The layering makes a lot of sense. When we want to connect with other people, it’s more a matter of two brains scanning each other. The operant word here is: smell. Those with it are like the witches in the father christmas tales where it has to be in the middle of a ice machine. We are not aware of it, but the brains of other people are. It gets narrowed. The serotonin kicks in. We are easily seduced. That is not a good thing, and I don’t give a flying fuck that conservatives are running a Full Mean campaign whose mission is to facilitate more babies, and more babies, and more babies. Are you kidding me. We could still hold sway, more babies is a pornography of stuff. Do you know how much stuff you are required by the Mommies. To buy. The Mommies will tell you to buy all the stuff before the birth. Not after. I have this deadly aversion to the nauseating color pink and how it’s become synonymous with female infants. Stop it. I shun pink, I shun pink. I shun pink. I hate it beyond belief or sanity. Pink is the demon’s seed. The electromagnetic lightning rods of dark matter stretching out connective fingernails and the ripping.

An arch on the medial surface of the limbic lobe (above the ear) on the mammalian brain of each cerebral hemisphere, is the Old You. A one dimensional The donkey You Are schlepping sticks tied on your back, and it is work work is good for the soul work work is good for the going back even more, more, more. In time. It is the Year One of the earth, still kinda like a plasma souped up 1955 Dodge with exaggerated finns so big and badass, The You that hides from dinosaurs and they were here a long, long time bears witness. Yes, witness. I see it like you saw men jump from a car outside a restaurant. Homo sapiens cannot imagine it. Go back more, more, more. In time. We were the green slime at the bottom of a pool in Los Angeles. Revolutionaries to the tar pits.

DNA damns us to reality. This looks like filter me, and I love filters. There are sixteen dimensions and they get more weirdo as the daze flies by. People in the South are thirsty. Do you really believe Our Stupid lives are so ferocious, so manic, we can’t even see the planet we spit on, and it’s burning down to toxic slime at the bottom of a pool in Los Angeles. It’s planetary septic tank. The filter allows us to see it all in another light. A wash. An arrogance to your reality, not mine. Mine is mescaline madness. That is what writing is about.

The only way that Other Light from that dimension makes it through Sam I am, the original ha ha. Perhaps a dream. Perhaps machine gun fire cracking apart the windows of a cafe. Fly fast, you cupcakes. Sometimes you lived inside the gods you have invented. Or light bends. Millions of neutrinos are streaming out of your anus at this very moment.

I see witches in every photograph I have ever taken. They’re faces in the background. Behind the closeline, behind the shadows on the field that stretch west to the Vineyards and we stole some of that Burgundy ourselves. Drinking from the bottle. Burgundy and bread.

It will keep you alive. It’s the witch part of ourselves. She knew plants. There were no doctors in this community of farmers. My mother was a farm girl to the very end.

Or that is what I saw I saw, in the vat.

You never know what’s in the vat. Everyone wants babies, but you can make him or her any age you want. They put in the Bugabuga and we go home.

You were supposed to call us.

What kind of kid do you want: throw some of this in there. Gentleman come on up the stairs and beat off into the vat. Pour some vodka in there. I wanted to be a farmer once. I am an asshole. It did not work. I went to flight school. I flew Cessnas. Another dimension, it could even be in Lake Michigan where The Rodent and I had fished. We call him The Rodent. He was severely depressed. I don’t think it was the name. It could have been the name. I got lost. Dimension Detention. I was not scared. I was too stupid to be scared. I was having a great time. I spied a road. There was a radio but I do not remember talking to the tower. Someone somewhere said bullshit: Negative on the bullshit. The flying community all chimes in. Negative on the bullshit. Negative on the bullshit.

I would fly my friends around, usually out to the lake. All they could do was talk about it. Sports cannot compete. You won’t believe it, but in those days, there were no age restrictions because no one could afford to hop around on a plane. Flies airplanes. Does not attend school. Much. 16: Has a motorcycle. Has a fulltime job nailing gutters. Clothes out on the line. I made a lot of enemies.

I know. I know. Why do you think I wrote. Romeo and Juliet. Never. Ever. Fuck in an airplane. It’s a bad idea. My parents had no control over me whatsoever. I exhausted them. I invited the entire city to come to a party and bring you know. My parents were on the lake. The entire town showed up. I really didn’t think they would. They did. Cops. I had to make a getaway. Getting out of Dodge. Gunfire. Making exit as if comets could run dry.

All rivers run dry. Dry as a corpse. Dry as a dream. Like driving that tractor trailer bulldozer tank down the road and I am twelve and do not not not have a driver’s license. Farm kids love to drive all kinds of vehicle, and every year some Billy Bob Bojangles busts a nut in church because he did love Jesus but this time it went a little bit far. Quite a bit far, actually. The last vehicle registered in this Southern metropolis is a 1955 Dodge, and it has not moved until 1968, now 1968 was a popcorn year, and cars those days cost about about as dollar if they looked like this here 1955 Dodge Dimples. I walked all the forests that dominated the Grand River, and I canoed that river into the lake.

Michigan, and the Ausable, Lake Superior, and Georgian Bay. I literallyfuckingliterally meaning hard scrabble you hit the red button because the blue one blew up six daze to Sunday morning with a beer on the dock like Dolly Bloom, Ireland has done you good. Like something I saw the other day going for a walk.

Do not go there with me, I’m not taking risks here, I am not that brave, I have no doubt whatsoever that a lot of mommies are armed you cannot say it isn’t so. American women are armed to the teeth and they represent hypocrisy. A baby for your trouble. I am a dad. Or gravity waves. Whatever it is, it takes tens of millions of years to go anywhere, I went to James Joyce’s house. I think people were smaller back then, and only Jack Sprat could get through that door. He could do Mrs. Sprat right there on the floor. Irish doors can go back to the Little People and the observation that Irish public hair is red, always red. It has a curvature and an apple. So I’m in the Irish tittie bars at night. Red, the Viking from Red and his swords, it’s kinda like a rusted shovel. And an island off the coast of Hecuba. Two miles from the Ryan’s Daughter beach. You know the one. I took a bike trip there. BMW. I was scandalized David Lean did the beach. Leonardo had not been born.

I was spellbound. I saw her titties. I saw Julie Christie’s titties, too. But Romeo. My ass is just like that. I have a Romeo ass. Let me show it off at the window. I did not go to high school the way people think I did. High school was entirely independent study which was a responsibility I could not handle (adults said it with reason) because I would just walk out of the classroom from See You Whenever. I had clashes. Kids were scared of me. Some teachers would If you are a photographer such as myself, the filter slows me down. Makes me look at stuff you would not see. I don’t know why. I don’t know how. All I got is a briar patch

My entire life is an exploration of why. Why can’t you see what I am saying. Why are we so craven raven birds are flying from my throat. Always notch it up. Do not write lips. I am so over mommies. You could throw Playboy magazines in that. Right into the vat. It will drive the vat children mad. They tell me I am a danger to Homo sapiens everywhere. Hey. I’m the guy who’s in the Special Ed Department in whatever school district the people in my life who are so fucking demented, the school districts I took to court, over the issue of breakfast before school. Behaviorally Emotionally disturbed. But food. You’re going to serve one piece of rice to this kid. Move along. This looks like shit to me. Don’t you use those words to me, young man. 

We begin the day with strip searches.

We like our poor kids lean and hungry kids are hungry wow hungry America. When in doubt, sue the bejesus bugabuga school districts with whiteness for their goodness to gracious sakes alive, and sue them – not over color. But over food, and who gets it, and who does not. Like, people have a fetish for going back in time, while the physics of time travel into the future is only separated from the shock wave (which it will ride) as going forward in a makeshift drift is about to assert itself like a blind date out in the dunes. Until the nature of time itself sticks muscle to the bone in scars, and scars, and scars, we should do more of that. Sticking to the sticking place. We wanted food. No one had a car. We were barefoot. It was cold. We were also naked. Winter is a hornets bitch.

School breakfast is ammunition in the culture war. Yes. No. Yes. Yes. I don’t care if communities get all HiffyTiffy over whatever they care about white is always fucking white. I am writing a dystopian novel whose protagonist is albino. Remember Animal Farm. Of course you do as long as The white of Him and the African of him. He’s both. And he has a story. I do stories. I collect them to pass them on to other species and the species I belong to grunts and race car drivers and one hot GTO. I fuck them with my finger, it dips into an Indian ink well slowly to write slam bam, thank you, you little cutie.

Story after story after story even if people hate me and they do. I fly to stories and I can see them and vulnerability when beseeched to the volunteerism seduced by stories. Stories are meant to be read At Odds with reality, always, always slipping like time is the bad guy, is always swept away, time is the ha ha, and we, Homo sapiens, bow, baby, bow.  Tim Barrus