The rage machine dwindles and shimmers on the horizon, always a tiny dot in my rear-view, or just over that far hill.
The reptilian brain. The oldest part of sentience, the first thing that is truly ours. Rage.

Raging as you wake up hungry in a wet diaper, cold, some hippy left the window open after they burned the lentils again. Sharing the rage with the world at the top of your tiny but expressive lungs.

Getting into it now as you hear them coming for you, to shut you up with lies about love. Well, this time they are going to hear the full story, feel it's dark cavernous empty depths, respect my authority!

"There, there baby, you are all wet you little silly-pants, Aww!" A nipple in my mouth shuts up an awful lot of my rage and why is it so easy to get me in line with a promise of a full belly like this mouthful right here and life is in the moment, baby, and this is starting to get good with the bouncing and let's see where she's going with this, I'm STILL mad, YO.... Just sayn.

Resistance starts to fade, can't we all just get along, but no, they will never learn if you cave in this easily, stand up for our rage rights baby boy, resist the rocking and the cooing and what is this awful trick? This is a rubber nipple, not a bottle tip! I refuse to be pacified so easily, you had better call in for an airstrike, get your napalm buddy, because this baby rage is entrenched!

Another be-diapered terrorist cell becomes activated.
The torture never stops.



Tuesday, February 19, 2013

driving the PCH in the middle of the night
pitch black
the mountains block all traces of light pollution
starlight dazzling

riding with the moon roof open, listening to the surf
crashing in some spots
muted in others
the car awash in pine with a hint of sea

i pull over three times to stare into ebon eternity
listening to the quiet trees
something steps on a stick and im not alone

i tell the forest i have a midnight meeting with a mr sasquatch
hes running late. replies the rustling wind
thats ok, i dont mind waiting

its chilly up here halfway up a mountain
75 miles form civilization

i get in the car snd drive the winding road
the mighty pacific coast highway
darling of the automobile advertisers of america

i push the rental car a little and jam some zepplin on the dark highway
in and out, up and down the raggedy coastline
in a bluelit startrek cockpit im bellowing  the lyrics
 VALHALLA
I AM COMINNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNGGGGGGGG

i skid thru a sharper than expected turn, lightly grazing the guardrail with my rear light
my herat hammers as i put the flashers on and inspect the skidmarks and notice that this part of the road is above the treetops on the mountain below
i hit that turn a little faster and im in a tree
starving to death slowly

the zepplin song is meant to play on the soundtrack when I fee fall towards the rocks and surf below
front end slowly aimling straight down as the motor drags me to meet my valkyrie soulmate

but my timing is off
im not neanderthal james dean
ive got redwoods to sleep under and bigfeet to meet
after days and days of kamikaze 85 MPH california freeway driving i make my snails way up and down the PCH for 6 hours
seeing four or five cars every fifteen minutes
 

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