Sunday 25 January 2009

A silent black pick up truck rolls away from Eyedrum. Eggtooth's twisted black braids uncomfortable under the seat of his pants. Eyebrows might grow back,if it weren't for the performance art burn scars. Long magician's fingers, swollen with callouses, no rings on his drumming fingers. Matching his spinal cord, draped from brain to sitting ass is his long black braided hair. Eggtooth will see Haley's Comet again. and again, seemig so recent, the pattern leaves trails still from the time before.braiding radiant tails and memories across his sky.
Contemplating the sick sillycomfort of the why worn jacket and the meandering thoughts, and no-voices in his head. the uncomfort of the braids of over thought things.
A gangly smart man with cable wire arms, the greying man on the street corner.he sees bats in.his dreams, Eggtooth senses with feigned boredom. Emaciated wolves gather dry text for his thoughts,too ya know? glass lit fragments for fingernails.cackle on yr window. gods crazed surface level palm flat outright. boulevard and freedom, have i seen you before? He's "older independant contractor for homeland security man, at 10:30pm". He's talking to the people in the car in front of the black pick up truck." Umm...japanese model", leans in with a proud whisper, says the little black pick up truck. Gentle meandering, the almost quiet beat of Pinback skipsteps, an arty little beat. Attention meandering. artists are neat.
A room full of people. and he carried this jug in, it would be better if it said K&B brand vodka, but it does not. towards the backroom a mixture of voices a strange tongue emerges, a unified language so friendly..and why the weight. An animal collective zones in and back out and a glance a worried chair with a lady under photography lamps. why is that guy climbing that thing.?run, athucra min cios, run. but slowly too. fast drips ignorance and apathy like clumps of dried sneaker mud. respect is in the dip.
eggtooth posse wanders now, surrounded by the spirit he commands. a spell twisted flowing drape in hourglass form. drawing from his skin into the air. An empty gift of a thousand thoughts. paintings, judging by the scale, worth more than a thousand zillion words. but even Eggtooth wouldn't want to read all that. All he needs is to see. It's a traditional medium,man. hmmm. the use of figurative images in an abstract composition...is this abstract,then? or..what is it? perhaps i will read about it in the AJC review.
Shape shifting eyeballs pierce his insides,no pupil cell division in this cranium, their snail captive cavitysugs a reassuring tight.and with a piched hit of a sentence,a comand" look around"
"look at that thing that guy painted". and these pilow cases with faces, a cohesive piece. the title and image tell it all. Eggtooth closes his eyes for a second. a swarm of wasps from the house he painted, high up looking in the triangle louvres a bat sleeps while at his feet, fourteen yr old wasps, planting seeds for his dreams. They are back Now .in this gallery. buzzing and meandering up and down the length of his long black braids. hangin' out. landing on the portrait behind him, admiring the teal to turquoise torn-ish illustrations. wasp stinger inspection scans for viruses and reports back to eggtooth of none.
"cast a spell make these bees be gone" he whispers. and they are bidded away, a silent cloak inside lining mother's them over. like baby stars singing a busy hum, and replaced with silence. Eggtooth looks quickly now! the door over there is the escape route. and beyond is another caring collective.under the hopper. a gauntlet of communal hugs. faces that he could very easily love. "what the heck?" his beat tries to speak, freak flag flops from his internal-less breeze. carries him home to a warm cozy disease. looking back and theres an occasion to greet.crunch crunch black boots jingle at the ends of his regular sized feet.
crunch crunch tumblers a black key in the lock, from which it came out not 30 minutes before. "...and to this i supposedly adore", over his shoulder love. a familiar entrance with careworn sign. in seven distinct pieces one with each letter. "in between years",pause "is where i am," As much of an auto pilot as his little black pick up truck. "You wish" says the little black pick up truck. out the stolen bbq joints parking lot.
and the sky explodes.behind him fills in with a twist of colors,mostly pink and white. gasps of brilliant baby blue and a sick lime acid green. no haven.they claim they are, and eggtooth duck his head. the 10:30 night crawlers, a late beautiful day carries a parade of healthy warm buzzes into the evening. their voices on eggtooth's shoulder, a pillar of flame,no, colors! pour from the building towards the sky. an air pushing blast as if from the mouth of God. displacement. dispersed into a milion birds.
a beautiful guilt, plays on his tripometer. analog. ticking like a silly fuse, an angry muse, a quiet witness to lessons skipped.
Six deer on Moreland. standing in a row, one painted pink. the others clean him. one eats the grass next to the sign that says"I-20 west". eggtooth waves at the largest deer, and receives wink, winding onto the interstate.east of east atlanta. but west gets me there. the grey mountain inthe distance pulls to his wheels. a love magnet, a homing device.
Sing song from the silence out from within a long black sound. she wishes for sweet things this maternal moonlight, a drop of feather on a portrait of pillows so quiet, and somehow so right.
it's written on the dashboard of the little black pick up truck. what exit you missed.
a line of demarcayshun, down that there boulevard. something switches at the prostitute's corner.fried chicken in the south. art ya'll. moving us further and further back, next to the whores we belong, next to, eessh.artists. and an old crosswalk next to the hall of hallsflippig pages through old paper publicatins. . no more snears. official rules for crossing codes. turn left into overpriced dull familiarity. things start to fade now. where did it go? my jacket is gone.
im in a regular old world. without art. darnit.

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