Hhtt. At least now I know why I keep hearing turbines, when daddy was on the pay phone near the Cray computers in sub-level 2.26 (losing it)
hold on memory) Deedle would start the Crays up and daddy would have to shout at me I thought what the why I thought turbines I knew them.
(total recall hurts)*squint*I knew the word turbines from a Flash Fact in an old comic Crays loud jet engine runway loud ride the lightning.
my eyes roll in my eyes roll out I yell for daddy the turbines (Flash Fact!) scream follow Apollo baby strung out weightless pretty son set.
Jem and I, seven. Watching a sky, not yet owning the television. Is that it? Encapsulation capitalizing cannnnndyyyy colored twilight, yay!
I saw fractal images in my coffee, not the broccoli as expected. A face, an eye, an advertisement four glasses. On the ceiling of a train?
Kindred burroughs for the broccoli then, hurried. This time a headline: TEAR THIS WALL DOWN! He looked at the ceiling and saw clear brick.
A glass ceiling? What does THAT mean? Brick walls I can see through but its a ceiling not a wall but my ceiling not my wail a glass eye see.
Canfield's blackberry cola chased with Cuervo in big splashes of yellow and black and pink, the ad on the back of Unlikey Tales#1 July 1968.
I look at the can of Blackberry drink and the images move like a dozing commuter. What is tragically hip? The Fugitive I know, on BVD, wha?
The Prisoner is #6. Patrick McGoohan, Six of One, can't escape the Village, could be the story of my life, trapped in the Joy Motel airless.
Ripped poster detaches from the concrete wall behind Scrip City and floats skittish as a tadpole in a highball. Slaps a passing bus, sticks.
Bus belches bad gas and grunts up the incline, Face #2 piercing the gloom. Hawkwind eyebrows, perpetual smirk, bullet eyes. Seen him before.
Morphs into Baldo the Magnificent, Face #1, vein popping iron forehead, leaning in for a headbutt or a strangle hold. Mystery unblinking.
Always click clicking, the steady tap tap of water torture, bad dentures, lobster on a glass table, IBM Magnetic Tape Selectric Typewriter.
Shorthand Face #1, let's call the guy Sam Skoog. Face #2, okay, Gene Angst. Sam 'n Gene. Maybe they're a new duo out of Nashville, hitmen.
Been dreaming about Sam 'n Gene. Salmon Jean. Sam on Jean. Harlow? Platinum Blonde. Somethin' fishy. Brainskip. Get a grip. Let 'er rip Bip.
There goes Culhane. Light white Warhol cube, end of the alley, long shadows. Carrying the box. Numbers, vectors, names, dates, addresses.
Bookkeeper, mindmeasurer, soultaker, discipledealer, fireflinger. Culhane keeps track of the who's and where's and why's for 12 Disciples.
Kindred smoothwalked shadowbound, Culhane unaware, wouldn't dare. Closed gap to regulation CIA, breathing in whenever Culhane breathed out.
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