That Saturday morning I got lost in clouds of white wet and rainy and grey. The black and white image was deeply grey. You know, that image of an old man pretending to be empty when he brought the gift of pain that he carried and personally laid it at the feet of the statue. You remember, that old silver-haired zen man who aged a hundred years after spending one night in the Hospital of Darkness and who, pretending to need and want only his share of nothingness, said that, with steady and meaningless injections under the tongue, liquid morphine (roxanol) made suffering almost painless; it made life itself a sleeping deep perfection.
And so, I had a vision that God's lungs were filled with dreaming dementia, a mystic gas, that He screamed - all night and every night - and spit mouthfulls and throatfulls of infectious spit! He sat and waved to me from His wheelchair warning me to keep away, telling me that my mind was gone, that time was short and days were long. And so, I recorded every word that He spoke to me. I wrote it down and made a list of all His insults:
1. That my lips were glossed with motor oil and my body was paralyzed by thinking.
2. That my money was stolen and my checks were cashed by people deceased who were still on welfare.
3. That my rented car smashed up on Highway 61 Revisited and was closed for repairs.
4. That I had an absessed toothache and a run away runny nose dripping with oxycotin.
5. That my soul was neither black nor white and none of my phone calls would ever be returned.
6. That my writing hardly ever made sense.
7. That my photos distorted reality and never cleared things up.
8. That my camera phone was as sharp as a flat tire and my ideas were as useful as a bounced check.
9. That my hands had an annoying, embarrassing twitch and it made things drop out of my grasp; it made my arms snap their way out of their sockets and fall to the floor.
Of course, God knew that photo I took, the one I mentioned earlier, was a picture of walls and corners, ceilings, doors, curtains, hospital beds, and guitar strings that were really drum sticks, and piano keys that were really guitar picks.
But that sick and twisted God, the same one who created hepatitus ABC and all the other hellish, deadly infections that live and breathe in the holy temples of the body, bruised and damaged the vital organs I use for speaking Words of Spirit into life for making love and seeing visions of Nico.
But that sick and twisted elderly childish and dysfunctionally unholy, that eternally useless and irritating bitch, God Damme, (that's His full name, by the way: "God Damme"), had those discolored black and blue veins that were really punctured blood vessels taped together tight like red rubber tubing, the same color as the white parts of the eyes of meth users after a five-day binge, that makes blood move faster thru the brain, pounding like drum beats that rock that rhythm, that makes the jungle beat run wild and hot thru the steamy night. I wrote down the Word He spoke to me. Like a magical curse, He laid His hands on me, dirty hands - dirty in the sense that He had just finished strangling someone in an alley. And so, God spoke the Words written here:
1. His Word made my skin crawl. My skin got dry and pealed away like dead skin blisters with a vancomyican cocktail with too much salt and saline mixed in my IV. My eyes started to fall heavy and then they got dreamy shut tightly closed and then I was nodding out.
And so, I had a vision that God's lungs were filled with dreaming dementia, a mystic gas, that He screamed - all night and every night - and spit mouthfulls and throatfulls of infectious spit! He sat and waved to me from His wheelchair warning me to keep away, telling me that my mind was gone, that time was short and days were long. And so, I recorded every word that He spoke to me. I wrote it down and made a list of all His insults:
1. That my lips were glossed with motor oil and my body was paralyzed by thinking.
2. That my money was stolen and my checks were cashed by people deceased who were still on welfare.
3. That my rented car smashed up on Highway 61 Revisited and was closed for repairs.
4. That I had an absessed toothache and a run away runny nose dripping with oxycotin.
5. That my soul was neither black nor white and none of my phone calls would ever be returned.
6. That my writing hardly ever made sense.
7. That my photos distorted reality and never cleared things up.
8. That my camera phone was as sharp as a flat tire and my ideas were as useful as a bounced check.
9. That my hands had an annoying, embarrassing twitch and it made things drop out of my grasp; it made my arms snap their way out of their sockets and fall to the floor.
Of course, God knew that photo I took, the one I mentioned earlier, was a picture of walls and corners, ceilings, doors, curtains, hospital beds, and guitar strings that were really drum sticks, and piano keys that were really guitar picks.
But that sick and twisted God, the same one who created hepatitus ABC and all the other hellish, deadly infections that live and breathe in the holy temples of the body, bruised and damaged the vital organs I use for speaking Words of Spirit into life for making love and seeing visions of Nico.
But that sick and twisted elderly childish and dysfunctionally unholy, that eternally useless and irritating bitch, God Damme, (that's His full name, by the way: "God Damme"), had those discolored black and blue veins that were really punctured blood vessels taped together tight like red rubber tubing, the same color as the white parts of the eyes of meth users after a five-day binge, that makes blood move faster thru the brain, pounding like drum beats that rock that rhythm, that makes the jungle beat run wild and hot thru the steamy night. I wrote down the Word He spoke to me. Like a magical curse, He laid His hands on me, dirty hands - dirty in the sense that He had just finished strangling someone in an alley. And so, God spoke the Words written here:
1. His Word made my skin crawl. My skin got dry and pealed away like dead skin blisters with a vancomyican cocktail with too much salt and saline mixed in my IV. My eyes started to fall heavy and then they got dreamy shut tightly closed and then I was nodding out.
2. His Word made my body drag along and drop off from itself, separating from my spine, tearing apart from the vertebrae, from swollen bruised nerve endings and collapsed blood vessels. Like a broken, dried up wooden telephone pole, it snapped in two.
3. His Word slowly rolled up the medical hill, with the telephone pole; and round and round and round it went and where it stopped we dont really know, nor do we care too much about it.
4. His Word said there's no escape from pain or hospital; there's no relief. The hospital is not going away; it is the spinal cord; it has no body. It provides only illusion of efficiency. There is no peace with pain meds: "I'll take a little of this, let's try a little of that!"
5. His Word said that Ms. Oxycodone knocked on my door at 10pm to take me to the dance and dropped me back home at 10am and in between I had sex with dilaudid.
6. His Word said that Mother Sedation hit her head on the grill of a Greyhound bus, a country gospel tour bus, and had her lips flattened with a gift she couldn't refuse: a greasy unemployed kiss. Her lips tasted like shoe polish painted over a pair of wax lips made out of leftover feces cooking in a BMW with the windows rolled up for too long in the heat and it smelled like gasoline.
7. His Word was assigned to me, assigned to me as if for spite, as if karma had something to do with anything. It made me nod out at the Table of the Bored.
8. His Word said that my handwritting was worsening because I was taking larger doses of oxycotin, ms contin, dilaudid, roxanol, oxycodon, vycodin and zanex.
9. His Word of prophesy was posted in the public Day Room for all to get a good laugh.
