we made trips to towers....

We made trips to towers….

Freak status was never good enough inside a head that’s filled with dust and nicotine dreams. Routine fits. What design must he live in when he’ll just be miserable anyway? Or I guess until he finds company that loves misery. or childish passion in eyes that challenge his gaze towards gigantic bright red antenna towers off of 76. fuck those routine fits. So start going to meetings and lectures and classes with scores and scales that learn to lose and gain fair pasty skin and a nice ass to go with some jeans and we’re
Dreaming still…
….until 2:30am when the phone rings yet more distant in your ear than in mine so of course I’m startled and shaken by the feeling of a heart randomly skipping beats.
Godblessyou.
But I must pay attention now. Stay focused. Time goes by so much faster when I do things like this. But slower still. Slow. What a fucked up way of thinking?
Way of doing?
To tease a word that’s just a word you heard from little drunken birds, but in the same context you arrange that word in time with live jazz and road trips and company that challenges misery. And in the true sense of your karma and energy, there are no plans.
There’s only moonraker & toll booths. Incense, green faeries, Red Bank, Apple Pie Firetower. Sweat lodges, wicca. The Phoenix Sun & the Cherokee. Your scent. Morphine. Was the initial plan to kill me?
I guess it didn’t work.


2001.