|a method letter from oregon man|
"My name is Jonas
I'm carrying the wheel."
Dear Jonas, what do you know?
Men dressed like pirates. All day they'll ask me what I know, and I tell them, "I am Black Beard from way south in Minnesota. I've been walking through the Kongo for 10 years with no body. I'm a ghost on this highway. Fix me up a whiskey cup and I'll tell you about the snakes, and the birds, and the bears, and the buds."
I'm old and gray with my selectively shredded memory,
breathing, spitting, camels, venom, and samples.
I know my devil and and I know my elf
But a forked lung and mischievous hands
do not make me listen.
Anyhow, I knew I couldn't stay.
"So what did you do?"
Surely, I left Fantasia
Milky way skies and shifting sandstone streets aren't enough to satisfy
(I was shanghaied in Portland, had to build it all with Egyptian slaves).
Blues walked like usual out of my castle.
Said goodbye to Cinderella whispered Cinci-ya later?
I hear it's one hundred thirty degrees in Arizona.
"Oh, how free!"
I fell in love with an Exxon employee in Tuskegee, North Dakota.
Boy had a two headed snake on his shirt. I ran out of money so he gave me a dollar off on gas. He molested me on a red mountain and gave me a needle for my hard work he said 'thanks'. "Starkle, starkle, little twink, when I work I thwought (I thwink)--strap me off! Same dirty vein as always!" He's what you'd call a frightening influence. Bore, thin, gray, anonymous. Then you get bored a second time, so just fall on this knife instead.
"How shiny is it?"
There are always cars, and always cops. "Looks like the waves are coming in tonight." "But my heart beats so easy! I'm even a teen! Can't we hold hands?" "I like you better. You can hold your tree, meantime I'll give you an element test. Spread 'em!" His uniform takes his side and now my feet go "sketch, sketch, sketch". I trip, dissent and it's not his fault, and he's got a badge. It's not his fault I dissent. I've got to give him some credit, he didn't trip and fall. Maybe he means well; I guess you'd call it a career. Maybe he's caught one or two real crooks in his day. I take one last glance at his car as he drives away. The Highway-Gunman! Smartest of all bacon strips! You could laugh and agree, "Well now I guess he's got three."
Unfortunately, I'm allergic to paint
So I scratch an alien sign on the wall.
Walk away before long and ask if you caught it all.
Now if you'll please look in my direction
and notice that I'm not proud.
It's just my innate attraction to inject irony through your IV.
It's over the moon, but under the sound.
I bled green for a while, and I enjoyed looking at nature's stained glass. I wanted to throw a brick in it anyway. Keep a tree in my pocket to burn anytime I come across a useless, smirking character-collecting second-generation hippie that wants me in his pocket. Pockets are prisons, no matter how cozy.
"So maybe later Miss Shady!"
I've learned double-talk and how to run. Every now and again everything stops and I ask myself, why? What's it going to prove? They call this schizophrenia. One is stark raving mad and the other is oxygen. What are you gonna do?
Punk ate some food and some gravel. He makes me feel like a tree when it smells like a rat.
The point, darling, is that there is noooo graaaaail for either of us...but theres a whole lot of bullshit to be shared.
Joe (you know my name, look up the number)
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