Brain Asthma

If you step outside of the boundary, the dogs will get you. The dogs roam the wire, wild and hungry waiting for you to step outside.

If you flick into the film strip of your memory, there is a frog, pretending he’s a lion, waiting with a gun filled with his own self loathing, for you to cross him. He calls himself Frogger and he went to get a gun because Albert can’t help but laugh. Albert would laugh if spooks were threatening to chop off his thumb, he’d laugh even—especially if his life depended on it.

Where was Ugly David with his lopsided head when we needed him?

Slide back into the belly of the whale where you belong. It’s warm in here and all the friends you had, way back when, are there tap tap tapping at memory precursors, a bundle of neurons you made to evoke this episode. A small meter of blips in twos and threes, awkward silence, adrenalin butterflying throughout your belly, or pictures of reptiles having sex, they’re picking through the tumblers of your braindrum.

The first notes transfix the particular axon and then . . . do you hear music?
"Here come dee Hotsteppa! Word-a-rah! I’m a lyrical Gangsta! Word-a-rah!" Where did that come from? Buried with the sins of your collective, are treasures of stupendous uselessness next to that time your teacher let you look down her shirt, leaning against scorpions you caught in New Mexico while a preacher commands you, “Leviticus Ch. 24, verse 20, SAY IT” and you fucking spit it out into a jar of Friday night football games played by every one you’ve ever slept with, dancing on a tapestry depicting Mild Mingo dancing for pussy that whispers sweetly, “You will be Great. You will do Great Things. God told me and I Believe it”. If she hadn’t said that, where would you be right now?

Jonah was swallowed by a whale and spit out 3 days later. What does a Mariner trapped in a whale do to find the blowhole? No candles in the whale.

If you step out of the boundary, the dogs will thrash you to bits. Chase the dogs to the border. There are packs of wild dogs roaming the desert waiting for me to stumble out of the gates—I spit them out through my blowhole.

I do this string-of-thought thing when I get a cramp of writer's block. Consider me unblocked.