is the best song on the radio these days--ain't no beat that can match the decaying pulse of my aortic valve or the throb of my citrus stick at night when sticky memories revolve unresolved in my dream wheel--images drawn that cant be erased--lips that will never speak to me and will never be tasted by my own or teased by my mouthy microphone joking her loin and flesh. 

(They tell me I'll be out soon)

I'm living in my own infinity, within the limits (limits?) of my own inward spectrum. I try going outside but a crazy old homeless broad with scabs for eyes screams at me that Ill die of choking on sand and she screams and points with her knobby fingers, crusted and callused and tipped with seminal sap and sphincter scented nails cracked. I go back in the hotel room and fall into a nap. I dream of drowning in an ocean of sand. 

In my room I drink from the glass and let the alcohol swim in my innards like foreign fish: I can almost taste the fire, a placid desire on the tip of my tongue. Acid expires into my lungs and bursts sacs of nitrogen (No!-not the fish!) my favorite dish cannot even compare to the nostalgic burn in the core--like the Earths belly. I look outside the window down at the street congested with people, so disgustingly congested with people I cough up a humane ball of phlegm. Contemplating existence and death and what not (the basics). Swallowing people day by day and then spitting them back out like seeds to eventually sprout again. All we are is a bunch of seeds. 

I sport a pen but I no I am no good at the word anymore. I play along: 

The light laughs against my skin 

Porcelain glass grows hairs 

Forget about the doors 

You are the entrance 

Don't look so bored! 

O sullen indignant heart 

Spurt a laugh or more 

The horizon cant distinguish 

Between night and day 

Seven days of pain 

Extinguished 

In Berkeley 

I make myself giggle and feel a shard of glass manifest in my lung. Coughing, coughing makes the glass dissolve back into sand, and regurgitating the rough particles back up my throat makes me choke on the sand with no hope and I try to spit but only specks of salt spray and hiss off my tongue like a jet of jizm off of a sprocket c**k shooting cogs and sand onto a damp valley of c**t I cant understand, (I am running out of time, I am going to expire!) and right as I am about to black out the obstruction in my gullet gives way and out flies an hour glass... 

Cat wakes me with its claws. I sit up and pet it, whispering to it lies and truths that don't even matter to cats. A commercial on the television shows a girl I once knew. 

 I recall seeing her face in a dream called past life past time past memory past illusion of perception -- a magic trick called time, the rhyme of sneezing clocks and broken locks and angry hawks and pink chalk and getting c**k blocked -- all in a days inhale. 

The trees are already existent in their own self perception, just like the phallus is, just like the pen is, spurting ink. What would a phallus write, if it could? Would it come to the realization that it cant possibly sketch a tree or even write a word? No, the phallus is an archaeologist, an excavator, a tomb raider, a womb raider I should say. I had sex with Mara in a tree the other night in a heartbreaking recollection. We stretched into each other like branches and entangled or loins and climaxed on leaves. In the tree, the actual act on intercourse became too literal, stoic almost, because half of our attention was diverted into trying to not fall out of the tree and snapping our delicate necks. We climbed down the tree naked in the withering twilight and continued our game inside the house. 

 

Leaves of lust in twilight's bloom 

There is no Where to be seen 

Trees sprout dust over times gloom 

There is no Thing to grow green 

I decide to take a walk to get my mind off of things and onto others...

Outside the cancer in my vision deteriorates under the suns casting glance. Pupil yawns a tired look into the sky, opulent iris searches for some relative color but finds none. The same sky to bless me with its oxygen blue; a proxy hue reflects from the moon, awake and aware in the neon noon. The clouds help themselves to handfuls, ceaseless in their morphing blows, incognito portraits of fluff and snow. For an entire year the clouds hold me in wait and watch, a kind trade of curious gazes in between solar splotch and schizoid lunar phases; a dance of the gods before my eyes -- gaseous thoughts fizz in the skies (the clouds concentrate) and ruptures a drop of blood that falls like a jewel out of the blue wonder (the sky is aware of its scars) and lands upon my upturned globe, smiling. There is no other way to breathe than by looking at the vast emptiness above. 

Night. Sand in between my teeth. . .

Consciously the clouds fade and make way for the stars, shed only a single tear from the sun, dried into red ink upon my cheek: the moon tries to speak, but its throat clogged with dust and rock that tastes like lust starved into talk, hastes in its vowels and coughs up a towel of red white and blue -- wipes away the time from his lips of spittle and attempts a series of songs and riddles to test my knowledge of insanity. The moon is impatient, as am I, and we both fall asleep. Perhaps the moon is tranquil, sipping from its own sea. As am I.

Author's Note

Tell me what you thought if you happened to read this:

Reviews

[Laura Lynn]

the sky has scars? it sounds pretty but I didn't realize it, but it only makes sense in the light of star wars, things aren't perfect up there either I guess, there's a lot in here to comment on, to think that some of our dreams don't come true, that is sad but it is true, might as well record the ones we had to see if they came true and how to what extent, etc,

[Chadvonswan]

The truth is always sad, I cant wonder in a dream without realizing this. Im glad that you notice these little glimpses of truth in my writing, and that youre able to recognize the tears in the words. Thank you for reading, and yes, you should record your dreams, youll notice secret truths within..

[The Twin Arenas]

yep, pretty good. I could see little things, and then they'd fade away and I'd wonder if I'd really seen them.

is that smoke or exhaust or breath? like that.

great, man.

[Chadvonswan]

That's a pretty good analysis. I like that you noticed the sun in the fog while it was there. Thanks for reading bromaestro. . .

[ZackOfBridge]

Poetic prose, literally, the rhyming embedded within the prose had a noticeable rhythm to it while I was reading. The detail and metaphor can be over the top in some parts, though still alluring, but can distract and even convolute the narrative. I assume this is an affect of experimentation and coming into your voice. Your use of imagery is both beautiful and disgustingly crass and that is an achievement my friend.

[Chadvonswan]

Yeah most of this was just messing around, experimenting, if you will, on my iPod notes, but I like the outcome, and I like what you had to say, thanks for reading bud