journal fragment 1

that soricine — always trying to start something.

i’m sitting there minding my own damn business. trying to get some peace after running all over the universe for i can’t remember how long and even if i could remember, i’d forget (because that’s how that works).

i won’t even make eye contact with her. acknowledge her existence and you’re on a one-way, turbo-charged, fuel-injected and never inspected slingshot so far away from the seventh sphere that there’d be a jackwad pointing and complaining about the temperature.

out — of — nowhere…

she saunters straight over to me, gets right next to my face and goes straight stream of consciousness telling me — me! — alllll about those green-eyed, blonde beings with wings… you know… playing harps… choirs.

and she won’t shut — the — fuck — up.

management? what fucking management? like everything else around here — occasional and most oblique.

so i finally turn… and look straight into that one bloodshot eye

baby — bunkerman prefers his

smoky-eyed

brunette

prolific

& most pseudepigraphic