Scriptor Press - The ElectroLounge

20
newspapers, the many thoughts passing among us all now, the many dreams pending within each
of us. A face cartoonish—seek its subtleties. A face common—seek its genius.
Skinless. Hi-low’d by past & future but seduced virginsmilepretty by now.
I’m nearing all of you. I’m learning how to remember—skinless, words will fumble at
times like these—how to describe laughter, shadow. The least smile validly called smile.
A man doses on the train, arm perched on a railing next to his seat. A curious face turns
& looks over to me. I can’t explain any of this. I’m skinless. I’m ready for much more that my
walk home & then to sleep.
Here & Now. Godd. Eternity. Infinity. Rumbling north of Boston. The gentleness of all
these strange souls, more than enough.
On. ZombieTown. OK.
Walk, float, happy, onto Carnal Street, after midnight, ZombieTown dawn, &
those lights! I sit on the steps of abandoned Rohm Tech building, & slip into wordlessness,
the rhythm of watch & listen, cars speed Indy past, driving one-handed lottery ticket in
hand, go fast! catch it, motherfucker! that thing you dream money or speed or waggling tits
at the Squire Club will get you—go faster—no, bastard, go!
“Who the fuck are you?”
“I’m helping you.”
“I don’t want to go this fast—there’re cops!”
“But we’re going over the line.”
“What line? Who are you?”
“Speed. Money. Tits. A little faster & we’ll be there. I promise.”
“Soulard, stop.”
I am Lord Psychedelio. Noone can stop me.
“Soulard. It’s Americus. Look around! Let go of this!”
No. Not yet.
“Let me go! Get outta my cahr!”
“Do you believe in Godd?”
“What?”
“Do you believe in Godd!? We’re going to hit that telephone pole—what do you
believe?”
“Help!”
“Ray, it’s Rebecca. It’s OK. We’re all here. At Luna T’s Cafe. Just look around like
my dad says.”
I want to make this story great but I don’t know how any more. It’s way past gone.
I won’t look around so Rebecca, goodwife she is, shows up in the impossibly
speeding car on Carnal Street, ZombieTown, Mass.
“Who’s she?”
“My wife.”
“Tell him to leave me alone! I’m not that drunk!”
“Ray, will you look around? You’re at Luna T’s with me & my dad & Franny & Mr.
Bob & everyone else. You’re at the bar writing this.”
“No. I’m not. I’m at a joint in Cambridge, another Friday, bereft, writing to keep
sane.”
The Cenacle / 54 / April 2005