Ernest nested in my brain, the worm crawled ratcheting like an empty el train ttchk ttchk there, a random thought from 1971potato soup vile.
August 11, 1973 paraded between pillows covering my hearing motion denied I volunteered by coaxing the probe into my thalamus, naptime now.
September 9, 1959 younger still unknowing daddy kept his secrets of the desert and sometimes i prayed hiding so he would not see & mock me.
random summer day 1947 daddy tore the cover hysterical starman hourman green lantern they are not the heroes we are the twelve the virgin.
return to seen of crime i'm still encased in lower case just in case i must escape from mac the rant a dandy jaunt i leap from 3rd floor yet
I'm still here taking form and writing words no typing worms inside my derma would explain Sid Skinin his polyester spin on my last book, um
um hum turbines hmn? hymn? Sid hated the book, threw it at the blades it made a sound like valis paper shreds my mind complete I need a pop.
skin pop bladder ask Sidblotter ass cid, anything to keep me sayin not in sayin, the doc is sayin I'm not in my very skin yet still I type.
Q: ? A: ./' Q: be that way. A: but I am this way. Q: no, you are that way. And that's how I ended up here @joymotel, by going that way, damn
daddy would say someday son this will be all yours eyeballing sandstorms displacing new mexico to points south on the headache railway
coppertone girl knee dents in desert sand blasted by the devil's breath rolling across dunes her girly smile frozen in a submolecular dazzle
psychdaddy real daddy tell me true did I have a sister was she younger or older than me did we fight hug hurt play climb crawl dive burn
Don't you sea c c rider? Mac the Rant plonked & he clonked. That doc aint givin you the drizzlin' shits, sit & sip, man. My head I clonked
plink dink ka-plumpf, guit-box morphed atomically ocular my hemorrhaged memorages of holding a girl's hands & then the cloud dissolved her
she was virgin to my smooth, unshaven eyes. Daddy said duck & roll but I was too young to play rhyming word games then. Sucking coal, close.
her dislocated dissolution allowed daddy to disavow selected events in my head. Once I shaved my eyes, I could keep my eyelids peeled. SEE?
what if i have left the joy motel but i'm only imagining that i'm still here? is that psychdaddy in the mirror? am i buried in the desert?
everything is condensed inside the Joy Motel...like the air in the red balloon. ummmm... it's a place with a lot of interconnected rooms!!!
docnotes: ...his pleasure seeking id has separated from him to wander the hallways of the Joy Motel and drink and fornicate and kill...
...must reintegrate the id to restore his wholeness. his superego insists his name is kindred. why? he seems obsessed with twitter. WHAT IS?
...where is his rogue element coming from? intermittent babbling about corrupt brainstream. nonsense or unexpurgated truth? dangerous? yes.
...red balloon drifts up up upwind. lobster tap dancing on a glass table. hallway wheezing like a sore throat. virgin mary in 'shroom cloud.
Kindred at the window: The skyline looks like a bad set of dentures when you see it from Damen Blvd. Docdad:You can leave anytime, you know.
Kindred: On another side of town, it's a fighter's lopsided grin the moment before hitting the mat. Docdad: Are you writing a lifestory?
Docdad: There is no Joy Motel, Mr. Kindred. It exists inside your head. Each room an evanescent fantasy. The people in it? 3D concoctions.
CLICK TO READ NEXT CHAPTER
A twitter novel
The Boston Phoenix says: "Joy Motel is a microblogging book worth scrolling upward for."
Joy Motel is an unconventional sci-fi narrative that was written in real time in 140 character bursts on Twitter, the Internet's fastest-growing social networking platform.
It takes its freeform, disconnected style from the randomness of the Twitterstream itself.
This is a novel for the 21st century, captured in quick bytes by a 5-time Bram Stoker Award Finalist and a Gold Award winning adman, who are transcribing the 'brainstream' flowing inside the neural net of its lead character, Kindred.
He has unknowingly purchased an untested, corrupt brainstream from a black market uploader, which has become an uneraseable part of Kindred's persona as he grapples with an ever-shifting sense of reality, dreams that twist into nightmares, and unreliable perceptions of time and space.
At the center of his struggle, a psychiatrist he calls Psychdaddy is attempting to resolve Kindred's repressed childhood memories of the 1945 Trinity nuclear blast in New Mexico and decode his father's role in a radical collective of bomb-worshippers called the 12 Disciples.
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