Nightwind dark, floating I go westward, Iowa slipstreams redolent with the sweet airiness of summer corn, yellow sunspots tickle my sensors.
Adrift on American dreams, small boys batting apples in overgrown outfields, someday Yankees, fantasy of everlasting hope, I see all below.
Ancient river canyons carved by determined glaciers scouring the slate to begin anew, brave settlers forging pathways to mysterious horizons
Young lovers in St. Louis skipping handheld across a weathered bridge, her smile a sly promise of futures he hopes come true, life unbound.
Music drifting on slipstreams over New Orleans, run of jazz piano fueling my ascent to thinner atmospheres, higher planes of consciousness.
I bob along untouched by Great Depression, unwounded by shrapnel launched from the bloody battlefields of France, untroubled, soulserene.
Methane Man mission continues nightly, popping free of the confines of the Joy Motel to travel untethered above the hustlebustle of America.
Farmfields plowed row on row, stolen kisses under mistletoe, country church empty save for sinners, every businessman thinks he's a winner.
Ask not what you can do for your country, mythmade heroboy President astride a golden pony in a regal parade, aims at the moon and hits it.
Finned automobiles belching gasfarts on concrete ribbons webbing urban centers pinpricked on a lifemap drawn in bentbacked sweat and toil.
Cities groan and flex below, an infinite succession of big decisions and small collisions, antagonists and lovers, above them all I hover.
Race riots, broken skulls, gang wars, now a lull, dirty needle pokes a vein, hooker's john cums again, cop on the take dumped in the lake.
Puppies play in Pittsburgh, doves dive in Denver, eagles touchdown in Philadelphia, beersoaked fans celebratory, oh say can you see me?
Motorcade rolling through Dallas, me at 3,000 feet eyetracking trajectories of metallic deathbringers fired from book depository window.
Four moptopped lads from Liverpool outshouted by female fans at Shea, I Wanna Hold Your Hand compression waves pushing me over the Hudson.
Mudslicked musiclovers cavort in farmer's fields, Jimi Hendrix gets experienced, the Doors write Riders on the Storm and it's all about me.
Flashlights at the Watergate Hotel, I hover in an alley, perpetrator hesitates when he looks up, sees floating spacesuit, blinks a-thinkin'.
Philip Kindred Dick goes into a drugstore and comes out with a squirt of nasal decongestant, a ream of typing paper, headspinning selfstory.
Phil Kindred goes into Scrip City, comes out with a frosty can of ice cold Coke, a box of condoms, flatlining brainstream with memoryblip.
Turbines pulse bloodred boombeats through artery hallways, Joy Motel quivers and sighs, shivers and cries, I return to my room to be alone.
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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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