They can actually prompt him to speak. He always feels berated, but he will certainly open up like morning glory blooms in the dawn’s early light. The information he divulges is broken and strained in as much as he can twist the truth into what he believes. Nothing is vast, and the fact that he knows this makes him believe in nothing, as it exists in its entirety. Where the road ends, misery begins. This is the situation, as it stands, just beyond being halfheartedly crippled. He nods his head and shakes with the sickness of a broken man from a broken home. He is broken from the oh so lovely opiates that keep him going strong in his convictions to disagree with these inquisitors from the Devil’s system of imperfection. Given all the possible outcomes of the night, death seems like a very comforting alternative.
All of these tumbling hours, and ours is just a shifting path of irregularities and random acts of conspiring forces that seethe in alleyways trying to obliterate his sanity. “What is this all about?” He creeps, and as the drone of voices rage on overhead he dreams of everything good and wholesome in this life; burritos on Haight, warm, clean sheets, kind bud, and the pale, prickly-pear goose flesh that blankets the lush labia as he licks life’s holy eye. That will be enough of this rambling on in such a venereal fashion.
The seriousness of the present predicament is lost in the faded consciousness of the Asian flu sickness that makes him shiver with a sort of moaning anti-delight. He feels like Oswald when Jack Ruby stuck a gun in his guts; however, a knife to the hilt would more apt; a straight classic. But, opinions never counted in the American gray matter of separating black from white, rich from poor, good from evil, right from wrong, tastes great from less filling, for better or for worse, so help me God. It’s all the same fucking thing! Delirium is settling down for a permanent stay in the confines of his thick skull.
How would Uncle Bill handle this situation? Well, he would probably call Ronnie Milsap, Ray Charles, Little Stevie Wonder, and the rest of the Blind Boy Scout Battalion to croon lullabies of redemption into his sweltering ears. “Hell, Zimmerman never wrote any shit this crazy, never strayed so far from the path”; I think to myself crankily and quite conceitedly. Everything occurring since his breaking point, even with the flow of time, has not made any more sense than it did on the Western Plain.
The eyes open, dry and red and irritated by the fumes of the peeling paint. His eyes roll wildly, dart furtively, then open wide with an expression seeming to exclaim, “My God! (My Dog!). What a blindingly brilliant world that waits for me to…to…run away and hide from…me.” What is that creature squirming in my throat? Did I swallow my pride? It tastes a bit like bilious, Hollywood homicide. His mouth is parched. His dreams are decayed. His wants are trivial. He runs to look in the mirror. “That’s not zombie road kill in my throat, that’s my tongue.” It’s all purple swollen and abused like Linda Lovelace escapades into celluloid insanity. Saliva! Where are you? Where did you go? Tears.
The night before is a torturous, blank memory. The course of the day remains to be seen. The sun scene seems to be polluted with ideas of nothingness, and where my liver used to be, now resides an I.O.U. Well shit, I don’t want to pay up…I’m destitute…I’m zero balance on Karma…you can even ask my friends. The guy wasting away 6 doors down is a junkie, but not me.
I rode all the way from heaven in a Uterine Carriage, some 23 or so odd years ago. I fell from heaven as if a broken angel. The fall has been long and hard, the road full of potholes and broken promises. I have been told by various, nefarious women of the night that I am an angel, that my personality exudes the necessary generosity that makes men of mice and saints of sinners. No way. No how. Not this kid, not this gullible, Goat-head wannabe. This walking stranger headed for nowhere, that eerily empty place where the sunshine fix awaits.
Now, as may or may not know Raoul Duke and the great Dr. Gonzo went off on their little excursion into the neon nothingness of Vegas searching for that Dream, American and proud. What they found there had completely tainted the glory of the story all together, but somehow the general idea of my situation isn’t the same. I feign Rap and Roll like a frat boy, jock talking the king of swing. I eat paper wrapped, salted crap for dinner. I scrub my nether regions; Carlin fashion. I dine on moist animal flesh. I was raised transfixed by the fix and the glimmering sheen of the Tee-Vee screen. I learned to fuck missionary style just like a good God! fearing citizen, so is it such a wonder why a life that should be so full of bliss and so mightily meaningful feel so wasted, so broken, so hollow like busted, bar slut, brain chambers? Will I ride the snake to the lake with that brown tooth, dangling cigarette droop, writhing in the wrinkles of sin, buttered and basted, by back-seat thrill rides and drunken jokes with forgotten punch lines?
Yessir.
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