HOUR THREE OF BALLS TO THE WALLS

What a freedom, to sit here and type type type like there’s absolutely not one goddamn thing wrong with anything or anyone whatsoever. The world I am familiar with is still round as a crooked billiard ball and wet as a drink in summer. Summer just heard me and wants in. Well, I’m waiting, baby. Come and get me. I still have some sunblock left over from nine months ago. I can’t wait to see your ass again. You were the best medicine I have ever had poured over me and into me. I licked your light. I ate your heat. I made you mine and let you take me with you to your beautiful home. You had nothing to offer besides all the time in the world, beautiful women that were wet with a love for you and the moment that held them tight with its arms of fuckery, BLAST BLAST BLAST! There must be some hot, heavy, goddamn FIRE to this thing. This isn’t a letter to grandma! Those days were HOT! They sizzled…ssssssssssszzzzzzZZZZZZZAAH! 

Well…till then…

Maybe it’s this long cold winter we’re having. It’s been a Mother, this winter. Rain rain rain…and I like the rain! I really do. I’ve enjoyed the mud, the blacker, sleek-looking streets at night painted with the blurry green and red and yellow and white lights of the city. Oily visions of society running for cover, almost getting run over while carrying milk and tampons and eggs and watermelons. I’ve got something good to say about the rain we’ve been having, actually: Because of this heavy, stop and go rain we’ve gotten, I’ve learned to paint clouds a lot faster than I would have previously thought I was capable of. The many shades of blue. Purple is in there. Violet too. Pink. Fuchsia. Orange. Red. Grays are dominant. Actually, grays are probably the most important to master, in my opinion, when it comes to portraying realistic bundles and mounds of bulbous clouds. Yes, the grays cinch it. Get the grays down and your cloud troubles will blow away. Sorry, this cocktail is pretty strong. Once again, I blame my heavy hand at pouring…

Wait. To hell with Sorry. I take that damn thing back. I am whatever the moment makes of me, good or bad, I accept me for what I am, who I am, and everything in between the seconds leading up to the next manifestation. I am liquid, piss and vinegar, meat and bone surrounded by plasma and the rest is up for grabs to any doctors in the house.

Let’s cut out the poetry…

Today I read what someone recommended to Henry Miller: that three hours or so of writing every day will greatly improve the writer’s abilities. I’m creeping up on hour three and I don’t really know if I can see a difference but that’s probably because I haven’t stopped to go back and read anything. I figure, fuck it, keep writing. The rest will come out, the opinions will be made and passed like empty vitamins. Yes, however, absolutely—yes, I definitely feel another type of fluid consciousness coursing through me, angling me and producing a different ferocity that I haven’t tuned into in quite a while. There’s a definite different sway to the machine now. Just now, right when I had thought that I had hit some wall, I threw up my arms and wrote this down instead of letting the wall be built. If you keep them busy with movement of lust to hear the sound of the creative act then you, at the very least, get results and lines on paper, otherwise, you’re dead meat in the water. Move and move and see the lines come through with that sound that says you haven’t given up on yourself. There will be a break, but not when or if the pain swells to a boiling point. It will be for a proper drink refill, for a lay, for a smoke, a bite to eat, for the sound of a woman calling from the front door wearing that scent and that warm, fleshy body that needs it. Eating, fucking, drinking—ad infinitum, for the quitters.