Went on tour with Dan and Jill back in 2013. Brought my typewriter. Stream of consciousness memory for today’s going away party…
Just in case I am feeling expressive today, I brought along
this relic of love to teach me a thing or two about verve on a Sunday.
I am famous in Cooperstown.
Dan suggests a mystery. For him the scene of the crime will never be on eBay, not even if all evidence points to that URL.
Dyed Stitches is set up in the parking lot. A couple more hours of this and my ear hair will grow out an inch.
I am sorry Dan, but I cannot hear you.
Typing in my ear hair.
All I keep seeing with this parade of humanity are bare toes and the wonder when last paid attention to in the shower.
Go away. I hate business.
“How much do you want for that I’m going to the store.
Man says ‘three dollars’,
All right, I’ll give you four.”
— Bob Dylan Poor Boy
My eyes can smell them.
Jill is a writer. She took typing in the seventies’, and her
penmanship is neat. If my writing was judged by neatness, I’d be a handless speed monkey leaping on love letters with foot smears.
I have a permanent itch I cannot scratch.
Adult sunglasses? Gross.
Smoking in a wheelchair? Authentic cynicism.
Arms are funny for an appendage.
They look fishy. No, froggy.
There’s a psychic to my right
psychos to my left.
I like selling with Dan and Jill.
I think I have a “trusting” look.
Good balance to their shady characters.
Dan is away doing the “Dead Walk Manning”.
Are there many lesbian couple vendors at Further
Rose thinks so.
Her and Jill are partners.
I think she photographs me because I am a laughing hyena without tricks.
Rose, keep your chest off their eyes!
Dan is back.
He met a girl.
I will have someone to buy a boat for me. A butler for
purchase, delivery, captaining,
Rose and our friends will float in the shade with cold drinks and
Then we wake up in realland and count eachother’s sleep creases.
A Bovine sad song:
“If you don’t know me by now
You will never-ever know me as a cow.”
I feel like kickin’ Cosmic Charlie the Can Man in the humpback. Damn poser!
She sells herself for opera. She’s a Vatican floozie.
They kiss in the bushes here. And the bushes are tubby shirtless white guys playing bad guitar. Bad Grateful Dead guitar, which is the deepest Hell for serious lovers.
I think Dyed Stitches is doing very good business.
Can’t talk too much to customers though while they’re shopping.
No time for outward expression of inward grace.
They hate you if you show how truly happy you are.
Get Drunk Dyed Stitches
Hippie Camo (Dan’s thought)
[Insert of Jill typing. Left out for copyright reasons]
There are so many showers need to be taken tonight. That’s a lot
of water. I won’t even try to imagine the tub drains of
I am not aloof. A shy guy who reacts nasty isn’t afraid of people as much as he is disgusted by their scorn of the Golden Rule.
The virtues of a man skort for grilling.
Dan needs an orange to hide in his skort.
[Another Jill insert]
Jill can’t outtype the misanthrope.
To think that there are only two sexes on earth pasting this circus together.
That’s quite a lot of saliva glue.
Oh no, time for surrealism…
Bells and chocolate! There were three squirrels in the park foraging for nuts. A Catholic, Jew and Hindu squirrel.
The Catholic squirrel was asked what he intended to do with his nut.
“Bury it with my guilt,” he confessed.
And the Jewish squirrel?
“Invest in my nephew’s nutbutter factory in Hoboken.”
And the Hindu?
“Certainly not roll pennies across a blue duck’s bill!”
I told you this was surrealism.
Monkey’s lips with vermilion tush.
Elephants speak for peanuts.
I still love you Rose.
A guy comes by to high five Rose.
Ron tells her to wash her hands, there might be LSD
residue to osmosify.
Paranoid tool I am.
You know you’re getting old when you can’t even pretend that you don’t want the rain to wash out your day in the sun.
How many Dead Heads does it take to fill your typical in ground pool with beer pee?
A box of wood for Jill from an admirer.
Jill: cellulose harlot.
One attractive-looking sock for the Ruby Slipper