It was as if he was being externa11y cntrld, led by the vatic leash by which he was being dragged, more or less, like the maimed animal of a cruel god; dragged through some Keatsian Proverb into that psychic aether to happily serve God knows whom or what.
[^]
Again, perhaps it was God, Himself–who comes, who came like prana, that projected His only blue beam of life–so intense with the flow of RA–that it was almost viole[n]t. That sublime, religious pin-prick of the instant achieved, whereby his body & mind; Hell, even his very soul felt as powerless as a go[L]dfish in a ma1nourished bowl of miso soup & backwash.
[^]
That was the fucked-up score conducted by Beethoven or Bach, an 11th symphony, all the while, hidden in the yellow pages for a century on end. The one{i}ric scoop which–like eric houdini’s si1k handglove or handkerchief, 5oiled or not, blew in from the industrial sprawl of old New York, brushing into this world, against the worn denim genes [sic] of Ci’s workers Carhartt uniform.
Ci reached over, not necessarily curious, perhaps on the threshold of intrigue, picking the worn aubergine square up with the miniature stub of the pencil he’d lifted from the stacks of Butler Library.
[^]
In the top right corner was stitched in 8 font Z[ebra] _ X[ylophone] _ Y[oyo], but so unevenly, even crudely donne–as if in a fit of insanity or rage–one could not say (atleast with a rational smile) the word, embroidered.
It was 10 past 4:00 am. Close to being 12 hours ‘til 10:20.
{0}
Of Course, Ci sat in a front weathered booth of 10:20, a dive bar which resided on the NW corner of Columbus & Amsterdam; a seedy joint that persevered like a disjointed yacht of human wastoids & detritus, on the high, hazy and quite calamitous sea of New Amsterdam.
The establishment attracted the typical down & out; doomsterz, snail-bitten sailors, vultures and undertakes; the occasional wizard and mathematicians who had turned to the god of their own understanding & did not like what they had come to realize, let alone see.
Of course, typically sitting deep in the smoke-riddled shallows of Havana Cigars, where the shadows showed their age, at the north face of the bar, garrisoned by the front end of the pool table, a couple of goodfellas (those reaperz of old) carried themselves with the kind of ilk that, if you were of that league, were either your guardian angels or the worst kind of F.U.C.K s–
as a matter of fact, capable (& then more than ready) to inflict the sort of dandelion damage which you couldn’t make up.
{1}
Where Ci sat (or more accurately) lay crooked like a displaced storefront mannequin–half-dressed in a pink flamingo & pineapple yellow, polka-dotted tee, that truly came smudged with the blood-heavy stains of mustard and ketchup, blood and flu-viscous snot, which could only be justified if it had possibly been worn during an event like WrestleMania, as a ripped-off warm-up worn by some derelict, who had been thrown into the ring and torn apart by some savage like the Undertaker or Sting.
{2}
Across from the booth, beyond the psychic kudzoo, which seemed to be impacting Ci particularly now, sat a pirate with a pigeon on his right shoulder. Next to him, hunched over in the tenebrous distance of a battle long won, in which his brothers (almost an entire battalion) had been decimated, was the Captain Scott Yelly, still after 25 years wearing the very rags of the combat fatigues worn when his left arm was sectioned off at the pit; still, after 25 years, there his purple heart was, attempting to adjust, to just get on with the program–so to speak; still kicking the can, carrying the big book of (again) his heart (or vice-versa); a tabula rasa, old lion, little vermin still lacking whatever it took: the courage, the serenity, the wisdom… all of that shit lost to the inexplicable, the ineffable, the dreaded unsayable rustle billowing that comes like a butterfly, a monarch, a leaf to repeat itself, to keep his purple heart lit if not aglow on and upon his own infinite loop of no surrender; the eternal path of his own design, if not understanding, which kept (and you could say this for all three) him, himself and whatever he was calling himself in those dayz, in an id-sick, jedi-mind fuck of tremendous rage and fatigue.
{3}
Who really could say how the three had joined up–like vampiric triplettes naked in the womb–a11 with their own delusion5, motivation5 (ju5tified or not) to snark the 2 others, before their booze-filled umbilical cords cut, for them to spill out into the rosy fingers of dawn, which (in just an hour and a half) would luckily strike and unfurl her infinite rays of teeth, spilling over the Hudson, spreading her eternal fingerprints of life beyond Riverside Park, through the lab[y]rinth of Columbia College’s cobbles. Sure enough, Ci thought {certainly} the flow of her light (that more and more seemed to be a kind of love incepting his own) would begin to filter & stream & broadcast through; to him, himself–through and throughout the green-to-black tinted shimmer of film, which enveloped the dive bar’s front glass–soon to judge, if not wake, with a wrath so infinitely small it was huge, the dead & their app-driven minions, who so ruthlessly, a century ago, had filled this world […]
