The following is a series of notes hastily typed while slowly succumbing to LSD 9/20/2010 (spelling errors and all):
wesley is mowing the lawn, with a look on his face.
i cannot tell whether he is squinting at the sun, or himself, the sun is gone today, so i suppose it leaves only the latter.
it is quite a spectacle.
drunk of drugs, mowing the lawn, moving on a red rumbling chair which brings the awful cocoughany of yard work to me with avid speed.
oh no, oh wicked sun, it has smelled us up to our old tricks and it comes to opress!
not today, the clouds are ours!
i will bask in the shade you obvious brute.
this is a truly wonderful spectacle, each step my brain takes away from the dock, i can look out upon my friend in his rumbling red chair, moving slowly around the yard, looking concerned and entertained all at the same time.
garbage seems to spew from the mower.
perhaps this drug really only takes your filter off, the thing that can keep track of loud noises and the constant bustle of interaction.
and here, beneath the strange glass that we built we sit, raw and waiting for the thing to come and burst the bottle. or to at least tip it over on its side, letting the entrails run loose.
and i am here, loose, uncertain on which steps to take, i am happy sitting, i am sick sitting, i have accomplishable things, i hear violin music.
my mindset is perishable at best right now, i am starting to believe that i simply produce flies, and wesley simply produces garbage, and each of us, in our own rite, are true masters of our modern lair, or i of his…for my lair knows no spires or marble gates, it lies instead deep within the sheets of anothers comprimise and integrety.
in the ability to tolorate and run along side.
oh the mighty pack instinct! bellow from me!
oh the spiders you find, in everything.
they have their own land, smaller in yours.
the unnacountable wine in life
the spiderweb that is all upon my face as i walk
the bits or hair or all of the above that float.
my body craves water.
and water i will give it.
sunning myself beneath the lower updike?
point is that i am on a beach, in the winter, no no, in the summer, with a hat on.
yes, a summer hat.
listening to an abnoxious man in an heirloomed suit.
sing songs about a hawaii come and gone.
sing me away you old brown silly, sing me up and out, and as far as the song may carry sing me yet farther.
my hands still speak this odd combination of english and distractions.
welcome to the american typset.
i am the great american typesetter, inside from where the beef machine runs. in big triangles and squares.
segmenting the wildlife from its brother, and throwing each dragonfly into skyward directions of thier own free reigned spirit.
i am trapped in this room with its old people and its mirrors.
the spider is eating its web. rain is coming.
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