Golden Wheat Groove

I finished another book, satisfied from nook to beak; turned in my latest assignment, waiting for the teacher’s nod. I fed hundreds, wiped tables, dished out hot meals. The gorgeous goose in the Golden Wheat Bakery smiled my way, she has skin that glows, white powder makeup or natural sheen, it's fake or for real and nothing between. My keyboard's a dusty banjo... Portuguese ladies zesty shy full of waitress and womanlinesses... on the keyboard we live die and do with our fingers, alone or with the cybercommunists watching, from each according to his grammar & spelling to each according to his voyeurism; water seeks its level and every intelligence reflects itself on the web. Find your dreamgirl on the internet, yet the real world's needed to feed those dreams. Our children grow up with neural implants and hurray for the Borg utopia/dystopia: a new medium and message so untranslatable, that’s when us technological Neanderthals get left behind and dry up all metaphors watching space shuttles blast off to begin anew on Mars, drinking frozen slushies from the canals and wonderful new gravities, atmospheres and at some phylogenetic branching-off point an entirely new species, pass that bio-organic-baton, the climate-change climax is approaching (and the final day of right and wrong?).

I skip skip incoherently held together by my oversized heart, arteries and vainness and each paragraph has only as much love and determination as I gather that day, a brain unfettered by non-stop television programming free to contemplate and especially hesitate in midsentence, mustering up my randomized polarized bits of (ir)reverence.

I live with two sweethearts, luscious lovely ladies who love me. Me me what did I ever do, have I been as good as I should to you? You who listen and do not judge, a friend a mountain that doesn't budge, always knowing where I stand – so get your shit together, trace out your blueprints for being a man. And my ladies are lovely and talented and true, my chateau is nothing but a basement without you.

My friend Deena said I don’t have meat on my bones. Miss Deena I miss you and you should pick up the phone. She asked for an update, I said my life was on loan. I will charge you every bit of interest. Got to keep that interest; gotta make the pun crowd groan.

What will be our next obsession? Hang-gliding or scuba or diamond possession? I taught myself a lesson, learning to heal, spinning my wheels has taken me far, out and about and flouting the law. When upon a two-wheeled seat, the simple traffic is neat, I don’t need hockey or hiphop or heat. In the elements I’m in my element, not a sidewalk glonker but a street pony and jockey ie a quick pedalling hoo-haw boy. So maintain a head of steam - if you’re drunk on foam, growing moss aside a tree, betraying your potential to be one of the magnificent seven - but I'm up late every night alone and dreaming of heaven.