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38 Methane man

Kindred: hitching, thumb out, frozen ice cream treat. Puffs of air, no help. Bus long gone, canister in his pocket like a chilly hard-on.

Three mile markers and a Burma Shave later, a car rolls up. Mercury Montego, jet blue. Driver looks like Janssen, from Tourette's, he's MIA.

Facial tic and all, cops picked him up, I heard. Killed his wife with her own prosthetic arm. Plus, he was Canadian. Who'd have thought?

Where you headed, Kindred heard him growl tobacco. Kindred asked what year it was. Driver: huh? K: I often get lost in my own fictions. Hht.

Six weeks earlier, mental kickback, Kindred sweating bedtop sheetless, heat in his room set to broil, get the loonygoonies out, pop a bead.

Voice from the heating vent, man from Saturn, methane gulper, can't come out to play today or any day, can't breathe oxygen, this spaceman.

Orange Julius, Julius Boros, Rome He Hoe und Jules he Et. Thirsty for knowledge, hungry for love, starving for affection, supersaturated.

Noncentsickle verbiage, metatextual visagery, condensation of visceral visual imagery, ubermuscular self-awareness, 140 eyepokes per Tweet.

I lay back on the bed closest to the bathroom in my bromide away from home. Thought about the bus ride in Illinoir crime noir cornstalk doom

I dreamt on that bus, as well. Karin Offal sucked in oxygen meant for me, and now I'm back here, avoiding Tourette's like it was a disease.

Now whwn I hear Bob Dylan's new song BLONDE ON BLONDE, I think of Offal and deadDad. Warner Bros. closed down their cartoon studios today.

Can't sleep can't peep nothing to weep for or at, wipe the visagery from the viscera in my eye sockets, maybe someone will buy me a drink.

Scrip City, closed for renovations. Well, pardon me. Hopping along, bipping like that new cat Cassius Clay, me feeling like Sonny Liston

TV has crappy reception at Tourette's, Meeks blames it on Hurricane Betsy, hitting New Orleans. Pronounces it noreens like he's ball-gagged.

I think the bad reception is from the guy from Saturn in my heating vent, but I do not amplify my thoughts (unlike Mac the Rant, who, in his

questionable wisdom, praises the songs of the multiverse primordial). Sid Skin tells me Bobby Kennedy had some dying words, months ago.

Before MLK was doomed, Bobby was asked when there'd be a black president, he posited 40 years. I whiplashed, whoa, I was there. Somewhen.

Back to my room, my conundrums, my sleep. I have a nightmare that the methane man is turning me into magnetic spools of recording tape.

my brain spools out, cheap 35m film now, shot from a .22 caliber with the railroad tracks outside in the backstory. Panning, breezy curtains

blonde on blondie and clyde breathless not quite beneath the planet of the summer of love and apes triple features jiffy pop jujubees hash.

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