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53 Bellbottom blues

July 11, 1964. Mantell's netherstorm rips St. Petersburg a new winter, Moscow dissolves and Siberia duplicates then shrinks. Love. Karin.

Still thinking of the blonde til the very last sob. Not realizing he had made the US the great atomic power. Bio-atom 8, the final frontier.

Kindred and RFK hand in hand, with a little help from Nixon Culhane (R.-CA), give French Indochina the greatest Insane Unknown Offensive yet

The medicine cabinet only held toothpaste, Prell shampoo, that empty bottle of Bayer, the Cope, spotshined surface. No prescription pills.

What made him do a mental inventorial, he thought but did not amplify. Perhaps he'd appear on Mike Douglas, Tammy Toxcity: publicist nodded.

Wiped a brow, world safe. Wife MIA, who cares Karin, mental list, Chevy buff, volume up, I bought a dead world & I want to blame it black.

Kindred in bellbottom blues, eyes his overlong sideburns in the small bathroom he installed in the hardsteel hut beside the swimming pool.

Corinna is afraid of this deeppool Kindred handbuilt into the coolstone beneath their backsplit. Connected to the netherworld, she insists.

He can hear the softbabble of societies yearning to be free, voices wanting choices, lives underdeveloped, gurgling in his grimy sinkdrain.

Micronesia, Polynesia, amnesia, South Africa, Berlin, sharkfin, Moscow, Nam bam thank you ma'am, he turns on the hot water tap, flushdown.

Scalding singsong verbiage bubbling upward through the braindrain. Glistening waterdrop poised on chrome lip, quivers on the brink of doom.

Vocals by Jim Morrison, riders on the storm, there's a killer on the road. Brain is squirmin' like a toad. Echo pipishly ripe premonition.

Kindred sits on a wicker chair Corinna has painted green, tears open an envelope, his name inscribed with a girlish scrawl, inkly promising.

Dear Dr. Kindrad, I am defenately your biggest fan!!!! If you ever cum to USC look me up here is my photo. Almost forgot, Karin is my mom!

My name is Seashell. I am 20. Five four and 114, people say sexy. I guess so but more sporty if you like cute girls with an all-body tan!!!

Kindred crumpled up the note and flushed it. Fan letters, Man of The Year, bigshot nuke scientist, calls daily from Bobby K. President Bob.

Ephemeral praise, hardly earned, evanescent meanderings of an easily-impressed populace, America I see you in the gloaming, future hopeful.

Karin never told him she had a daughter. Twenty. Born in 1946. His father knew Karin then. Seashell could be Kindred's babyfat half-sister.

Kindred stepped onto the diving board, windowleaked New Mexico sun licking his nape with a longing hot tongue, paint it red, color me dead.

Life stultified, Corinna vacuous, Kindred sucked in an easybake lungbag of desiccated oxygen and pondered his options, jet ripping skybound.

Dove headfirst into the empty pool and entered the drain wetly succulent, poured himself into the Pacific ecosystem, emerged in Lalaland.

This is an alternate universe, Dr. Kindred. Welcome to AltU. You will be teaching the Transience of 1960s Era Idealism: The Dream is Dead.

This building looking vaguely reminiscent of the shelter your father abandoned in 1945 with its stolid lines, your dorm, sorry about that.

Let me introduce you to your roommate, Seashell. Hi! A sweet girl, a little innocent, none too bright, well, sir, you two have a good night!

Kindred suspicious, dropping leather travel bag well-battered, brushes Seashell's downy cheek with a lipflick and falls immediately in love.


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