blown apart tree woman


        I thought then that I was but I realize now that I am.

        I am looking northwest over the shore-cliffs of the Pacific Ocean as my brains are blowing southwest out the side of my head all over Richard Brautigan’s cold campsite.

        I am impressed by this .44 Remington Magnum.

        Smatterings of my thoughts express in a mist my place in history:  I am now Fly Fishing in America for months before you find my body.

        Messy, isn’t it, my friend?  How did I end up all over this place alone?

        My scattered thoughts recall that it had something to do with ballistic penises and corkscrew vaginas; something about sexual conflict between Donald Duck and Daisy Duck; something about horrific spiky penises damaging the female for rival males.

        Or maybe not.

        You were always waiting for me to grow up.  I am a willful naïf, cultivating childishness.  A gentle, troubled, deeply odd guy dismissed and abandoned.  The baby thrown out with the bathwater.

        I have been a sesquipedalian polysyllabic homage collage of thoughts upon feelings about an impression of words and fate.  I thought that I was Jack Kerouac but I know now that I am Richard Brautigan.

  place is clouds



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