candycox

I am in a renovated bungalow.
There is a revival in the streets.
The natives are pungent -- banana leaves, tripe and gravy.
All the words sound like "bok gok" and "mana ling ding"

I'm laying here, sweating on this cot.
The air is thick with the sounds of insects and marching music.

I'm just so glad I have this cool silver nozzle in my hands.
It's cool and heavy for it's size -- chrome plated.

I'm going to hose down my sister-in-law now.
The sedatives should kick in any minute.

Tommorow is another day with heavy machinery.
The blisters should heal by then.
When my mind is fuzzy I like to align things with a large mallet.
I like to grab things with my hands and feel the click when it fits.

I've been fading lately. It happens -- every day, every where, always.

I'm walking backwards in the gutter in slow motion.
I'm doing a soft shuffle in the leaves and garbage.
I'm singing "doot-doot doo... doobee-doobee" .

Ninety five more dollars and we make it back to my Aunt Grelda's ancient mayan temple.
The grimey manicure. The crumpled, empty cup. Life.
Three dimes, a quarter and twelve pennies.
A dead stinkbug, nine tic-tacs and a cigarette butt.

I'm looking back on blue lighting, echoes across the drunken neighbors pool.
Thoughts reverberating underwater.

I'm waiting for my fireball, my lifeline artillery detonation.
That'll wake me up. Then the band-aid comes off.
My black and orange incineration bath time. I love that shit.
Life affirming like a sock in the gut.

I'm thinking of freedom.
Freedom is telling everyone that bugs you to fuck off.
Freedom is throat cancer.