Read Online The Fan Man by William Kotzwinkle - Free Book Online
Authors: William Kotzwinkle
Ads: Link
contemplate, it makes my tongue wobble, man, to think of it. So while I am still in good health, man, except for my usual brain tumor, let me turn here, into Central Park, man, into wonderful beautiful Central Park with trees and grass and birds and squirrels. What, man, am I doing here. I should be in Buffalo buying a post office.
Walking along, man, in Central Park, over the grass, dead tired, carrying my tremendously heavy satchel and umbrella. Why, man, did I get born? To do precious valuable Love Music, man, you remember.
Life, man, is so difficult when you are carrying a satchel that stretches your arm out to the ground. I see a chick ahead, man, pushing a baby carriage. Somebody just got born, man, and is getting wheeled around in the sunshine.
“Here, baby, here is a piece of sheet music for you and one for your baby, bring you good luck.”
Chick smiling, baby gooing, that is the life, man, someone to change your diaper and wheel you around. But just wait a while, man, wait about two or three years when they start teaching you how to play the violin. Then, man, you will know pain, in the neck muscles specifically with complications down to the base of the spine, possibly including the feet.
I am going along through Central Park, man, with no phone, no trash pad, no cockroaches, and I feel disoriented, man. I’d better lean against this litter basket, man, and get an energy transfer. Lonely life, man, on the planet Earth. I’d recognize it anywhere, gravity holding me down. Long time ago, man, I used to float around in the sky with a sitar, a celestial musician, man, who has fallen from the heights. The only way to get off the earth, man, is die, and I am definitely dying, man. The all-important question is: Will I be able to take fan satchel and umbrella with me when I go?
Up ahead, man, I can see a fountain, ringed with chicks, man, hot pants short blue jeans long hair beads, and I am going down the great stoned steps toward the fountain, to where all the chisk are gathered, ass tits pussy for the Love Chorus.
“Dig this music, baby. Tonight at St. Nancy’s on the Bowery. When you come just once, baby, then after that I pick you up in the Academy Mail Truck. Just give me your name and phone number, would you, thank you.”
Pushing laughter chicks in the fountain, jeans wet water clinging ass chisk everywhere sunshine summer earth and I am circling the fountain, man, with my satchel, laying sheet music on the chicks. “National television, baby, and everyone gets a fan. After singing we retire to the Academy for a midnight snatch. Everyone is bringing food, bring some food along, yes, your telephone number, thanks you, so much.”
Stone angels dancing on the upraised bowl of the fountain, dripping with water. Beneath the stone angels is a stoned chick, laughing, long black hair, her dress soaking wet her tits belly ass showing. O Horse Badorties, this too is why you come to Earth, for EARTH CHICKS!
Carrying satchel carrying umbrella, leaving fountain behind. I must not linger at this fountain or I will eat a hot dog from that little shack nearby, there, with mustard and sauerkraut. A Central Park hot dog, man, is instant ptomaine. However, to protect against putrification causing ptomaine, the hot dogs are wrapped in a plastic jacket. How wonderful, man, a plastic hot dog, I’d better have two of them, AT ONCE.
“Gimme a… gimme… .” What is this I see, man. It is a plastic toy wind-wheel, man, of blue and white on a little stick, man. AN AUTOMATIC PERPETUAL FAN, MAN! “… one of these fans, man, make it two of them, man, thanks.” And now, man, as I walk along, with this wind-wheel attached into the back of my suit-jacket collar, the motion of my body actually produces a windstream against the delicate blades of the wind-wheels, man, and they are turning. Batteries not necessary, man, and if I run along the blades go faster and the pitch changes . . running, man, jogging with satchel
Walking along, man, in Central Park, over the grass, dead tired, carrying my tremendously heavy satchel and umbrella. Why, man, did I get born? To do precious valuable Love Music, man, you remember.
Life, man, is so difficult when you are carrying a satchel that stretches your arm out to the ground. I see a chick ahead, man, pushing a baby carriage. Somebody just got born, man, and is getting wheeled around in the sunshine.
“Here, baby, here is a piece of sheet music for you and one for your baby, bring you good luck.”
Chick smiling, baby gooing, that is the life, man, someone to change your diaper and wheel you around. But just wait a while, man, wait about two or three years when they start teaching you how to play the violin. Then, man, you will know pain, in the neck muscles specifically with complications down to the base of the spine, possibly including the feet.
I am going along through Central Park, man, with no phone, no trash pad, no cockroaches, and I feel disoriented, man. I’d better lean against this litter basket, man, and get an energy transfer. Lonely life, man, on the planet Earth. I’d recognize it anywhere, gravity holding me down. Long time ago, man, I used to float around in the sky with a sitar, a celestial musician, man, who has fallen from the heights. The only way to get off the earth, man, is die, and I am definitely dying, man. The all-important question is: Will I be able to take fan satchel and umbrella with me when I go?
Up ahead, man, I can see a fountain, ringed with chicks, man, hot pants short blue jeans long hair beads, and I am going down the great stoned steps toward the fountain, to where all the chisk are gathered, ass tits pussy for the Love Chorus.
“Dig this music, baby. Tonight at St. Nancy’s on the Bowery. When you come just once, baby, then after that I pick you up in the Academy Mail Truck. Just give me your name and phone number, would you, thank you.”
Pushing laughter chicks in the fountain, jeans wet water clinging ass chisk everywhere sunshine summer earth and I am circling the fountain, man, with my satchel, laying sheet music on the chicks. “National television, baby, and everyone gets a fan. After singing we retire to the Academy for a midnight snatch. Everyone is bringing food, bring some food along, yes, your telephone number, thanks you, so much.”
Stone angels dancing on the upraised bowl of the fountain, dripping with water. Beneath the stone angels is a stoned chick, laughing, long black hair, her dress soaking wet her tits belly ass showing. O Horse Badorties, this too is why you come to Earth, for EARTH CHICKS!
Carrying satchel carrying umbrella, leaving fountain behind. I must not linger at this fountain or I will eat a hot dog from that little shack nearby, there, with mustard and sauerkraut. A Central Park hot dog, man, is instant ptomaine. However, to protect against putrification causing ptomaine, the hot dogs are wrapped in a plastic jacket. How wonderful, man, a plastic hot dog, I’d better have two of them, AT ONCE.
“Gimme a… gimme… .” What is this I see, man. It is a plastic toy wind-wheel, man, of blue and white on a little stick, man. AN AUTOMATIC PERPETUAL FAN, MAN! “… one of these fans, man, make it two of them, man, thanks.” And now, man, as I walk along, with this wind-wheel attached into the back of my suit-jacket collar, the motion of my body actually produces a windstream against the delicate blades of the wind-wheels, man, and they are turning. Batteries not necessary, man, and if I run along the blades go faster and the pitch changes . . running, man, jogging with satchel
Similar Books
