Numero 3
by Steve Bagley, dude.
Have you returned to the legendary numero three of ancient haunted-with-love Salem place whose ghosts are the dreams we leaked on the walls and spewed forth on nights that live on forever in the universal vibrations of every-moment-is-now type of thing on great fantasy carnival Main Street?
And the tapestries that blew in the windows rustled like cornfields and the guitar tunes strummed like holy men's songs and magenta sunsets and big pine trees and great stone mansions of centuries past and the cherry blossoms unfolding in the yard for two sad weeks in May; and the cherry blossoms unfolding in the mind of God just simply us ethereal humans twirling in the world of things as they are; falling for the tulips to get up and run from the wolves; to command respect from, or prove in the least that one does not fear the universe but actually digs-this-shit and proved so, as Dennis (diddy-puppet-pong) did by surfing three stories of stairs on a cardboard box, planting himself at full-speed into the wall while ripping the stairway railing clean off the wall (bolts and all) in a near-tragic test of cosmic absurdity and desperate survival—and he, in the same chain of events, in a fitful monkey dance, launched a karate kick across the room at an unknown figure, missed, and traveled clear through the wall into the neighbor’s apartment, full of horrified nerds watching Tuesday night sitcoms (sad), forcing down popcorn and white wine and…you get the picture.
The hard-lived life burns at both ends but is gifted with the wisdom of loneliness and drooling dragons and brotherhood for those willing to lose the self in order to gain the rest—insight unto the universe that is otherwise closed off to the intricacies of the human skull, leading an existence and never knowing there is more to be perceived, like a dog seeing black and white, never base colors, like a fish can’t see the universe above the surface—like we, thinking we have a grasp on the truth but only a grasp on our selves—like trying to hold water in your fist.
So we lived like chaos; the-force-of-the-scheme-itself, kicking the door down and doing cartwheels through the world of mysterylove cherryfuck and the soul bleeds blue, rolling waves and barreling onto shore like Ganesha riding a surf board made of diamond light, like the tender huge heart of toughkid Scotty road-dog, who watched a man light himself on fire on Amherst Common; and soon learned that “death was a way out,” he muttered to me as he, years later pierced his nipples high on Wild Turkey with a scorched coat-hanger, and parties pack-jammed, arms and legs busting out the windows, grins and scoffs and howls, where love and fights happened in the same night, on a sacred burial ground of time, where beanie-cap whoop-dee-do Main Street meanders down off route 202 by the old library and pioneer burial grounds, upward through the Fall smokes past the common and staggering like a hobo towards uptown in a salmon colored sunrise 5am tweak on a Sunday morning, “the most quiet time on Earth” Eddie once said to me smoking by the pond that was a sheet of glass as vegetation encroached on our bench to inspect our human qualities with little or no judgment.
Sitting alone together inside the one-mind state of being over-soul sky web bending over the whole earth like a luminous spider web-snowflake that when it rains impregnates the fertile soils and soaks and out unfolds flowers slicing into space with mind-fucking cuteness, rolling and pluming from nowhere into here and now existence at the will of the force itself—saying something whispered, just loud enough, like “hello, hope you haven’t forgotten, you’ve been sleeping since your were born.”
Have you returned to the legendary numero three of ancient haunted-with-love Salem place whose ghosts are the dreams we leaked on the walls and spewed forth on nights that live on forever in the universal vibrations of every-moment-is-now type of thing on great fantasy carnival Main Street?
And the tapestries that blew in the windows rustled like cornfields and the guitar tunes strummed like holy men's songs and magenta sunsets and big pine trees and great stone mansions of centuries past and the cherry blossoms unfolding in the yard for two sad weeks in May; and the cherry blossoms unfolding in the mind of God just simply us ethereal humans twirling in the world of things as they are; falling for the tulips to get up and run from the wolves; to command respect from, or prove in the least that one does not fear the universe but actually digs-this-shit and proved so, as Dennis (diddy-puppet-pong) did by surfing three stories of stairs on a cardboard box, planting himself at full-speed into the wall while ripping the stairway railing clean off the wall (bolts and all) in a near-tragic test of cosmic absurdity and desperate survival—and he, in the same chain of events, in a fitful monkey dance, launched a karate kick across the room at an unknown figure, missed, and traveled clear through the wall into the neighbor’s apartment, full of horrified nerds watching Tuesday night sitcoms (sad), forcing down popcorn and white wine and…you get the picture.
The hard-lived life burns at both ends but is gifted with the wisdom of loneliness and drooling dragons and brotherhood for those willing to lose the self in order to gain the rest—insight unto the universe that is otherwise closed off to the intricacies of the human skull, leading an existence and never knowing there is more to be perceived, like a dog seeing black and white, never base colors, like a fish can’t see the universe above the surface—like we, thinking we have a grasp on the truth but only a grasp on our selves—like trying to hold water in your fist.
So we lived like chaos; the-force-of-the-scheme-itself, kicking the door down and doing cartwheels through the world of mysterylove cherryfuck and the soul bleeds blue, rolling waves and barreling onto shore like Ganesha riding a surf board made of diamond light, like the tender huge heart of toughkid Scotty road-dog, who watched a man light himself on fire on Amherst Common; and soon learned that “death was a way out,” he muttered to me as he, years later pierced his nipples high on Wild Turkey with a scorched coat-hanger, and parties pack-jammed, arms and legs busting out the windows, grins and scoffs and howls, where love and fights happened in the same night, on a sacred burial ground of time, where beanie-cap whoop-dee-do Main Street meanders down off route 202 by the old library and pioneer burial grounds, upward through the Fall smokes past the common and staggering like a hobo towards uptown in a salmon colored sunrise 5am tweak on a Sunday morning, “the most quiet time on Earth” Eddie once said to me smoking by the pond that was a sheet of glass as vegetation encroached on our bench to inspect our human qualities with little or no judgment.
Sitting alone together inside the one-mind state of being over-soul sky web bending over the whole earth like a luminous spider web-snowflake that when it rains impregnates the fertile soils and soaks and out unfolds flowers slicing into space with mind-fucking cuteness, rolling and pluming from nowhere into here and now existence at the will of the force itself—saying something whispered, just loud enough, like “hello, hope you haven’t forgotten, you’ve been sleeping since your were born.”
This entry was posted by Ben Myers, on
Wednesday, October 11, 2006.
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