Hell night.

No ideas come thru. Come thru and lay here she says. I am a conduit of a greater generation past present, and future. How am I to know? Generate sleeping tables and put beds of feather with heads of hummus. I wonder if a grand narrator guides me then recedes into doubt and self pity. Hurried by rain without blankets I blacken myst myself to a pranging orange night. Oh comfort, when are we? Horrid movements in orange cots and I'm not a ninja; I'm a schizoid person with no hopes and a heartbeat I wish would stop. Covenanent hold my grasp I do depart and magic holds my hands the whole way home. Where is home, she asks? And a pale baby replies: surf shack. I head that way and bobble like a hula dancer on the dashboard of a California gypsy car. I'm a card. Non-native. I'm a card. Non wholesome. I'm a card. When in doubt I turn my robot off. Off. Off. Off.

When do we sleep again? 

Never, but I crave the feeling of not thinking. Is there a word for that feeling? I've never heard of anything I cannot pronounce.

A jail house. This cages body. My partner coughs and I listen to her bloody thoat. The Hawai'ian wind hits my ear like an ASMR YouTube video and I, again, rejoin so-called friends made only of fresh acquaintance. Am I dead? Am I alive? Shelter. Comfort; I'm reminded.

I see a red door; glowing squares take my eyes from the grips of cool with and giggling trees. What am I now? A conduit for junk art from junk to junk to junk to junk to junk.

I hold my breath for a moment as a passing loiterer flicks his flip flops; a horn honks and a bike chime jingles. Wind starts up and the loiterer passes again looting my thoughts. I’m not riveted; I’d kill for a bed.

Junk. Junk, junk, junk. And more junk. I’m all junked up he says. The wind gets cooler and I notice she’s wearing my hoodie. I’m tired, but I know if I rail any of that blow in her backpack I might as well head foe a soft soggy beach beneath my bottom. Sand in my ass crack. Starbucks Google sponsors the notes downloadd cloud iPhone apparatus I joyously jot junk notes upon. Wind kicks up. 

Still no ideas.

Red leaves flick in the wind and I wish again I was dead while glancing at a black truck in our lonesome parking lot. Is there nothing here for us? He wonders and I feel cool wind on my skin.

Dreams don’t come true. I search my mind for a trick and our trucking friend leaves. It’s cold and I’m bored.

What’s that noice? Twitchitt coughs.

“Are you ready to go?” is heard from the people behind us. I’m ready to sleep on white Egyptian cotton sheets. Where and when is my mind. Another car passes. A Nissan. Fucking nonstop...

She gives me cocaine. We still have some weed left. They know we’re some kind of scum. The sum of our parts: we wish to be royalty and graze on the steps of closed shops taking drugs and eating our Foodland bounty—wishing for the scraps of peasant patrons. 

We are really no one and nothing; this time passes and we forget all about it by the following moon—referencing it in stories to our so-called friends. I ended those relationships basing my personage on being a husk of a shell of a barrier wall enclosed by thin fencing and enclosing nothing. My art is empty; my soul is caged; only my body remains tangled up in electric waves until death becomes me the way roses line a casket.

Who is this person? A child at the beach: “I want to be an astronaught.”

Don’t get high on anything terrestrial they urge. Shells add up on razor rock shorelines and he recalls the Basketball Diaries as Leonardo DiCaprio writhes for freedom in the stench of a lucid heroine dream—sans heroine.

Will they find my phone? “aye, me,” He says. Whine me. Wine me, please. Dine me. Help me hold me; I’m no one without you he says. You are the reason I am, or can be, me. Scribe tribe; but never finish your thought book. Hold a high pedestal for your astral dust wiped from shapeless moving clouds and ending in rain in an endless ocean of acid. He came, he saw, he conquors.

He holds his breath and she coughs. He holds his breath and she coughs. He holds his breath and she coughs. He holds his breath.

HE wakes up. Something inside of HIM hears it. IT becomes lucid and HE makes his lasting impressions. Leave me behjnd, HE says. I’m dead anyways.

Who is HE promoting now? Who is HE? Is HE finished here or is HE still working?