PRESSURE PRESS ARCHIVE
RETICULATED DAYS IN THE LIVES OF A REGULAR MAN
1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 15 16 17 CHAPTER 8
There're far cracks of thunder as rain raps rapidly over the roof of the house & into the trees & pouring on streets, a steady, heavy October rain. Charlie is asleep on my dirty linoleum writing-room floor. Rocket 101 plays low from 2 speakers at either side of this tiny, crammed, wrecked, beer-can-populated room upstairs. I'm smoking the 2nd half of a joint via hemostat, finished with like the 5th cup of coffee of morning; I remember an old little gem of a poem from the 70's underground magazine titled THE edited by Jack Collom, a poem by I think a guy named Reed Bye with the lines "2 cups of coffee with a joint/is a snappy high", & I've always remembered that portion of that poem as if I so frequently live it by yearly experience.
Snappy Shit Transcendence Poesey. Alert & Drugged. Catch the echo of Soul screaming like tomahawks thru the history of the self, catch the spinning handles aimed for the head & slam them down as poems on a cluttered desk, slapped yellow on a black screen, miniscule inside neurotic 3.5 disks, smaller than a virus to naked eye, actually invisible. Jesus the dictates of the senses is an annoying condition! Jar of Brain Bitch Intoxicant. Streams of Blood under our Skin is the Physical Equivalent of Nature in the Wild as if We Are Very Earths Ourselves. Composed of Earth Mechanics & Substances like little grounded bubbles swirling on one Big Bubble Sphere Rolling in Space & Glowing!
Pop the Motherfuck!
The thunder has moved East over Lake Erie, & the splash of tires & cars & pick-ups splashes thru insignificant top-40 rock radio on low, a background of sound I'm typing on a keyboard over like a multi-hammering psycho on a tin roof in a goddamn lightning-storm & steady faucets of cold rain totally pouring down from dark gray skies moving overhead across The Great Lakes of The United States of Amerika toward the gobbling expansiveness of Atlantic Ocean clouds' galactic swirl pulled to spin by planetary spin, clouds spin slower than Earth hooked like kites of rain in low-pressure wind & insistent gravity, magnetic fact a matter of distance until that Infinite Kiss of Reality on the World of Human Perception welds Consequence to Life.
Immediate Writing is perhaps less literate than English Composition Class, & the breakages of rules seen as sophomoric & wrong in the face of a learned readership, & I certainly do care I don't care. Futility is an Energy too. There is no need to imitate the dictates of Correct English. Money is not paid. Maybe this piece of writing will never find a publisher. Maybe You or I will smile in the same place of writing & reading this, which is certainly the Ultimate Magic of Art, the re-sensing, the mirrors of our dreams & echoes, our throated passions boiling & evaporating & ascending & raining back down on tomorrow's silly, bare head, & really feeling wet & drenched & saturated.
What on Earth ISN'T circular in billions of circular ways? There are 4 & a « billion human being bubbles rolling thru The Milky Way Galaxy in Some Mysterious Quadrant of Everything. Whether we sing or scream is more than inconsequential in the Solar winds. A Sun-spot, when we realize Lucidity, is Hilarious.
I am smiling. Smile too, right here, right now. Sweet Human Communication, no?