I’m stayin’ down at the El Camino Royale,
rooms are double-sized-deluxe, refrigerator inside. There’s a hot plate too, just in case you wanna cook…and I do.
They gots dishes, pots and pans for a deposit down at the office. Now, that don’t sound so royale to me. But when you payin’ to live by the week, sometime by the day, I suppose that’s the way it is. The maid, she’s Russian, doesn’t come around anymore. I think I scared her one time. She’s out there bangin’ on the door and I can’t hear, cause I was inside a dream with my eyes open, and I had some porno goin’ on, turned on high, that I didn’t even know about…and I was just abusin’ myself…and I didn’t even know about that either, cause of the dreamin’ with my eyes open. I was just makin’ a scene—you know what I mean—when she walks in…didn’t even hear her. But then I did, and when I look at her, and I see she’s kind of round and friendly lookin’, I thought she had just walked into my dream. So I asked her to come over and join me, be a part of my spectacle, instead of being a spectator, or something like that. And she drops the towels and runs out the door…slam behind her…and I hear her scream out on the concrete, rusty, iron-railed balcony,
“He Crazy. He crazy.”
Yeah. So what….. At least I ain’t a Russian immigrant, carrying around stacks of frayed towels in my arms.
But that’s what it’s like when you on the sugar-spank highway, doin’ the shit everyday…like I do. Oh, the candy colored clown is my friend. I lived lifetimes in a day. The sun comes up, the sun goes down, the sun come up, the sun go down…and then we talked about something, you and me…we’re the only two people that matter, cause we’re so deep, deep into out thoughts, that we are creating the world we live in with our thoughts. As we speak the words come out like little bubbles, floating through the air, and they attach to other bubbles, and make things what they are…on a bright, bright sun-shiny day….When people are getting up and going about their day, going to work and doing the eight, plus a half hour for lunch. Then they come home, and the cat look at them like,
“Why are you such a douche…” their cat say.
And they go to sleep and get up and do that all over again…and call that normal.
They say we strange?! I know I am strange, but you wanna call that psychopathy of yours normal?! That is denial.
I like to go down to the porn store. Oh I’m a porn store cowboy when I get spun, this way, and that way. I like to get down inside the booths. They got the 69 channels. The guys are all out there banging on the door, they’re crazy about wanting to get inside…. Maybe I let ‘em. What do I care. It’s just a warm safe place to put it inside…but only if they got a little something for me, you know what I mean. Little more spank, little more candy. I never ever do it for cash. What good is cash, unless you can turn that cash into candy. Right?! We are kings of our own demise, pornographic kings, inside the booths. I fly through the channels. And all these different lives, different ways, different people getting inside each other. I don’t care if sometime I get stuck, for more than five second, on some chick with the dick, maybe it’s even two guys. It doesn’t matter. I just wanna see the passion, the lust, the perversion, the deviance dripping, throbbing ejaculating…ahhh man, sometime it’s down there on its knees where it belong and I’m coming dry in that wet mouth.
I’m coming dry in a wet mouth, coming dry inside a wet mouth….
And I don’t care cause I’ve already been paid in candy…
Give them spectacle. Give them emptiness. Give them donkeys, dildos and death. I’ll be here watching it sizzle, watching it burn, jiggle, turn…
You see, I’m like a cash machine…in reverse. Cash goes in, shit comes out. Everyone wants this shit, so when I got it, I always sell it faster than I can snort it.
They say the freakin’ Nazis invented the shit, distilled from pseudo-epinephrine, descended from the great Chinese herb, Ma Huang…clears the lungs, sinuses, bronchioles like no other concoction ever can do.
I’ve done Ma Huang, doing Ma….Chinese say it messes with your Triple Burner—the mysterious, invisible organ, in Chinese medicine, that maintain your body temperature.
Cash machine. Dream machine. Cash go into me. Shit come out. Shit like dreams for days…with your eyes open wide, chill going up your spine, but you feelin’ hot inside. It’s like you’re two different countries—the surface of your skin is icicles, and inside there’s a furnace raging white hot.
This is the spectacle of the strange, and you are like a spectator at the spectacle, waving a sign in a mass-media-audience-live-feed-on-TV. I been to those spectacles, even followed them around, buying, selling, doing shit…for days. There’s people that just live out of station wagons and trailers, who just go from one spectacle to the next. At the Media Camps, everybody hooking up. Even the pundits, the experts, the talking heads, you think they don’t do some shit to keep going, talking, acting like they all know something we don’t.
And over here we see where he grew up. As a child, he was attracted to insects and other small creatures he could control, because his parents were so out-of-control, and he needed something to make him feel secure and safe at night. He needed that shit to hold him shivering tight. He needed endless day and night….
I’ve counted thirteen sunrises in a row. I know, man’s not supposed to live this way, dreaming with your eyes wide open.
But now it’s time to crawl back to the El Camino, like a lizard, like an Iguana, my skin so dry, but I got one-seventy-five in the cash machine pays for another week…of living. And fall asleep in my crypt, into my dreamless dreams, like a Dracula, like Nosferatu, it’s the sleep that no one and nothing can waken me from, the sleep of doom, of death, the sleep of forever. You see it’s not an addiction. I just don’t want to quit, bad as I want the shit…floating around like a tiny bubble inside the dream machine. You would too, if you could. If you didn’t have to go to work so you can come home, feed the cat and get a hard-on once or twice a week for no reason.
We are here, you and me, all the way to the bitter end. I have seen that. I have already lived that. I have transcended…time, and the body, and myself and yourself. I am not afraid. I am not alone. I am warm and safe inside the shit.
Dearly beloved, we are gathered here today to watch his soul ascend, like steam rising from a tin pipe on top of a building. And it’s a bright, bright sun-shiny day in winter, steam swirling round and round. Have you ever noticed in nature, how many things turn counter-clockwise. Even the birds like to fly in that kind of circle. It makes you wonder why they came up with the term clockwise, when so much in nature defies that direction. And we are fools to go in a direction, a right-handed direction, when maybe, maybe this is a left-handed, counter-clockwise Universe after all. Did you ever notice. Did you ever stop and observe how many actors are left-handed—the people who are making this dream up on the screen. I mean, it is uncanny, the preponderance of left-handed actors. And there’s no explanation for that.
Julia Roberts. Bruce Willis. I could go on and on, but I don’t want to bore you here, I just want to make a point…that what we think is right and normal and true, maybe it’s not that way at all. And there’s people like me who are trying to break that mold so you can see. I know. That sound like I’m some kind of savior. I don’t imagine myself to be that way.
So now you see me rising like steam from a tin pipe, swirling around in the sun, on a day in December, when the BBBBBBBBaby jesus is born. And that’s me…getting stretched out in the sky, getting wispy and thin, until I don’t exist anymore. I’m stretched out so big and long, all the way across the sky. I am the sun, the clouds, the air in my lungs is no different than me. I melt into all of that.
C. 2010 by Gary Aker