I'm slowing down, brain three hours future past, I hear my name, formal like. I'm lost in the woods. I'm someone's pet rabbit. Mmn, carrot!
Words far away, my friends locked out, are they talking to me nice, no, its Mr. Kindred, like I'm their fucking butler goddamn mood swings.
Mix some absinthe with the Aqua Velva, pour on Frito Bandito as he gives it to Mama Puchama, the woods I love, I'm recalling when I was 11.
Short cut from psych school, lovers in the leaves, I think I watched I'm not sure its only when I drink the cocktail I saw them stabbed.
It was Danko Drought, the woman a secretary with no clearance, liasons with a nuclear spy from Saturn maybe I told daddy he whipped me bad.
M@ntell. Didn't know his first name, couldn't pronounce his last name, static buzz from the Aqua Velva hit, makes me remember the blood.
11 Jan 1961 Dear Dad: I have a job now at Thinking Machines, Inc. Had a dream about psychotronic turbines, seems like deja vu. Nauseous now.
Bought an eight-piece ink blot and a fizzy pop at the Scrip City Drive-Thru. Visions of curling fetal in the trash compactor out back. 1997.
Bumped into Dick Overtone on a 3:30AM ice machine run. He was inside the ventilation system, just his head protruding. Dick is hardcore CIA.
He comes and goes like fog licking the Lake Michigan shoreline. Dick says Joy Motel is government-controlled. Deep black cover. Burnt edges.
Thought control, LSD, decapitated pigs, electrovolts leaking out of fridges to numb the brain, big pulsars like water rolling on the boil.
Kindred jammed his empty ice bucket on Dick's head and left him there. That's the way Dick likes it. Echo of his brainwaves in the dark.
CIA, NSA, ASAP. Through a spammer darkly, Ubik twittered to one of the victims. Which spree? Unruh's? Unangst's? All ubiquitious. RIPPKDLOL.
Long, cold night. Moon at apogee. 3rd floor nascent. Lambent streetlights deceptive lies to the border of the brainstream, a secondary way.
G-Men in a white vehicle. Rubber gloves. Engine leaking dark oily pools. Reno, Nevada after the chase. Kindred age nine. His father down.
They had rolled over and slid upside down on the roof. Truck spinning in ever diminishing circles like hands of a Dali clock running down.
Kindred slid out the half open side window. G-Men beating his father with a length of chain. The boy went to their car, a true nondescript.
Shotgun on the back seat, pump action, 12 gauge. Taking it out, the long barrel banging against the door frame, glinting hard black steel.
Two heads swinging around, eyes locking on danger, hands reaching for service revolvers, slow shock of brain pattern recognition. Boy? Boy??
First blast a tight cluster of pellets, hornets from hell, face pulped and head gone at the same time, a standing headless corpse, toppling.
Kindred's father rolling over onto his back, blinking like a salmon, mouth bubbling air pockets tinged with pink direct from lungs wheezing.
Kindred, five feet tall, pumped the action, swinging the shotgun and the second cluster missed wide right, rogue pellet eye-centric, zing.
Entering the left eye of G-Man #2, popping it like a party balloon and angry travel through the back of his brain and out, death dealer.
Kindred dragging his father to the government vehicle and getting him into the trunk and slamming it down and turning the ignition, rolling.
90 miles an hour west dead straight along the desert highway, chasing the dying sun. Kindred the Kid twirling the knob, radio up, Sinatra.
No comments:
Post a Comment