the Harder They Come...

With my cult book in hand, upon the floor exuding a punch in the gut surrealism, as if I laid before the stars - X-mas-like in orientation, this particular evening sought oblivion. I was outside home in the cold/cool garage. The psychology of homeward-existence is having found your way entering through a door. I only smelled the moldering earth. From the floor in the back of the garage, lying on a blanket with musk of dog on it, I smoked cigarettes lighting them from the electric heater I put in use: vibratory-properties of source-heat, like life itself and the irony of extinguishing it with my uncourageous smoking habit. The black of dawn or the dawn of black night was my witness I sold myself down river. Like a Beth-El moment I wrestled with an angel--my thick heart of stone, because it got the better of me, telling me I can't go where I ought to be, and the garage as time-memorial, which as an idol I respected because it wrested control of my thinking the patterns of traffic speeding past from the highway close-by. Because of immersion-moments like this, I at one time watched a fog drift & lift, like the gray haze of day leaving a note for its cause, and rising into the atmosphere. I'm left half expecting to see objects relinquish feeling gravity's pull--the sky is the limit.