Cheech threw me off with his gay pimpin! Ha ha ha! He is so metrosexual. 
Baltimore is a barrel of spider monkeys.
I blend into the city and feel like my clothes don't fit right in the county. The neighbor asked me why I'm never home. Except I'm most often home. Who's watching?
I am trying not to get involved in animal causes. There must be one place on this earth where the animals won't find me. But that place ain't Baltimore. A skinny orange cat keeps coming 'round.
Work is not a place to form social bonds. Good. Spare me the clutter.
I'd be very lonely if my cobalt-eyed D.C. boy didn't visit me.
I'm such a freakin insomniac mess. I think it's time to dye my hair.
I owe WhiskyFightPit a story. About sleeping with coyotes on the High Desert, nearly ten summers ago when I made only $7,000 a year but managed to live well and even travel -- I traveled all around the U.S. and spent a spell of time in Santa Fe, hence the High Desert.
There is no better sleep than that of the pack, with its collective dreamtime. We slept on slabs of rock that had been warmed by the sun all day. When the temperature dropped, the coyotes huddled in. One morning I woke up in a pool of sweat, shaking and delirious. The coyotes were gone -- I must have repelled them with strange muttering. I sensed burning on my back and reached back there and felt welts.
I stumbled to a poet's house, and he took me to the midwife up the trail who served as the village medic. She examined my back and said the Children of the Earth had gotten into my sleeping bag. I was like, Damn, the fucking Children of the Earth, not knowing they were spiders rather than sprites or faeries.
So the midwife -- Lara was her name -- gave me this murky green liquid to drink for the next three days. The crap looked bad, and it burned going down, but I was too busy sweating like a motherfucker to worry about it. I basically sweated -- I lay on the floor in a room in the poet's house without clothes because I soaked through them -- and hallucinated. I talked to all manner of ghosts
and demons 
and was a mermaid.
When the fever broke, I found out that the main two ingredients in the green murk the midwife had me drink were green chile and p e y o t e. I had a constellation of 17 bites on my back. One of the bites left a particularly angry scar that I still carry.
On the same trip to Santa Fe, I saw a very messed-up pilgrim of the Rainbow Gathering immolate himself, and I got high and watched Babe: Pig in the City (in a theater -- I actually paid to see it) with a cellist from Texas who was the embodiment of the Blue-Eyed Jesus. But that's fodder for another story, another time . . .
Baltimore is a barrel of spider monkeys.
I blend into the city and feel like my clothes don't fit right in the county. The neighbor asked me why I'm never home. Except I'm most often home. Who's watching?
I am trying not to get involved in animal causes. There must be one place on this earth where the animals won't find me. But that place ain't Baltimore. A skinny orange cat keeps coming 'round.
Work is not a place to form social bonds. Good. Spare me the clutter.
I'd be very lonely if my cobalt-eyed D.C. boy didn't visit me.
I'm such a freakin insomniac mess. I think it's time to dye my hair.
I owe WhiskyFightPit a story. About sleeping with coyotes on the High Desert, nearly ten summers ago when I made only $7,000 a year but managed to live well and even travel -- I traveled all around the U.S. and spent a spell of time in Santa Fe, hence the High Desert.
There is no better sleep than that of the pack, with its collective dreamtime. We slept on slabs of rock that had been warmed by the sun all day. When the temperature dropped, the coyotes huddled in. One morning I woke up in a pool of sweat, shaking and delirious. The coyotes were gone -- I must have repelled them with strange muttering. I sensed burning on my back and reached back there and felt welts.
I stumbled to a poet's house, and he took me to the midwife up the trail who served as the village medic. She examined my back and said the Children of the Earth had gotten into my sleeping bag. I was like, Damn, the fucking Children of the Earth, not knowing they were spiders rather than sprites or faeries.
So the midwife -- Lara was her name -- gave me this murky green liquid to drink for the next three days. The crap looked bad, and it burned going down, but I was too busy sweating like a motherfucker to worry about it. I basically sweated -- I lay on the floor in a room in the poet's house without clothes because I soaked through them -- and hallucinated. I talked to all manner of ghosts
and demons and was a mermaid.
When the fever broke, I found out that the main two ingredients in the green murk the midwife had me drink were green chile and p e y o t e. I had a constellation of 17 bites on my back. One of the bites left a particularly angry scar that I still carry.
On the same trip to Santa Fe, I saw a very messed-up pilgrim of the Rainbow Gathering immolate himself, and I got high and watched Babe: Pig in the City (in a theater -- I actually paid to see it) with a cellist from Texas who was the embodiment of the Blue-Eyed Jesus. But that's fodder for another story, another time . . .
VIEW 11 of 11 COMMENTS
However, I am convinced that movie needs to be seen by my hypothetical and future children. I'm guessing at around age 6-8. Others say I'm nuts, but I feel there are some excellent opportunities for learning valuable lessons in that movie.
Or will I fuck them up for years to come?