June 12

Fear of the unknown when is archaically hot and sweltering sound waves rise up from highway hypnosis. Digging under the river bottom, searching for tunnels into oblivion, but blissfully alive and glorious, back turned upright like floating dead fish and the attractive idea of suspension between planes of existence prior to that moment of confused reckoning where I imagine I will want to scramble to appear grateful and say goodbye to all worldly possessions. My deity, what if I were to die without first signing the proper paperwork for deliverance? What if I never wrote up a will? What a mess to leave a family with. Unless, of course, I outlive all of my loved ones. I'd be helpless to donate the belongings to the disenchanted, as a ghost-form hovering about death-attorneys and hated judges or priests with greasy hands and communion wafers tasting like roofies in certain church-themed titty bars, with a large organ in the back, playing contemporary pop music, unintelligent, like a great hulking beast of an idea that no one will ever have. Can you imagine an idea that no one will ever come up with? The  groundbreaking renaissance artists would never believe twitter to exist in its mind-numbing popularity. The nurses and nuns in this dream palace, this fun house of horrors, would be drinking vodka out of the holy grail in enormous intoxicating gulps, with pleasurable cursing and esoteric sins, the more unique the sinning, the better the party becomes and then the gambling begins, down the aisles of the masonic temple, then Satan fills in for tenor saxophone in a riotous jazz fusion band, the improvised diminished chords, unholy triads that summon demonic presence in the darkest moments of moonlight where everything else is either silent or dead as a mouse, we pick up where we left off then, in our contemporary society, of college bombings and educational disgraces, mispronounced words in melody-less frenzy, constant ripples in the space-time cesspool, we're skinny dipping our feet into the soft and moist earth, letting it squish like the veins of infants, first breaths become impossible in this climate for many and lungs implode with soft pops, like bubble wrap that never echoes.