She don't use butter, and she don't use cheese.

I have no idea what I'm going to write next.

I'm improvising. Freestyle. A cold October wind is blowing over my face. I'm sitting on a sand dune at a beach I don't know the name of, after dark. Salt. Pacific. Improvisation. Capitalized initials. Ignition. Turning the key. Stuttering into first. Coughing nicotine magic grinding into gear that isn't pretty but gets you there without revision. Only a vision. The dirty sheet flapping at the shins, a bottlecap rusted and flicked into the brusque fuckstick hallucinogenic dawn. This is a dream. I was never here. Observers gliding past on synaptic grease, swallowing response without pause, tonguing the switches of a languid machine that promises suck unending, fluid drip of sympathy nurturing the pale search engine forward down on gelid knees where the mudsluice lingers I cannot, will not push the fascist period point home to a blind landing field where we all pause and reconsider our what? Our what? What? Someone is shouting in my ear. There are many reasons why I should not continue. Many carefully considered reasons why there is no one who will ever listen. Many hypothetical shells of syntax that are crushed every night by the surge of schizofractal butterflied dragonwings splayed open on the cartwheel. Our lovely syllables. Pulsing in three-thirteen time, a patient hesitation. Spitting out fragments of wing. Collage of broken flight. Gears need spokes. All the pieces coalescing again around a dumb hub, every particle of your wasted youth sanding down the slope of angry glass, someone who wouldn't listen to the sound of his own name and became instead whatever else. This is love. This is bath. This is surrender.

eyeball underwater