I am here.
This is the Farm.
It’s good to be back. Trying to combine the firstlings of my hand with the firstlings of my mind. My hand has a mind of its own. Devil’s hand.
It’s good to be back. The Farm! Around me the house ticks. In this room the atmosphere…smoky, though there’s no smoke, warm, and glowing, an angel’s bedroom. Down below me, the kitchen ticks, the house looms, the house gorges, the house lumes. The house sits.
It sits. If writing were an act of instinct, what little bits of gold would come up with the reek? If writing were an act of instinct. An act of instinct. What is instinct? Instinct?
Like a voice slowly receding down a long tunnel going, “helllllp meeeeeee…” a long tunnel, where, in the middle of nowhere, in a field, but beneath the field, in a park, in a town. Anywhere. Wherever stories spin, wherever adventure is needed. Wherever a tired old adventurer can hang up his baldric. Wherever we. Can be.
The Benadryl’s got me twisted. I’m falling asleep, I’m high, I’m trying to ketchup – I feel like crying. It’s a bit like I’m on shrooms out here again. My eye swelling hasn’t gone down.
It’s like we’re walking across the Pulaski bridge by night. Or better yet, by the red of falling night. By the twilight of Brooklyn Queens. My swelling face hasn’t gone down yet. I’m high on the Benadryl.
It’s like you and me. Walking hand in hand in Brooklyn, passing the bagel shops, the ATMs, the liquor stores, the cheesemongers, the small dive bars. Hand in hand, with your hand in mine, and my dick in your ass. By god. The Benadryl. And I say yea, and I say, lo, look how the creativity of juices flow. They flow god. They flow.
I know.
And you know I know when the creativity flows. When the creativity of juices flow. I know.
You know.
We all know.
For ice-know.
We know that things are rocking around my brain, that my brain is rocking around the clock tonight, that I am in this house and the bed is beckoning to me, that this is a Marxist nightmare, that I’m okay with that, that I want to sleep. I benefit from it. I’m the bloody one. Sitting on the farm on an acre of bones. Bon Iver eat your heart out.
I sit back. I relax. I share backs with the computer screen. I breathe -been hard to breathe lately. Hard when I’m tripping. Hard when the future has that high, mercury whine.
My face is swollen. My head is being put away by Benadryl. I am leaving now. Goodbye. But I’m not, I’m writing from some place other than my body, although that is involved too, of course. The place of the Native Americans? The place of who? The murdered. No. The place of the land. The land has seen too many murdered. The land has murdered some. The man will never murder the land. The man the land the man the land. No murders. My second banishment perhaps? Wow when they said automatic wirtting t\did they mean where the typos go to flow wehre the poelple oplpe pepe people. Breathing is hrd when the sun is tuck in my trhaot. But I’m looking at this man’s beard ad I want to go kill people in other Christopher Nolan movies. Bad luck to kill a SEABIRD.
So I’m breathing. That was unadulterated Benadryl sudden creation. Come with me again, we’ll plum the Benadryl depths. There is not much to see here, people smoking a pipe, cars lined up below the ridge. They’ve all come to watch something, maybe you and me. I don’t know but the river beckons and I sleep with the tiny mountain with the hat made of cloud in the distance. I go over there and clear the cloud away and I walk across the shallow pool and I ask if I should wait the re, and this version of KJatie says…yes
I’m breathing just barely. Nerves with the Benadryl trip, this is wild man, and I just would like to…lie…on top of … in my bed. Of you. I live. Colorful democratic ancient I see you/ I live. The fish that leaps out of the water won’t tell me it’s not right. So don’t deny mea either, I like you I like you a lot and my Pope
S hat will get us both away with it if we can use it in time. We can’t/ Go! And standing above it all Sourpike. I am dreaming I am sleeping I am alive. I am here. I see
See you Amie Dancing in the kiddie pool tall
A sleep dancing a sleep write. How to let that connect to, it is connections between words I’ve never seen before.
A sleeping dance but how to allow those synapses to connect? I still don’t know, but I liked narrating what I saw, and it’s interesting to read.
The trees huddle over, looking in the windows, the clock ticks to pleasure, I’m almost off the hook. A hook it is not but I’m almost stone cold free stone free and stone cold. So that take your poptart and go.
Again into the thickets of misunderstanding confusion deliberate harshness. Onto the thickeets. I will go. This is my last time at the Met. I apologize I wandered into another universe again.
Like cool water I drink the air and the grass floats in through the window and the butterflies fly. This
Is this.
I love it.
And it is.
Blue Notes 