Thursday, September 17, 2009

Chapter Z from Lohbado's Eternal Sneeze

The idea is to slow down, take a thread and follow it to the end before branching out in new directions. Unfortunately, Lohbado doesn't work that way. He's an explosion of scenarios, sneezing all over the place, starting half way through the book and working diagonally back to the beginning, for example, just as Little Jack Horner stuck in his thumb and pulled out a plumb, sort of like in the above photo, (another picture from a sequence in progress entitled Lohbado's Dance of Death), Dreaming Man, like any true dreamer, using Finnegans Wake as a template, Lohbado attempts to tell his story, entitled, The Experiment of My Life.

By the way, here's a nursery rhyme I wrote years ago: Little Tommy Tucket/ Barfed in a Bucket/ He wiped his nose between his toes/ And then he said, aw fuck it.

I apologize if sometimes the ranting gets a little obnoxious or insulting, like in the last post. I did that post after a few ounces of whiskey helped me get the glow on and ended up insulting myself. I'm a lover of humanity, a follower of the Secret Jesus, believer in a hard day's work, or a good honest effort, I love to touch and be touched, to sneeze and be sneezed, to listen carefully until sound fractures the wave-scape and to watch carefully as the surface of reality fragments into billions of tiny colored dots.

There's a lot to do. I better save the rest for tomorrow or another day and get busy on sweeping out the heart-temple for the upcoming Balshazar's Feast. But first I'll see if Nebuchadnezzar stopped walking on all fours. He had some funny dreams. Good old Daniel tried to help, but Nebby's arrogance prevented him from listening. He was too wrapped up in himself.

Regarding the plum in the above picture: Granny took a semi-liquified plumb, forgotten for six weeks in the back of the fridge, and pressed it through the flimsy screen door, where flies got in through little tears in the mesh and made deep purple-red ego-puree. Eat it from a bowl, or spread on a slice of human flesh, the flesh of a man who never got over the loss of mother's apron strings and melon breasts, a man who never recovered from the bad breath of his father who shouted commands too early in the morning.

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