rein in car nation
laying down in the pew because i'm too bored to think about hell. waiting for my brain to reject my body and all the human attachements. so i can be recycled. cleared of memory. set back down on a white or black square, depending on the karma that day. to move at particular angles, congruent with my new culture. but would i think in the same way. be aware of my deliverance. crop circles and tree rings cocentrically torturing me. i'm either stuck on a white or black key, that is. a notch in some string. or marketing some talent in the dark alley of a streetlight, sidewalk, barebone city. a piece of mind splitting a cab or biting it's nails. but always with a companion at the friction of it's sleeves. window reflections of flourescent sales pitch halos, "by me! buy me!" levetation ever so carefully to not infringe on the hairdo. i can't gie birth to this experiment, not with my cheap salutation greeting cards, circa this century plus five.