IdKin and EgoKin. FranKINstein1959, the year my daddy died. All variations on a theme, a dharma wheel of karmamel creamy chocolate pecans.
comprehend the obscure reality of mindstuff brain smack! I smelled these words on my leaded deadended fingertips on my kneees at road end.
I was in Midwestern rain again, had I slipstreamed out and back that quicknap? Dark amnesiac I am not, if you'd just listen, puddle reflect.
Imagine a me arguing with another me in a world of pain and a house of horrors all the inner mind whorls of painhorses pinhole my reality.
subjective objective two sides of the water puddle, thing is, the tough hard crickcrack of the beatback highway macadam separates the two.
Methane man back home, am I a science master chasing ripples in a night gallery of planetary conjunctivitis pink eye red eye talley whack.
indecision valisiscion incisions of scions entractates. salvation by knowledge an acid casuality in the causality oscillator-like turbines.
this mirrored Joy Motel recesssed its abcesses incongruously, I never noticed things at first, color scheme wrong-YES-surrounding empire-NO!
There was no Scrip City (with the T missing) & Hi-Fi Records (with the records of their existense intensely exigenerous, all 2,374 tracks.
No, here I'm upside down looking at Syncretism City in all its transquartomuralistic wonder. God, what kind of Man created this mess?
Instead of Schlitz Congoleum, there's a winking sign Confidential Spacecraft Chiropractor. Est. 1973. At least its a clue, I'm here again.
After I slept with Karin Offal in 1968 I regretted not taking care of unfinished business, yet knew I'd be back five years after the fact.
Marvelling at the weatherpoofed macrostructure, I watched an asbestos anteater unrated, abrasive and cowardly, unrelated to this reasoning.
Inter-connective doors 2 leads to 3 leads to 7 leads to 4 nothing but tectonic waste of methodic paste, a slapstick conspiracy sashay.
No red balloon just sticky notes its Saturation Saturday golly do I have the time? I check my tantric luminal dial with wondering wander.
So part of me is here in 1973 another in the same place in 1968 think like a kid me middle-aged you old & dead Karin forever & ever bright.
You know the craziest thing? There's no green screen in the sky here in 1973. Its like they gave up with their idea, a film on the shelf.
Methane man with his Saturn rocketpack breathed through the draft in my memory sponge telling me I die in 1972 bye bye green screen me me.
I decide to keep quiet re: stepping back into myself the way any good poker face would thing is methane man hides his face, can he see mine?
I just want to flip back to the other side of the pavement, the 1968 side, dry the oil from my clothes go visit Karin with a waffle & a rose.
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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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