wearing sloths were blessed with an innate ability to block out the world's murderous terrain. It seemed awkwardly metaphoric.
I-40's charms boasted of no name gas stations, seedy strip club billboards and missing children, exhumed from the branching lost highways of the Midwest. My curious tongue was insistent upon French kissing the mouth of the Pacific, regardless of the mischief Arizona had arranged with the heavenly ghosts. Killing two ravenous birds with a rebel stone justified my cooperative urgency. My platitude was that the gods of rock n' roll were ushering me to the Promised Land and would awaken the damned with a ceremonious Hollywood riot in my honor, but a looming reality suggested my experience was called to be far more elaborate than a future memory of the Sunset Strip to boast from a Wicker Man's rocking chair.
Eighteen hours on the barren road can consume the fading mind with paranoia. Roadside naps were of little consequence and only littered my ill mind with episodes and day terrors. My initial stop was a warped refuge. Hunkered down in a cheap hotel, I was convinced I'd been traced by a bearded set of serial killers, motoring a large and suspiciously clean white economy van. Unsure if my profile matched that of someone they'd like to kill, eat or enslave, the warm welcome of a bolted door, a receipt of my whereabouts and a direct phone line to the desk clerk was a worthy bid for my shrinking budget. I incessantly peered from the musty hotel curtains. Nothing.
These types of sensations are amplified by distance, youth and only having a beeper to communicate with. It is hard for me to even type the word beeper without stirring up a generalized anxiety. H-E-L-P (4-3-5-7)!
+++
In the still of the night, I settled. Drifting into the space between consciousness and the void, I was whistled along by a blue bird. Its presence radiated a magnificent spectrum of light. Strangling the hands of time, it broke apart and reanimated as a black, white, gray and red bird. I recognized the riddling red bird and cruel gray, but remained mystified by the murder. Familiar feelings dripped from heaven, triggering my soul to condensate; misfiring synapses didn't have the nerve to unleash the Tell-Tale Heart lurking beneath the floorboards of my conscious.
The birds hovered above the cardinal points of a glowing sphere. Intersecting with six white lines, a clock emerged upon a targeted desert floor. A dove then highlighted the Northern and Eastern portions of the timetable. Isis, the black bird, pecked a septenary into my forehead.
“Forever this moment,” said the red bird.
Naked, sweating and crawling from the center, the birds turned gray and viciously attacked me.
I was awoken by a loud tapping on my hotel door, in haste.
“Time to check-out,” insisted a perky housekeeper.
“One of these nights, I'll dream about a woman and not these wretched fowl,” I muttered.
+++
I desperately longed for female companionship. No soul embodied the beauty of feminine divinity more than Juno Vestris. Someday she would tap dance across the Atlantic and capture the gaze of every nation. She was inspired by the eclipsing architecture of her histrionic Roman yesterdays; her dances, a tribute to the ancient fallen world. Like the cobblestone streets, her body paved a way for her soul to connect with the simpler hearts of Palestrina, a small commune east of Rome. The roads were her stage and a constant reminder of an elementary time, when people coveted the virtuous patience needed to leave indelible footprints on the emotional psyche of future
I-40's charms boasted of no name gas stations, seedy strip club billboards and missing children, exhumed from the branching lost highways of the Midwest. My curious tongue was insistent upon French kissing the mouth of the Pacific, regardless of the mischief Arizona had arranged with the heavenly ghosts. Killing two ravenous birds with a rebel stone justified my cooperative urgency. My platitude was that the gods of rock n' roll were ushering me to the Promised Land and would awaken the damned with a ceremonious Hollywood riot in my honor, but a looming reality suggested my experience was called to be far more elaborate than a future memory of the Sunset Strip to boast from a Wicker Man's rocking chair.
Eighteen hours on the barren road can consume the fading mind with paranoia. Roadside naps were of little consequence and only littered my ill mind with episodes and day terrors. My initial stop was a warped refuge. Hunkered down in a cheap hotel, I was convinced I'd been traced by a bearded set of serial killers, motoring a large and suspiciously clean white economy van. Unsure if my profile matched that of someone they'd like to kill, eat or enslave, the warm welcome of a bolted door, a receipt of my whereabouts and a direct phone line to the desk clerk was a worthy bid for my shrinking budget. I incessantly peered from the musty hotel curtains. Nothing.
These types of sensations are amplified by distance, youth and only having a beeper to communicate with. It is hard for me to even type the word beeper without stirring up a generalized anxiety. H-E-L-P (4-3-5-7)!
+++
In the still of the night, I settled. Drifting into the space between consciousness and the void, I was whistled along by a blue bird. Its presence radiated a magnificent spectrum of light. Strangling the hands of time, it broke apart and reanimated as a black, white, gray and red bird. I recognized the riddling red bird and cruel gray, but remained mystified by the murder. Familiar feelings dripped from heaven, triggering my soul to condensate; misfiring synapses didn't have the nerve to unleash the Tell-Tale Heart lurking beneath the floorboards of my conscious.
The birds hovered above the cardinal points of a glowing sphere. Intersecting with six white lines, a clock emerged upon a targeted desert floor. A dove then highlighted the Northern and Eastern portions of the timetable. Isis, the black bird, pecked a septenary into my forehead.
“Forever this moment,” said the red bird.
Naked, sweating and crawling from the center, the birds turned gray and viciously attacked me.
I was awoken by a loud tapping on my hotel door, in haste.
“Time to check-out,” insisted a perky housekeeper.
“One of these nights, I'll dream about a woman and not these wretched fowl,” I muttered.
+++
I desperately longed for female companionship. No soul embodied the beauty of feminine divinity more than Juno Vestris. Someday she would tap dance across the Atlantic and capture the gaze of every nation. She was inspired by the eclipsing architecture of her histrionic Roman yesterdays; her dances, a tribute to the ancient fallen world. Like the cobblestone streets, her body paved a way for her soul to connect with the simpler hearts of Palestrina, a small commune east of Rome. The roads were her stage and a constant reminder of an elementary time, when people coveted the virtuous patience needed to leave indelible footprints on the emotional psyche of future
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