Well, about five months into the mysteries, miseries, discoveries, and magic of newly found sobriety, if not sanity, there was in my temporary place of safe passage a little seance held. It was good old Beatnik nonsense smashed smack forward into the jazzy rock of early 21st Century Portland Maine (the locale pretty well like any civilized similar spot of some forty years prior, but with an ocean and actual history).
The Free Radicals, abetted by my pianer-playin’ buddy Mike Be, led by John Sinclair, crazy ass poet/philosopher and once erstwhile manager of the mighty and proudly doomed MC5 of Detroit, long happily embraced by certain sectors of my United States, as well as regions of the present Czech Republic, France, and places now no longer fashionable to the hip in England… well, they held up their end of the bargain with fine whacky dissonance and whining, searching, preening chords and awful thumps as the old man held forth with shards of old words for The Future.
Of course, I was too broke to gain a ticket. I sat outside and smoked cigarettes with a lost girl who looked kindly on my well intentioned sentiments and historical lessons. She shared the dregs of a cup of decaf tea. That was horrible. She was so pretty. The music was just fine. Old Sinclair was still nuts all night long and through the decades. He was giving no sign of giving it up, even as the bongos rattled the club’s windows and no doubt tickled down to the roots of his wizened white hair.
I went home to my happy hovel and wrote… and, I must remark that my craziest writing in years was plumbed out of the depths of some kind of clarity.
I’m Gone © Solomon, 5/7/2010
Things are awful. I'm reborn. Truly fucked. What am I to do? My old lady, that bald pated bat has gone mad, gibbering. She don’t know where I live or where she is. I'm alone. It's way too crowded 'round here. This place stinks. It's filthy. It's immaculate and unborn.
I'm surrounded by morons, geniuses, laughing ghouls, gurus… five-sided hallelujah hum-bugs, four-sided crystalline spheres, three-legged coyotes perched on two legged wigglin’ stools’ rodeo ridin’ on a one-eyed pyramid. It’s no miracle that I am perfectly presently pleasantly surprised.
I've got a pillow case stuffed in my mouth. I'm not eating properly. I'm scaring people. I'm quite proud of myself. Life is too good for words. The sky opens and gushes blood. It drinks up the light radiating from my eyes. I'm blind. I can see. What's that I hear? It's a birth-cry heralded upon an empty wind rushing in every dimension from a faceless womb that smiles that smile you see just before you get et. I'm content. I'm gone… truly fucked… pleased… really gone.
Hic Finis Est