The earth, a million times over, as the jeweled plastic necklaces came forth from the skies, wearing wings laced with the breath of Bourbon, looking like the air itself, was nothing but the pupils of forgotten mangoes. Exposed mammary glands and sharpened crisp nipples made me wonder about the birth of the awareness of our surroundings. Why do we clothe ourselves? Are we not all naked amongst the rabid dogs of our own souls? I found myself in a world full of undeniable stray cats—lost and found sanities of spirits embedded in memories of yonder years ago.


This crazed man, this politely possessed man of red eyes and sagged mucus, shouted the purest words of happiness one could shout during the blissful moments of infinity.

“I am so fuckin’ drunk.”

And this gentleman, sans suit but merely dressed in shiny smiling pink thongs and a Betty Boop bikini top—oh, the struggles and sufferings of joy—put his hand upon my shoulder and kissed me on the cheek and with the grazed touch of his lips, I remembered the time I saw the Marbles Of Colombia transform into wooden icicles. Tears swooped down my flushed cheeks, as if crying was merely a vacuum for fallen stars and Shakespearean banter under the shadows of flashing green neon tubes reminding us to drink until our faces reach the sidewalks with our saliva dripping like famined wolves until we no longer feel the pain of biting our own tongues or punching each other in the neck.


The urination, not of my own, falls upon the banks of the buildings, as painted men lined up against walls stained with brilliant vomit and slammed red Popeyes dipping sauce (oh, how I love Popeyes) and gently mushed horse droppings, and though they appear to be facing their death, blindfolded in yellow and purple torn rags and shivering in front of a firing squad, they sway back and forth gleefully with the Gulf Winds unbeknownst to them that they’re pissing on their shoes for as long as infinity. There was a strawberry-tiger and an elephant made of frosted cake standing in the alley, and then I saw the clown of past ghosts walk by, and then I saw the strawberry-tiger and frosted caked elephant again, with their tongues, like candles, inflaming their innards—the romance of bodies fall upon the hidden roads where no one else looks.


I fell in love so many times on this—I fell in love, and I when I stood up, I was surrounded by the vast colors of swirling serenades and vanilla-scented rose petals tipped with the burdened breath of future aches of the mind. And there was this Demon. She stood next to me and held a Long Island Iced Tea in one hand and a beignet in the other. I fell into temptation and acquired the same beverage and pastry, a dangerous path into the pains of chained weariness. I dared not look into the mirror as I could feel white powdery sugar tucking its way into my lonely mustache — the only powder I had known up until this point was gunpowder and its smell of rotted blood. This Long Island Iced Tea, I now understand its lineage, as it took me to an island far, far away, a barren land full of rogue balloons who hover around in search of their lost teeth. We had all lost our teeth on this Sunday.


Huge, large mechanical devices moved past us—it appeared as if they were floating, like strangers in search of their top hats on a windy night. At the head of one, there was a large mask of a glowing skull, reminding us that Death exists in every second, and every second we are bound by rope to splintered Time, as it moved along, crossing our forsaken façades of teddy bears and orange giraffes. On top of the moving machine, there were these peacocks with long legs and they moved back and forth spewing colorful, spicy tidbits to the oceans of crowds surrounding it. We raise our hands to that which we yearn but can’t control. Breasts moving left and right and up and down until the song of naked skin hypnotized the peacocks, and the skies fractured, letting loose the doubloons of treasured chests, aging back to the years of when I was just a youth. My chest heaved like the crow’s beak dug deep into littered ghouls.

I, too, lifted my shirt.

I, too, kindly asked, “Throw me something, good sir.”


They breathe life and they forget death and they find harmony in the moments of lost keychains. There are no strangers, just inhabitants of this so-called Earth, searching for refuge in the hands of being completely and utterly fuckin’ lit. It is a labyrinth with no endings, only beginnings. Bodies were strewn about the lands and sofas, like dew, on a stormy day. Let them rest. Let them soothe themselves to the sounds of their own snoring, bathed in drool and pepper spray. I end here now and already long to come back, not as a spectator, but as Scooby-Doo.

I also saw John Goodman.