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56 Kindred Tate

Strange Interlude In Which Dick Overtone Pulls The Strings Instead of Relying on Tricky Dick Nixon to Service The Turbines: go to the lobby.

Seriously, Kindred said with sincere severity. You can see the quick flipflash that might not even pinpoint clarity or grab a can of pop.

Dick Overtone, near obsolete not near obese, splays a hand up at the universe, imprints on each fingerwhorl mini-dramas. Dick O: magician.

Thumbs up, take a peek. There we are in the real, swirling to our dooms. K, Joy Motel, psychDad dead Dad lost loves on a Hyrdox cookie box.

Accusing finger the firm alternator, alter-rate reality, angry Dick pissed off Dick Kindred happy he's man of the year bomb blasting fiend.

Fuck finger gone, blown off at Trinity, no idea of that reality ever ever ever. Imagine, Overtone flipping the bird at the virgin death.

And yet he did. Stared back at a disintegrating skeletal finger, his own future death throes de-jointed. Ringer finger, ah, UBER-reality.

Touch fingertips, thumb & ring finger, faux peace sign in the air, mash the mess of Kindred living three lives at once, four with pinky.

Zoom in: Dick O making the O as in OK sign, Joy Motel sign, keep ticking off realities minus scorched earth fuckstub. Countdown 3 to 1. See?

Girls asleep. I enjoyed that strange interludinal luminal dream, fancy four-fingered magician with green screen cuff links marked infinity.

I had just tired of Corinna's whines, don't condemn me, I don't condone you. PJ and Seashell naked twelve hours now, backseat viewmaster.

I'm the perfect voyeur, vox angelici comes next in my alphabetical existence, the girls, the top down, me & the Santa Susana mountain range.

I think of the films and the television shows ghosting around me, Bonanza, The Lone Ranger. Wanda, the Sadistic Hypnotist. Saw that in LA.

Mountains like moist sponges, what wondrous future films could be made here, this could be an alphane moon, a mormon chronicle, felony squad.

Wheels thrumming turbines towards Chatsworth, Spahn Ranch, Albert Spahn, lover of life. Gullible fool. I risk looking at the girls neckwhip.

Twistturn hillsdip girlyawn notwhich I see the future, UberReality UnterReality Overtonality climbing past remnants of cognitive pastsnips.

I can't do this, I see it like a card spread. I meet Manson, talk him into writing a screenplay about anger and audacity on Saturn's moons.

SPACE OPPOSITES films that summer, all the big stars. Janssen, Mitchum, Mantell, Ava Gardner as Manson's lost soul. B&W bombshell sadlove.

No one kills for Manson, a divorced Sharon Tate gives birth 8/31/69 names the boy Kindred. K Tate grows old, bold, designs a bomb at seven.

Overtone freaks in his sleep, Kindred Tate bubbles with despotism into the new century, rewrites New Mexico in his middle name: Trinity.

I'm snapped back to March, knowing I had some type of wonderful adventure, now I'm with PJ and Seashell and my pet bong Culhane p-k p-k p-k.

Apollo 8 is up there in the Milky Way somewhen the only place I'd look past a girl's tummy or a needed rewrite of my current novel. Space.


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