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36 Cargo cult

When I look back up out then, I knew there were knewrel connections to why that dead strech of I-80 put me in the murder set again so fresh.

Friday night now, 11:11 PM. Silence, not a single tweet. And I should know. Thinking about telling Kindred, but he has his own tale to sell.

Kindred ran backwards in mind towards the river branch or mouth north or kraut not his fault they had to die, floatin away like a momma cow.

He opened his eyes to the hydrocarbon rains, they had pulled him from his water dream hooked him skyward ingesting his brainstream fat grim.

Those Titan sheep. Sponges & stealers of thoughts & whims. He looked at the vast black & blue, electric blue, titian blue scratch that now.

The Titan blue of methane vacancies. Volcanic smelling salts. Up here beneath the rings you could forget deadlines, ex-wives, damn Nazis.

Kindred thought of himself in the negative postive: I chose Saturn for the solitude. Let Voyager 1 piss off Jupiter's rotations until I die.

I can think up here, this is where I went when I ate through my 1982 death and vomited by enigmatic emblematic magnetic field fanatic...1972

I was up here first, leaving thermo-chromic cargo cult in the hydrocarbon rains. I learned the xenoglossy attributed to me in this when how.

In 1972 I was talking in a language long dead, and I learned in between afterlife and protobirth, up here with my phantom android sheep. Baa

I spent years mirrored back in the Joy Motel with me up here near Saturn. In Titan's mists, I watched the Watcher as he watched me not dead.

I telescope in past Voyager & Jupiter, stilt tilt eyes of Laura Mars, Enterprise, the proto-shuttle. Shoulda been named for Carl Sagan, pft.

Damn tempunauts. Watcher back at Joy Motel, me up here with hypervision, share the gaze of millions, Bicentennial witchcraft, almost there.

Oh, poor Dicky, a woman's hand (my hypervision is intensely pretentious!) switches channels from Dick resigning to the 1st Illinois Lottery.

October 1973, all those UFO abductions, twice-told tales a cover for the CIA realigning Chile correct, falling clear space, goodnight moon.

And here I am in '72, Tricky Dick still working on his probability turbines, I talk in a dead language and scan the night sky feeling alone.

On Titan, in the methane sheets, the first compounds of sentience lurch before a microbe altar. My cargo cult: what might they make of it?

In the slatted shades of Saturn's rocks, in the matted frays of a slattern's vox, driblets of teal, cult cargo teal, worship my name PKD.

I woke up floating like a fat momma cow past locks & bridges down the muddy one mississippi two miss--PKD, cult cargo, years from now: 1968.

Mississippi reversing flow, pulling America inside out and backward through time, 1982 collapsing into 1972, Kindred the Dead reinhabited.

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