Hnm. I grunted, came out more like a reality that went down the wrong pipe. TV static scattershot, hookers whisper price markdowns hearshot.
Not in my day. I turned, Sid Skin had tipped into his drink. Hmn? I seemed to have my voice in a vacuum. Sid: In my day, men wore hats.
Skin touch the brim, a newspaper boat. Random words. Mr. October, someone's son was named Sam. Four Sevens. Bicycle fish. Last call, ump.
Sid touched the brim, you mean? The guy in the stall next to me said & I stalled. Ah, you meant it clever, like you slammed 2 words into 1.
I flushed the stranger away, knowing full well my typos were no good in this reality. Means justify the mens room. Over my shoulder, bullets
Out the door & back to my stool, my new friend a grunting Gilgamesh. I saw you were confused before, chin nodding me. On the instant replay.
And this is? He asked, then shook his head as I kept wronging my heads with the bar towel. Joy Motel? TwiNam Zone? 1968? Washington AC/DC?
Hear, watch. He nudged Sid Skin, who flamed out in a nick. Then he moved the ragged scalp, placed it over the tv above that, told me no
the real news was above the faceless news. You are in 1968 and yet your faceless friend's strange hat is a newspaper from 1978, a Best Of.
Yes, let's stick with that, a best of, a compendium. You watched swore a man was president & no one wore hats but for the two of the unknown
Tomb of the Unknown Offensive, sorry this freak wince see's break cup further future hear put that aluminum plug in the other's empty face.
I push & crinkled & shoved exotic time into the facial gravity well. I saw a man with black skin become President and it was my own reality.
Relatively speaking, I watched him replace the oaf of office and then I was pulled from my paper: Best Of The 21st Century Brainstream, V.1.
When did Ted Kennedy get so fat? What were the Indigo Scavengers? Sid had his real skin back on, Rod Serling hosted the evening news. Again.
I still wasn't getting any, I left Tourette's, wistful for Scrip City. Culhane deadeyed me from Rm. 125. Seein' th' future from the future?
Mocked and feeling cold-cocked cock-knock he was locked out of his room. You have to do everything so half-past when you needs those meds.
Voiced from behind, Kindred turned and saw a baby blue parrot on the side of a pink balloon. Washed with age, he was fading, on the nod.
Swimming pool crystal, turbines sparkled, didn't squeak. Nowhere to be found: Big Q. Meeks. Kindred was in a rhyme frame, Meeks thin grins.
All the letters in PRESCRIPTION CITY AND HI-FI RECORDS lit up red neon in a time rain when every letter was important for the i's to c twice.
Kindred walked closer, surprised that there were no brainstream potholes, past was smooth, no. HI-FI had a Rod McKuen 8-Track in the window.
Watch it for what it was, man. It aint gonna fade no more, just focus in and fall apart shot to sunshine what little there is in his days.
vinyl gone eight track data spools old school brainstream the way he might've written it had this this event occurring in his head had ha
been around when he was young and might've understood better. A man named Gene Splice tried to sell him a time share on a CB radio. smirk.
8 tracks shrinking something smaller sub-atomic no, just like Graham Crackers instead of Pop-Tarts christ the dope made him hungry for love.