A gap in the hands on the clock in which I briskly walk down the dirt path surrounded by yellowing flowers and cracked spines. Along this path lined with the powder consistency of valium and motrin. Speed is relative and I slow further down the veins just below the dirt pulsing with white cocktails. The belligerent rants of the flowers snap at me. Liquid consistency. Just beyond the yellowing tones are trees twisted in vines and laced with human body parts. Catheters stretch across the limbs between the trees. The hands of the ticks dig into their genitals rubbing up against my scattered body. I walked closely to the edge of the lines to reach out towards the vacuum. My movements were masked with thorns across my neck and legs. A distant fragmented whisper choking on the domino theory. Isolated and driven through a sand box just out of reach the kamikaze's are coming. The bombs over the theta waves are stretched across inner accomplishments and I ran through the sounds of light. Another countless wishing well that I can't ever seem to reach the top of. Walls are lined with numbers in Fibonacci sequences mapping golden spirals all over the stock market. I will be standing at the verizon payphone on the corner of Pico and 17th st at 11:11 am.
The payphone with the graffiti across its side. I will be waiting there for you; waiting to save you from yourself I walked across the grass after taking my shoes off and placing them along the sidewalk where they sunk into the grey. I stepped into the sand and I was surrounded by several feet of its grainy texture in all directions. I ran towards the prism of color on the metal bars designed to scrape the children and clean out their pockets while they aren't looking. I take larger steps but the multicolored surfaces just pace back further from me. I then noticed all the used syringes lying in the sand around me. The goat jumped from the bushes and shrieked through me. I looked closer and the syringes had letters written in microbes across them. Letters that spelled things like AIDS, HIV, HEPATITIS. I tried to move across the checker board of plasma. Just when I thought I had stepped in a clearing a needle just below the surface of the sand stuck into my foot sending a surge of force through my leg and further up my body to every extremity. It was over with the contraction of the aids virus and wasting syndrome. I remember when I sit down. I sit and endure a ride in her car. I sit in the front seat as we drive along the pacific coast highway to a barn where we turn down a dirt road lined with jagged rocks placed at its stomach. The tall grass crawling with ticks and the creek that flows in both directions. The water infected with dead rats and tadpoles swimming about. We walked down to the end of the other side where the water stopped and only a closed thicket of dead branches surrounded us with a smell like death.
Below the rocks in a court room the decomposing body of a boy was sprawled across the table in front of a jury of its peers. The shack in the tall grass was distant and counting higher into the sewage line a mile away down the road. The abandoned houses on the sides with broken windows and refrigerators in the front yard stood behind me. In the shack with its entrance facing away from the path had an uneven dirt floor and a ceiling of webs with spiders glancing down disapprovingly. Children's underwear were scattered in the dirt and photos of various people, places, things. A school photo of a woman named Darlene Kastan was dripping with disdain and the juices seeping up from the sewer line. I picked up this photo and then noticed that the prison I had found was silent. Void of natural sounds, it was stirring with sodomy and the trees were the color of a *****. A portrait of Mr. Kiddy Porn Hustler with his face pressed against the computer screen. Behind this machine, he sits.
An incidence of accountability runs through the marrow of my femur. I seem to have protruding impulses to act in vain. As a direct consequence of repression, I dig things up unconsciously. My recollection has a milky film over the specifics. I'm not taken aback by this, but I am so distant. Images and sounds form over a grainy surface with morbid curiosity and the production of red light in it's underbelly. The grey hues outside were brighter than the miserable tone of the green asphalt. The kitchen walls were the skeleton of a white capsule, containing a faded yellow tinge of the sunset in the sink and smelling of crisp ammonia. He sat on the edge of the moldy booth drawing ripples in his milk while pushing the toast to the edges of the bowl. I walked into the kitchen after waking, and feeling markedly groggy, the way an animal feels after having been intubated. He strides in as if he had been lurking behind the curtains for the past half hour. I see only his metaphysical existence. His magnetic, yet dumbfounded innocence induced blood flow to the hands. The foolish sirens sneak past reasoning, flocking towards his vertical receptors. Like a mathematical condition, they sink into his parabola. His words slither through the dense air, "I was just looking through the papers for a brochure, might you have one?" The first siren steps forward. I felt as if I were watching the three little pigs in their individual seduction of the wolf's midsection. Her steps were littered with infatuation.
I am a maddening figure of speech. My dimensions are limitless and constraining. I can't seem to extend beyond my permeable boundaries. The cow is consuming me and I'm coming off of oxygen depletion. My framework is tainted. The conduit creep stays close behind. His saliva brings existing pathogens to the surface. Filing extensions in the sand. The filter over my eyes brings a familiar ringing in my ears, like the ringing of a dinner bell for a mad beast. The external silence is maddening and titillating like the fibers on the end of your pen obscuring your writing. The kind that you want to rid your pen of with your free hand, but dare not. You write and write and clarity drifts further and further, becoming distal. And I can't fall back into my previous thoughts to continue with my conditions. Where was I? I am unable to capture an image worth presenting.
Ask your mormon negative how to slaughter a cat.
spice and confused cactuses. where do they go now?
The drain has become the most frightening part of my existence.
I've been more distant than ever. I'm taking away everything, spending nights arriving at the dumpster. I've begun to reject the notion that I can repair what's broken. The distance between my sister and I is almost unthinkable, her choice haunts me. The transition has been fueled by so many things. They packed everything into boxes and placed them around the wooden flooring, outside the doors and in the halls. I can't even began to mask or comprehend my position beyond an ethereal scope. Another pointless space between the wire mesh. An index that's hardly over. The absence of positive gram stains writes its own warrant. This is ongoing. The flea comb is swollen and wedged in between the driftwood and glass chess set. My eyes are seeping with exhaustion and my tendons ripped with inertia. You've gathered them all on your side. Lined up with restricting limitations. Piercing a police officer has become the single most terrifying experience of my recent life experiences. Being flashed with a shiny police badge as if that would make the experience go smoother with all the cards on the table. I instantly felt the handcuffs tighten against my wrists. The darkened tissue around his ears pulsated and rejected the ink of my pen. Small talk floated around us and I began dripping with suspicion. And the chair was swollen, with the innate ability to detect a lie. My hands couldn't seem to find their places.
I can't even begin to comprehend what I'm doing. I'm walking in the backroom and run into the edge of the flap on the cardboard box at perfect eye level. Injuries sustained were minimal, but nothing compares to the rats running along the pipes. I step into this collection of concentrated light and skin. The walls and floors look different each time I push my way through the doors. It fights with me, a row of doors, opening and closing, keeping me out and locking me in. Each time I walk by the rug, it seems to scrunch up and retract. The entire experience being among one of the most surreal lapses in time. Its hard to even look into things with the same significance, because the drain just remains the most frightening thing I've ever seen. I walk through the long corridor between the vertebrae of the stores and the flesh of the parking garage. A network of sewage pipes along the sides of the wall, seeping fluids from below and above. The pipes hanging from the ceiling are connected and traveled on, survived by the rats who step away from the boxes on the sides of the cinderblock walls marked poison. I can't even remember how many there are, but they whisper and you feel their hearts racing when you press your face up against the cinderblock walls. The entire scope tinted with faded yellow, and through the brown doors, like taking in your vision when the objects around you just keep expanding and retracting; pulsating.
I leave and reek of it's area code.
I'm starting to find myself in what I would imagine as a far off place. I seem to think through someone else's eyes. I walked past room 320 and Mr. Bleu was on the floor face up with his genitals exposed. He had a large tattoo of a happy face on one inner thigh and a yin-yang on his other inner thigh. He also had numerous tattoos of naked women on his back. He'd gone into a full code and had been down five minutes. All efforts to resuscitate him were exhausted. When the fire department paramedics arrived he had been down too long. They shocked him several times but it resulted in a flat line and a barbecue. They called time and he was left on the floor for a few hours blocking the door to his room. His roommates were in the room sitting in their wheelchairs staring at the floor drooling. After a few hours his body was moved to the bed, covered with a sheet and the curtain drawn. After several more hours and severe distress on the part of the roommates, the bed containing the body was wheeled out of the room and placed in one of the facility's empty rooms and the door shut. Approximately eight hours later, the morgue arrived to pick up the body. A change of shift had occurred and the body was nowhere to be found. After a search of the facility the body was discovered, although during preparation for removal, the I.D. tag was missing. The facility was unable to locate the tag, so the morgue worker left. He came back a few hours later when the I.D. tag was found and picked up the body.
Mr. Bleu was 45 years old.
Mr. Bleu had AIDS Dementia.
Mr. Bleu had Hepatitis C.
Mr. Bleu had a history of I.V. heroin use.
Mr. Bleu had End Stage Renal Disease.
Mr. Bleu's last words were "Oh s**t."
I'm sick of all this ******** ugliness.
Community Member
Especially: "The drain has become the most frightening part of my existence."
When I read that for some odd reason I got that feeling, Like... When your in a room with something bad, But you can't see it? It's hard to explain and that's the only way I can think to... And afterwards I was kind of scared to turn around.
Where did you get this?
Or did you write it yourself?