I could sit here for one thousand years and watch all the changes
metamorphosize around me. Watch the trees shoot up like fountains and be
cut down for landscaping purposes. Watch the masonry crumble and erode.
The sudden white flash of the Bomb, and the reversion under dark overcast
to a rocky, sere plain, then covered with grass in the warm sun and
frantic cloud shadows. Slowly slowing down, and here I'll wait awhile, on
the plains, the hills just a little lower, and me in my atavistic,
anachronistic apartment balcony in the middle of the sky. Don't look
behind, or it'll fall!

It's outofistic. Do I want to go back in vistic? Invictus? Back to the
warm sun on my planet? Back to the warm money sun? When there's money,
all the anxiety runs. All the rules are suspended. The bad rules, anyway.
There is only joy. Joy all night, songwriting all night. Following the
thread of the project wherever it will go without fear of diversion.
Following diversions single-mindedly, the way Edison worked.

Yesterday playing video games, I thought, perhaps this is the point of
life! To relax, to entertain yourself, to find our own unique destiny.
The latterly, surely. Every individual's got his own unique rule-desires.

What's this got to do with the flow of tachyons? The tachyon eons full of
tacky ions? Eels in the eons, swimming in the ionic eons, disturbing the
iconic tachyons, there in their pants and mismatched blouses. Steel eels
in the sky, in the auburn haze of this zummer, summer humming like a jet
engine as the jets make their way eely through the sky toward Burbank
airport. It will truly be an airport when it hangs suspended in the sky,
and the jets slow and then stop at the airlocks of extended jetways.
Little quiet gravity shuttles will then take customers back home. An
airport hanging in the shoals of the sky, the bronze shoals of the orange
sunset.

The sun is burning the sky, a wet sky burning badly, a smoky fire full of
shoals of clouds. It makes no noise whatsoever. In the distance, there
are stars along the hills, and closer tiny squares in all the decks, all
the powerlines, all the television aerials. Claws to rake TV shows from
the skies. The extended jewelry, the tranquoise jewelry of the tranquil
noises of the evening, what with the golden lines of cars and the squawk
from the drive-thru speaker, the chunk of the speaker, chumming the
evening air for the inevitable feeding frenzy to follow.

I like trashy low-down parking lots. I miss all the Mexicans. Enjoyed
being beat and relaxed looking out my back window at the stores along the
alley. At the jets in the sky, high in the hot afternoon, in the matrix
of stillness, floating in a soup of serene jets and television antennae.
Just a drop floating in the soup. Just a crouton. Just a button in a
thrift store drawer. The books for 50 cents at the Womens' ORT shop.
Thrift shops for the benefit of diseases. Driving a dangerous Ford Pinto.
Living on rice and hot dogs from Circle K. Livin on reds vitamin c and
cocaine. Livin on booze, marijuana and ramen. Livin on chicken supremes,
taco salads, VO and coke. Cain. E.

The stillness and the silence. The silence of having no responsibilities
and no one to answer to. The only responsibility to keep me intact and to
keep my soul fed and to keep my golden creativity golden, and to keep the
scintillating bronze tits golden. The gigantic golden golem globes!
Layers and layers of orgasmic sensation in the Chinese bronze of that
skin! Orgasmic gnosis, there in the agnostic paper.

Today, blue sky and green tree. How big around is Now? How does it feel
to Be Here Now? Am I getting it right? I just sort of look around at my
objects. Is that being now? Or I shuttle my mind into weird sensations,
trying different angles — is that a bettereality? Wanna betta bet? Is
gravity real? My imagination is almost palpable at times, at certain
combinations of coffee, hunger, concentration, relaxation, sexuation.