SC

Another chapter from Sagittarian Conflict. Its been a long time, yeah?

It was a row of three small wooden houses all open for a huge gathering type party. Two motorcycle gangs, a heavy metal band, midgets playing technicolor cowboys & indians, strippers, and I had a toy pistol that shot fire and foam, mud everywhere, a bearded man who told me, "In the 60s I was in Mexico. In the 70s I was in Latin America." He walked off. A Husker Du documentary played in one of the rooms at full blast. I think it was the middle house. Mike and I went to see comedy starring lame duck actors. Two girls from high school that I don’t remember that well were there too. I overheard them talking about NYC, etc. - it was quite bizarre –
Famine’s car, my favorite flavor cherry red, girls together outrageous the bullshit cliché kind of arrested outside the Snappy Saves Con Store. Where the hell was he going? 10 p.m. with a bag of ice flooding the trunk. The Texas summer was-a-melting everything in sight and sound. This will keep the amputee comfortable. Yelling into a pay phone. How do I? Oh. Paper cup exit. The con store was empty save for a lone Philander by the name of Finish. More cups, I need more cups, possibly thirty. Do you think that is enough? Famine needed change.
The obnoxious rings buzzer bell clang of the pay phone outside the con store awoke Famine. Do I dare answer? Of course, it was for him. Famine’s head ear situation to female voice giggle hello from the other half and yes I’m quite lost. I need better directions. I’m at the snappy end of the street where the trees play.
The vacuum’s rage suck up the spirit dust collected dander drift, Famine sits with Walker. Electrical restoration this morning in the octagonal room dome topped. Ms. Disco is downstairs doubled over in pain. What a life this is. The tired feet sore and mysterious stomach fires twist. Prescription fiction. Almost three years had passed since Famine was elbow deep in dish water half eaten garbage discard. His life was like a poorly written TV series. Teenagers waiting to become horny academic university suckers.
Sucker punch the backdrop was green a table made of catfish. Fishing might make killer’s coast. Wave off the love sick dudes drill for gold in the teeth of tomorrow’s hounded jaw. SCENE: The Blandytown Mausoleum. Famine felt like a pedestrian’s ghost staring out the large windows as Johnny Kinghandlebar and Pancho raced snail’s time. He couldn’t grasp the significance of living deep in the central heart of downtown off the poseur’s nob and within the confines of the conceptual intercourse.
My watch never has the right time leave behind Monday paint job for out of here t-shirts. A ransom object playing the Handy Herman Harp whilst in the tunnel ‘neath Phase II. Famine thought his sidekick Ms. Disco was hiding something important in her very close veins. It turns out he was wrong “Sister Morphine” was playing on the stereo. Since arriving in Blandytown, Famine had, in fact, shed his skin. Gone were the visible Claire scars. The spiral chronicled in Part I of this tomb, now seemed ancient ruins to the McCoy boy.
[Banners of the German language]
A nude descending staircase. What ya git in the gotcha bag? Sonny y dildo asshole ride for free. Dump the pump, ouch! Lower gas prices Shirley Fischer Price. Temple of the Dog going hungry like the wolf. In Wolf City, Wyoming cavefish the swim adult poles have mercy on Kid Kelley. Remember my vision of Ida Lupino? The paintings of Helen Frankenthaler jumped on to the red wagon of sin city and asked for a code green escape plan (das eist besser).
The ever-rattling key chain. Famine was reminded of the chain gang he had left behind in G-vine block. Oopla! The supervisor lost her larynx in a card game. The steaks were raised. The next more knee zing up the ante stuck family elevator shaft big dummy short story lost his mouth running off the winged mammal theme.
The wiring in the place is 95% up and sparks. Fouled fly everything. Supervisor opens his cranium. Red and green wires are to be cut accordingly. According to the stars. Astrological foreplay aside, the ass eyed midget ate my lunch. I gave him twenty six dollars for the sweet piece of ass only to be dreamed of by one family across the bridge. Three tears. To roll down his cheek after that night he played the blues until 4:30 a.m. Then he went to sleep. Woke up the next morning feeling like a refreshed sea lion after a kill.

SC

I was drinking coke in a bar named Rachel’s when a long tall Texan with a pig face came up to me. He asked me if the seat next to me was taken…zaroooom, I fly away.
All these women line up t’ mean nothing. A laundry list for the gravestone I call the past. Claire was there. The movie started at 8:00 p.m. Then this dreamed femme hands me a bag of DVDs. Damn, I wonder what this means. In most films flicker ticker tape parade tape my eyes shut before the drive. So are we gonna get together? Far as I can tell we have nothing. An ace and a pair of diamonds. All these kids with kites hold joker’s wild. In the nose of the groom. The garden guardian closes nocturnal Chopin. The piano sits upright and plays itself. It swings with greasy fingers. I got the firewood. Chopping at the bit, he never swung like that before I think to myself.
Horny in his bed is choosing which dream to fall asleep to tonight. Lead Toes is glad to see buxom blondes in the cold weather. Cold and turning colder. In the afternoon soon the fledgling member of the scat pack says Idaho is the pit and the reward.
These over the fog writings are mine for the smoking. Writing by candlelight is the same as riding a book named candlelight. Happiness is the December wind whipping my face. Crisis the Duck asks for soup, but he receives a guitar unstrung. Following my Marilyn Monroe the Hurst of my background ends with curly hair. She sits down to take a test. Get it over with so we can get it on. Hurry up please, its time. Please, friend, hop scotch to Part II. All these countries can kiss my grits.
The Horse Radish is a play about two gentle cowboys. They somehow get stuck in middle America. Drinking coffee will do that to a foolish teen. The poison poised to top the charts in 2034 is Bongo Hamsters. They rock. The real illiterate poet steps to the microphone and reads,
“When the night is a long time coming
and I have weary eyes & bloodshot thoughts
and I know all the lights are off
and I know all the doors are locked
I turn over & think too many coughs
You may ask me about my dreams
but I will tell you only that you play a leading role
and I am a supporting actor
the clock moves through molasses
the moon is in permanent hang
this day is too goddamn long.”
The poet is morbid to the touch. So after many tensions the book really starts. One guy has an eye patch. Cobb Lar stood up. His hands were shaking

SC

You bet the stake crass of mouse. Miles Davis. Drive to the mountain to find the rest of the moment. Out over the ocean one might taste open seasons and oven heat. Awful food for penmanship. Too late for Wednesday. Experi-man with the ocular nerves says no sir for hire.
“Serve up the trout.”
He is on the side of justice so he must be corrupt. With wise skin flakes please my breast and examine me honey. Oops! She was killed by a pack of anti-Famines. This is going nowhere so I ate desert and threw up sunshine. The dentist called and said something about my looks deceiving the tooth. Bother other brothers before noon. This one needs rest. I sleep alone now. Allow me just one more chance to make it right with you. I ride a mail train baby. Get it. Got it. Bought the phone book from Darling ‘cause she drew erotica next to the psychiatrist. She was pleased with grand illusion. It did not bother her that he was missing three eyes. The otter was pleasant. That made up for lost love. The student council stud had quite the exercise video collection at his disposal. He was running for president. He did not win. Too many problems. No way.
“Yes. I sal it wit’ m’ on toe eyes.”
Rhys was the name of the detective who framed Woodstock. Alias from the other side was toe jammed from behind and torn between the good and the bad within all. I tried to escape but my futile attempts were ‘tween tweezer thin slices of mediocre.
“Be not so proud,” said Yonder the elder, “because the young may be foolish with their money, but quick with their guns.” The crowd took three steps back and yes indeed was the response. Heather noticed the microphone was unplugged. We were all amazed. Minutes later the smoke cleared.
All dragons juggle off toward the night. The town was now ready for the festival. The elder ambled to the front of the stage.
“Quiet. Quiet. Please, listen to his pleas. They are really amazing if you don’t forget that they are centuries old.”
Not to be forgotten. The hush of the mostly youthful audience was impressive. They said nothing. No ears were left unopened. Tired eyes assured. Elder looked around for some sign. The yellow light. No, yield. I am ready to speak. Huge air lung filled, I say do unto smothers as do unto you. Laugh. That was untitled. Much more should be said on the subject. I would if I could. Breeze.
Cigarette lighter than fair. In the corner serious thought was being thunk. Shot like junk. No shadows however. That was a close one, ponder. What the hell does he mean? Yeah, the night was off to a great start.
Be proud (can this be happening?).
The pride tag was enlarged to mouse x moose. I could not stand the consequences. Heather could. She was quite the trooper. Lusty appeared again. He was ragged and dirty like the song. Too bad, could have been a nice boy had he only listened to his high school guidance counselor. This was likely an oversight. Buy and sell. Date the waitress. Dancing his jog he told the audience conveyance gathered up our elders. What would he call “cool” things? This was unique in our apartment. We had unsolved mysteries but nothing like The Adventures of Lusty. He was one candid fool. Born and raided, he had been fired months before his long lost weekend.
Dark shades now cross-legged sitting back t’ back with his throat. He told tell of his tales. They were obvious. One time the drinks flowed freely. Any good news was smothered he had toured Southeast Asia. He had sung back up for an entire country. It was nice to hear, but something of an accident. A fool suck as eye.
His raging temper went on through the night. Blank. Bland. Heather lost her nerve and snapped. Bye for now. Sweet candy child. Darling of the mist. What a mess. Lusty will behave himself for only so long. He will not be asked back for any more speaking engagements. Aint it funny how bard games turn into cinema. That is the end.
Dreamed a bank robbery, bust out of jail, love triangle type story with Ida Lupino going by the name of Catherine Wheel. It was strange. I saw an image of a girl I’d seen a few times around campus. She was killing in the name of. I don’t know why she did it, but she did it well. I love to see her walk.

SC

Strumming by the higher power. ½ words. Speak the truth. They can’t hurt ya dude. Slip off the tile stage and pay me a tuna fish ton of soul. James Brown. Jim Beam of light trace trash Led Zep. Cars and aero zepplins sperm down the road singing about Jesus. Dancing around a hat, the animals blast Miss Understood while my record player receives an award for diagrams. Miss Fully Realized got an organ B-3 transplant with pizza toppings a week ago. Radio plays of my once long forgotten youth are beamed via satellite with guitar strings. I hold my hand out for the 97th teardrop.
? and the Jeffersons play sleigh bells at the Christmas pageant. Damn croon of Captain Jack, he always has to make his presence felt because he is filled with a sadness. Lord and boastful shithead. Click. Blues on the green makes me machine hips. Long term tigers of hipness and idiots of buddy icons study what I put in the zoo. She could have saved the daysleeper, but the sex toy company had a TV show to produce. Invite twenty-something coeds over for WOW. Easy on the roommate duck sauce. Fuck, what was that Bob? Where is Claire?
There was a sound buzzing mono in my cranberry mind. Who dare speaketh to the wind? The prince of talk, was it you down there by the bayou or were you at the college? No, it was the naked waitress of my dreams serving me food. It was a hot boiled love dish called eternity. Always in the mood to be rushed off to the hospital. About time for the judge to walk in on his daughter Jenny, for she was the bustiest girl in town. La cocina su familia. I too, blame game train. Riding in on the money calf about id on a Monday. Come on stop putting us on. This is serious. I need to stand trial for all the wrongs I done. Starting with the apple and ending with the three kings of Ziplock.
“Poor Mr. Dovetail. He was a great teacher, but he could not keep his thoughts to himself.”
“For shame my over-sized friend.”
The newspaper was due for a burning. Too many facts. I can’t stand politicians. They choke on truth. Blinded by thunder. These slugs make their escape to the Jersey shore. These USA merchants. On top of old smoking gun. A reference to the plastic utopia that melted last week. Soda fountain. I’m dripping with jokes to the point of discomfort.
“Ouch! My sides hurt.”
Can you refrain from throwing books out the window please. Never trust a singer whose name is Singer. Put that on sale you march of times tale maker. I demonstrated the use of gymnastics yesterday while on the lamb. What a year it has been for the TV. (Pause). Foreground and back to center and hurry up please, its time. I really worry about the cost of being.
I wonder about the tunes of today tomorrow. Rolling rock tones and decide the tuna tomb catcher with the blow up. I grain with each passing tear. Too late to tide came in and you were not on it. I saw your look alike in the bookstore. I nearly said hello. A shame that would have been. It just proves I still love you. And if you don’t believe in “love,” L-U-V, I feel sorry for you. How do cowgirls ride in the new west? Side saddle? Or is that too painful? I avoid confrontation. The soft trumpet of joy with its sad morn scorn for yonder winning prize pug. I am jealous of a thousand upsets. Born and raised in utero.
Ithaca, or mack the fife. Foils upon the mouth. Breaking news, I can’t eat alone. I am a bad tipper. What a sweet treat of parting glances. Yes, you do remind me of other statues. Liberty and that Lincoln fella. Fib. Fiber was in his other court document underneath the static of cheekbones. Should I plunder for this book?

again more from SC

Dear Epistle St. Clean,
My name is Cobb Lar and I am looking to score some hugs. Do you know where I can get some? Remember when we listened to the radio? I was smacking my gums about the state of modern music the other day and I thought of you. Feel bad yet? This letter is in response to your theological assumptions. First, GOD DOES NOT EXIST. Do you know what you are saying to the tiny ones? The midget scoops of America are not ready for this. This is not a view that is advertisement approved. Stockholders will be unhappy with ya. We all know the consequences clean clear, profits will go down. Prophets cry when sadness overtakes them on Sunday morning. Good thing I do not belong to any club. I aint no sheep.
See ya later Shepherd,
CL
These ramblings curse like purse thieves. Eating eating eatin e-din eden. Now that we are situated in a comfortable couch let’s play hide and sneak. His name is humorous to me. The past two days have been filled with haunting hums. My dreams involve basketball games. Tiny radios talk to me on the porch in the pitch-dark nocturnal night. How is that? Asking questions is like shouting at a deaf tulip. Ha ha ha. Sounding smart is tougher that you might think. Smooth Player skips on the vinyl love machine as he watches TV. Coaches are roaches in need of some quick death. Smoke ‘em fatty! Aphorisms spasm out of me because philosophy means nothing to no one. Doing damage across language…I mean barriers. Bonus mating techniques found in the gym locker room. This is a lot of brain drain.
Once upon a time, delete, the lass was my special beauty. I made no real effort to hide my infatuation. Trumpet that mistake personality disaster memory bank. A voice too many heard like an orator at a comedy club laughed as he dug the wench in the third row. Bored, I asked the funny Greek to throw something at Ed.
“Will you film me tonight?”
This is a kid’s book. Sneel the peek to pack shaker yr rump doolittle hump…begggggggggg. No, literally a book I stole from some kid. Forget about him. Some jerk with a gap in his grin from a town with no name came riding a southern blue jay up to me and threw his device at the injured cage.
“Meow!”
Kitty put the middle back so I could write this chapter. Can you imagine every grain of badlands? I was love so I puked this sentence. Opening the jar of tomorrow to find calendar girls all dazed up with no place to snow. Taking showers. Taking take after take. There was lots of crying in silent lots. Painting eyeballs on sculptures from the days of the Greeks.
“Hey geek. Clean up that grease spill.”
Under the old rule I could never have gotten away with this shit. I was told to stop reading my book and pay attention. I just shrugged. I kept on reading. The math teacher did not want to have sex with her pupils. Eyesight is hindsight my lonely friend.
Read little short stories. Got to get away from this pad. Not anymore, she left me here standing in the doorway crying. I can’t very well keep on writing without her, can I? You have won.
Funny story, may I lay it on ya? Bad at tempting listeners, I know. Where is my bedside manner? Sloppy garage rockers rattle bones. This is not what you think. Journal keeper. Sleeper trite kitch in the warm oven. Bakesale. Other girls? What flutes in the dreams of great men? About ten other graduates ate pig while I slept on leather. I wrote songs before this book became a problem child. Doc Pomus makes perfect sense. Tunes. Toons. Tons of sweet. A sea breeze black trapdoor might sink us all if we shake rattle and roll. My own disease was named after some raven-haired chick. Clear is my name in other mediums. Enjoy like a strange movie made by some snog snog soon. The twinkle keys piano wings. Yes it does look like rain. Rings left by yesterday take on new meanings. He argued with her through the night. Strange, I thought love was all you need. Pet Sounds makes me cry.

more scenes from SC

A forgettable one act play.
Cobb: The break down of modern civilization is directly related to the quality of cartoons shown on television.
Heather: I disagree with your thesis. Why must you always blame television for your sexual hangups?
Cobb: The way my sex hangs has nothing to do with TV. I just want to point my finger at an easy target.
Heather: You are a self-righteous bastard, you know that. If I weren’t already sleeping with you I would have my coffee on the back porch.
Cobb: Cool. I couldn’t care less where your dynamite comes from.
Heather: I am voting for the elastic party where all us beauties can feel like carrots.

(just then the economy breaks down and the void swallows all participants in this dinner theater)
I came to this country looking for tolerance all I found was tollbooths. Why can’t I drive on the roads without paying my weekly salary.
“Son of a Bitch!” I screamed.
(Choirs above and below the deck were known to be all vocal chord and no jig). “Together we can take this herd to Missouri.”
The boat leaves at 1:30 p.m. towards a new wife. Seventeen seems like a good Manchurian. I tried to reduce the number of cavalry officers in this play, but I knew they were outta work. Stumpy Joe was a cry on the back lot of Paramount when the hurricane hit. He was devastated because the storm carried his favorite horse Mindy away. A funeral was held at noon.
“Where do babies come from?”
Bob Horny was with his two friends when science interrupted.
“Stacey please…” Joe said.
He pleaded with his mouth while Bob played harmonica.
“I did not know you expected to marry the Bishop Rawlins.”
Bob took his hands off her chest. In the forest he cursed God. Stacey was three cycles away. Bob never forgave the Bishop. How he came to be a hermit monk in the forests of Arizona remains a mystery.
Meanwhile Stacey owns a profitable pornography store in Dallas, TX. She sells condoms with a picture of Jesus on them. The tale end of the tail comes something like this: Bob was lost, Stacey was found, and Joe was on his knees three nights a week.
I started to finish…
Con fee skate the delirium post-haste transformer man – Ye best get away from the radio – I should warn ya – the ghost of rock ‘n’ roll hates to be seen.
Skinny down on the farm is the son of General Poor Pear. Skinny likes his sugar sweet. He wakes early every year just to pick the most perfect cane. His sister Jenny took off with an artist who was bound for the gutter. She never worked a day in her life. Skinny did not mind. He was always lost in a rush of sugar. It kept him going. Daddy pushed him to find the time to read. He read as if he were in a race. He went through books faster than most light bulb college students. Though an understanding usually escaped him. This was alright. He was not a calculating sort. He was not interested in being a scholar. Skinny felt they missed the point. Jenny never came back. He had a younger brother. This was news to him. Edgar Rim-Jim. Nice boy. A little wit and wisdom. He was gifted. Ed could play a piano better the Alfred Mozart. Al was the best piano basher in the county. Ed never practiced. He could play.
The local talent contest held auditions one sunny March afternoon in 1973. Skinny was reading Joyce on some fine SUGAR and it was, of course, making sense. Ed ran in and told his brother he was going to audition. Skinny knew his brother was great and gave him his best advice, “Vary the stride in a horse drawn carriage.” Ed thanked his older brother and ran down the dirt road leading away from the family farm and toward the glory of the performance stage. The audition was already under way. Oinky, the troubled orange juggler, finished his act to thunderous applause. Ed got nervous. His name was called. He went to the piano. He made love to it. Notes seemed to spring out of the wooden frame of the old town piano. Who played like this? He hit fourths and fifths and seemed to coax quarter tones out of the box. It did not impress one on-looker who said, “Gee, this boy is lousy.” Most of the town was in attendance. Ed was racing toward his grand ending. Just then, as Skinny walked into the performance center, Jenny leaped out of the notes Ed was playing. Jenny, the long lost sister, had returned. Ed started crying. Skinny jumped and ran to the stage. He hugged his forgotten sister. Jenny wanted to see mama and papa. Ed dried his tears and finished his performance. The judges talked amongst themselves. They asked the performers who had auditioned that day to gather on the stage. Ed did not make the cut. His playing was too unconventional. Even though he had brought his sister back home through his music the judges did not like his use of augmented chords. The three farm kids looked at each other and decided they hated the farm town and caught a train to the island of OZ.

Sagittarian Conflict

This is the opening scene from my unfinished, unreadable, and unpublishable novella titled SAGITTARIAN CONFLICT. I wrote the first part in college on an electric typewriter. The second part was written when I moved to Austin.

PART I

(This story begins with Famine, the old man, looking back on his college experiences.)
I was pretty sure the door was locked. Other kids might have taken me for a hobo, but I knew better. I just wanted to use the bathroom. Where did that Nun go? Got a funny look from Elvis. Doctor! Doctor! I’d rather be the Devil than be that woman’s mad dog.
“Can you believe the high prices?” Cobb said.
(no sleep)
(no droughts)
(no complaints)
“Tell me the one with the deceptively simple rhyme scheme.”
“No.”
“Okay, here is the picture of me with a noble grin.”
I may have told her to stop flying kites but I was lying. I would pick up the guitar if my fingers were not bleeding. I threw your entire movie into the nuclear war. How are the geese getting along with the fish? Joe Cocker grabbed the microphone and made me lose my vocabulary. Some nice melodies – infamouse – Infamous.
(look over there, no untouched frogs)
“My days are pretty damn good,” Famine replied.
Now, I will tell the one about the mistress of the Dean. In the back of her car was a rubber. Some hours later my knees regained strength – possible – truly in debt to the flying dutchmen of Kansas City, Kansas. Constant mind warp in the form of sandwhich
Nirvana.
Peal Neal.
Buddha sits under a tree and gains wisdom. I am a passenger in a car. She would love to be making love right now. I guess the pauper wasn’t poor after all. Dame, I should have walked to my girl today.
(shaving)
(saving)
(skiing)
The literary community will have my ass if I don’t behave like the corner drugstore and diner trouble was his middle finger. Po-dunk the rabbit is always making love – caught in the headlines.
The exposition: to be a floating pyramid on New Year’s Day.