Remains of the day include a snuggie, a marbled snail of Arabian decent and a yellow feathered turtle bus. Reduced to a shimmer, the fuzzy spreckled con man entered the swamp arena underneath the groung. The party had begun three nights earlier but it continued underneath the confines of swere sewer systems and caves. One could hear the band from three miles away but I didn’t actually see them until I passed by the pillards underneath the freeway where stampedes of unseen cars flew by sounding more like a train than a car. But the band screamed into microphones hailing the demons of our time and looked at the black haired mongoose who was dressed as a pirate and he looked back at me and winced. What? I didn’t think that anyone could be the one to talk. After all, the pirate was holding a jug of jin and in the other lanky fingers a jug of smelly old wine. A woman who had been talking to a portrait on the wall that had been spray painted in cans of fumey fumes. Oh to be able to describe the walls of the interior space of those sewers. We couldn’t see. It was too dark and the night blanket was around everything but the other side of the world, which was certainly warm enough from the sun. “abandon all hope ye who enter here” was markered on the curvature of the tower beam, and I held my phone up to the paint to ssee the details and I thought of American psycho first and how the book begins… but then dante and his little masterpiece, which by the way, was taught in a circular classroom where desks were not separate but attached as an elongated table where chair met next chair next door. An Italian man talked with a heavy berry rico bacon accent with the I’s and the ahhhh… I couldn’t understand most of the words that came out of his class, so of course, I dropped it. And danta can wait for another day when an Italian man doesn’t have a blazer with an orange sticker with an upside down smiley face. I wondered about that sticker and what it meant, and I wondered that night as I passed through the first of four caves of the sewer . this was a new inferno. It was an inferno of younger people with cans of spray paint and eyeliner, drums, and screeching voices echoing through the underearth... I miss the tunnels. But it stank. Someone said that we needed to be careful of our steop in other words to follow the path of the papercard stock stepping bores and the slippers of suede and sheep skin were wet and crapped on and I thought I heard the scratching meat sucking of a large mouse rat canoon. Oh a canoo would have been very appropriate for me. There is nothing more appropriate than appearing at the band within the depths of the sewer in a green canoe. Make the cameo with a canoe with its markings on the side KCUF 999 oh but that would be cliché I must say. Drumming hip dip and swing a rythym, trashing the trashed thrashing the thrashings of society, where only the blackened eyes of the boys can see what’s coming . And really there is only one thing coming and that is the wave of silence that happens when time stop momentarily like in the matrix where neo is slip sliding bending backwards with the devils demon trickster pollywoop gymnaccrostics. Silver streak of starlight where the 3rd rock from the sun comes tumbling down to a place where there will be a gentle divot in the land of the kutra people. Within the trees within the vines the old ruins of falling stones and lakes that are deep within the bark and brush thick with lime. A colorful bird with twitching wings cocks his head and cries, “there are no more people left to imitate.” The crow, thought it is not a crow but an imitation of a crow dressed in the featheres of the cockadoodle doo to you parrot dice. I wonder with a shake of the wrist with the paradice stike midnight where the sound begins again screeching drumming beats through past roar and helter skelter. And I hold my camera against the walls where someone has painted a name that I don’t recognize. Sydney Marinus. And for the first time I remember the boy who stood staring at something and thinking everything and not aware of the thoughts but comepletely lost in the bliss of lost consciousness. Painting the bloom red, Sydney cuffed the back of the railing. A small rain bagan to fall inside the “crossroads” colored walls where everything is clay and the ashes of the buried bones. Those were the only ones left that anselm could use. How could he use anything but these. These were the stories, layers and layers, foundation against foundation where plaster, rock, limestone, rock, twigs, teeth and bone-dust complemnt an elephant skin fooring. Looking down at his pumps, he releases the founding fathers bones bones bones everywhere bones with no more land to roam but the land of the stolen fathers. Complacent in his moment, Sydney attempts the impossible; he is reclining back, straight backed and head 45 degrees against the graine. There he stays momentarily where he is allowed to stare at the movement of ceiling and floor, rain and muddlewords slipping down painting lane. It looks like the drippings of water plugs slipping sliding down shower glass, and sometimes, when one cries, a water-wet sticky-proof skin of many shades. Many different feet will touch this ground. If not another like it. Oh Sydney don’t stop your brigade. there are flags to be posted on moons and planets, stars and the pink stones of the kaleidoscope.backwards falling, the lids of the eyes- his thinnest skin – lower lash downwards. Look up look up the great work begins mr. marinusss. This is his epiphany. What is the great work? You see it in front of you. You have seen it in front of you all your life, but the eyes weren’t able to tell the brain the right signals and so the feet just kept walking, the arms kept moving and over the years, you learned to do what you do best; imitate life. There is none other than imitation is there mr. marinus yourself? What is happening the 45 degree angle where his heels connect the floor point laser-like a light the weeping paint rain. A guard pulls a flashlight from his belt. A skylight pours a gritty glow patch and sends a flash of camera blink against the higher jaw bone of the temple. Lightning. My denim is wet and wild. A Diesel would like to be a truck, but no, now a pair of American pants important from italy I mean imported from italy. What is the shirt you wear mr. Marinus does not move he is a photograph in time a quake of consciousness. Seagulls, caught in the blister, wings pulled down and some pulled heavenward nearly collapse with the power of the lens. Surveillence. From which eye am I going to be seen today? The third eye, perhaps? The one we don’t know enough about but marunis today has painted in read against the top of his nose where the creases have appeared aafter worrying about the morning milk and cream for the cat, the afternoon lunch our when ther is never enough time to finish the clockwrk. But somehow there is still that prity of thought where the river of flow just goies and doges goes and dgoes, and goes, folling a carres of the shirt when the wings of the tail collar used to blow, a shuttle now takes the a passenger to the scene of the crime. Awake AAwake AwakeAwake. Back to the canoe hwhere we will paddle hard against the river against the lapping pools. There wwe will watch a the walls painted graffitteid clowns and battle cries, monster mash, lettered hearts with initials plus other initials. The walls become the heart ad the the eart becomes the walls but they are concave and splendid in their low brow kind of way. And now one can say , not even the king of Frankfurt, no one cn say that the lowest of the low are exempt form the crime. Because there we were, and if nto a can a paint, a brush with oils, a finger spread with the metallic of sea shor e mercury. Dripipping and it continues to drip drip drip . the bones wit the bones will soak into the elephant skin earth and will regenerate the m color ful monkeyblume hanging from the stem. Upside down upside dow. Falling still, Sydney inwardly pulls, browns like butter in tephloon pans. Pulls in, browns pulls in, he disappears. The guard turns to the moa lisa emblam, the wing of the griffin coming out from her shoulder blades. I will not be albe to let this slide says the officer of the law that watches the paitings day and someof the night looksback towards the e entrance where the glass revolving doors are being replace with new ly aquired hanging beads. Hanging beads. As the arm ofas the arm of the yellow black parking woodie collapses, so too does the meter, the kisok itself. Crumbling like the cities only revealed to some under earth under sand water bearing worlds where the green of life can breeed freely, where the green of life can make what it need to make. The seed. . and the guard, tas the guard the guard, as the placeholder in time – Gettyperceptuman—collapses. At last the gaurds stands above a pair of sneakers and pima cotton, where all that’s left is the seed.
Farmer meets a punk, treacherous sling, put away your arrow, I put away my seed.
Away with the tunnel, the youngins of the sewer world away.
