I speak doublespeak. Eye dew. Forked
tongue, like a snake. Snakes don't speak. They hiss. Sibilant
speech speaks slytherin...I am Jessssse Tessshara. Jesssse
Lawrencssssse Tesssshara, to be precssssicssse. Csssertainly not
Jessssusss Chrissst.
Like letting air out of tires. Or
hissing one's vitriolic disapproval. Or getting attention: pssst!
Over here! There's a flow to it, like pissing. Anger, pissed off.
Like urine, you're in, and yelling ow, because it's yellow. You're
all the rage. On the rag. Like Ragu pasta sauce. Pasta, like a
past A in some school of fish. Noodles in your swimming pool. A
pool shark at billiards. You've got balls. Maybe you're out in the
garage. Openly homosexual in a gay-rage. Listening to Phish, eating
phish-food eye scream, or maybe the foo-fighters. Ssssss. I cannot
tell a lie. Wait, that's Washington. Dubya told a whopper. Eating
president cheese at BK. Drinking the blood of the vine in your VW.
The btk killer at BK (without the t). What is the price of t in
China? I'd like to buy a vowel, Pat.
Death is hated, rearranged. Head T.
If you're mental, you're mad. Cross. Madness is what you think, how
you think, the fact that you think, or maybe are always are
thinking. The consciousness con. You don't want Hannibal Lecter in
your head, as they say. There's someone in your head, but it's not
me, sing Pink Floyd. Ping goes the submarine, in the Roger Waters,
flo-ing. Mad because they call you insane, a self-fulfilling
prophecy. Sane in the membrane! Hugs, not drughs. Just say no.
What floats your boat, in the Seine. Thinking about thing ink.
Object-oriented program language? Thinking makes you the thing king.
We are living in a material world, sings mad material-girl madonna.
Through thick and thin. Thick Buddha is happy, they say. Ignorance
is bliss. Knowing, biblically, well that can be pleasurable, too.
You're mind, the ice, thawing with thought. Break the ice, mining
the mind, eventually breaking hearts and causing pain, like a cypher,
breaking codes and getting everyone's number. Time's up when it has
your number, they say. There's birthday and deathday: what will you
have on your Tombstone? Pizza toppings at Infinite Thai (it's a
restaurant). Time flows between birth to death, every moment
connected by a stream of consciousness, whether inky blackness of
sleep, dreaming, prayer, thoughts, speech, writing, or looking out a
car window (at one damn thing after another, as they say of history)
ad nauseum, or listening to song after song, reading book after book,
from door to door, window to window (of opportunity); daily life's
process of selection between possibilities, options, choices. Maybe
too few, maybe too many, maybe without a guide. Life flows from
birthday to birthday, month to month, week to week, day to day, in
repetitive routines and of course the fated necessity of dealing with
what life throws at you, always doing what you have to do, ofen
experienced as a lack of freedom. A dizzying array of too much
freedom, and an inability to choose activities, dates, supermarket
food choices, whatever, can leave you frozen. Justice, just ice.
Global warming and hell and disney's frozen and immigration and
customs enforcement and Isis all come to mind, which itself is called
ice in Neuromancer, like OJ in concentrate, ponder that. Making
waves. There's always a bigger fish.
Authors eat their words with tongue on
their forks. Lengua, the mexican burrito of choice. Or maybe
alphabet soup. Or maybe the author wrote a cookbook. Don't mind
me. Nevermind, says Nirvana. All right, if you ceso. GM: grey
matter is no laughing matter, unless the general manager of general
motors is a fungi. The church babyroom, quiet room: Shh! I'm
growing shrooms! Robert Plant sings to his vegetables, but the tree
made no sound when it Fell.
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