Sunday, January 1, 2023

Jim Meirose, This cha l’lectric’ll, Band-Aid


This cha l’lectric’ll, Band-Aid
image by Irene Koronas


This cha l’lectric’ll, Band-Aid                                          

Sit. Sit. Sit. Stale air. Closed air. Tired in the closed air nothing to say tired in the closed air nothing to do, tap the tabletop tap it tap tap it how long is long short forever or never at all head heavy head neck pain drop droop no—‘od off. Nod off what is done is done and sit tight you will walk free sit tight bad air the doze nod dark down lean into stale air of his—headswarm so tired.

His headswarm, Beige walls, Bad walls. Close over and look inside, the headswarm. Hot. Hot uhhh h ahh hh hhhh 1 2 3 4 5 6 7.5 100; doze full in the headswarm.

Rory.

Rory.

Rory.

Buzzzzzzzzzz this a Washington’s pope. Written in indionians. Sir Boogaloo’s dratrace. This cha l’lectric. Lincoln-logged gunsmiths of Oloe. Give that here. This cha l’lectric. Twill Twon-bee mai end. The how long and what and for how long should I do and. I can walk right round out of here, so let me. There it is let me. So let me see, look down, and around—there it is.

The Band-Aid.

That Band-Aid.

His Band-Aid.

The one didn’t care. Of the both of them didn’t. Or he’d not have ‘n flapping. The Band-Aid. Wry spot, writhe in chair. This cha l’lectric. Why me why me, why me. Blew it big time, I did. Twisted and twisting. Oh why oh why could I have put down the sauce just this here one day. Or the last three. Med-entitate. This cha l’lectric’ll, Band-Aid. Yah, that’s what. What got me off track. I could have and most certainly should have. Where is it? Practiced beforehand. This cha l’lectric’ll, Band-Aid. It’s lying around I know it is. Or even sat down with wrinkcil and papyron quiet, in what stands for my house, eh, and pled for the time to seek ‘roud the floor ‘or it. This cha l’lectric’ll, Band-Aid. Is it still there no more. This cha l’lectric’ll, Band-Aid. It maybe seven times be not there no more and for the good it did do me it may as well have been nevered. This cha l’lectric’ll, Band-Aid. But the—what is this now here is this noise mere’s left just this mercy-seat and not that ‘ve I can see. This cha l’lectric’ll, Band-Aid.

It got to be found and made gone, or I’ll or I’ll not to think, be.

This cha l’lectric’ll, Band-Aid. B-b-b’t listen. Not to think be no tot’l not to think be knowing it could get. On me. Touch me. Gag gaggo yo; Rory.

Rory.

Rory.

Buzzzzzzzzzzzzzz eek zzzzzzzzzzzzzzz, what?

Huh?

This, Max; what the hell was that? No not any nothing for Peter’s. Sake-drunk was I is mine only and one defense a’fore Rory. This cha l’lectric’ll, Band-Aid.

Rory. This cha l’lectric’ll.

Rory. Band-Aid. R’rory.

Buzzzzzzzz I never zzzzzzzz knew ever no, Rory. Did you know a Rory, ever did zzzzzzzzzzzzz you?

This cha l’lectric’ll, Band-Aid. So, now. There ought to be a law, because those with this carry that round with them, quite thee long time, why? To discard a Band-Aid in front of one like me but, wake up out dis hypnohotgocical swoop! Know being alone, with hot rooms all around, brings rise to these but that does not make them any easier. Hic. Hic. This cha l’lectric’ll, Band-Aid. Listenup! B’ no ahhhhhhhhh, Rory.

Rory.

Rory.

Buzz a zz bc zzzz d zzzezzzzz f zzz what the zz hell’s this that zzz I see no speaker playing get up off the chair look around wish we could but this cha l’lectric’ll, Band-Aid we can’t. The slob—oh yes I am very sorry, but I had to say something to the slob. So what he’s the power? Saya more to these this cha l’lectric’ll slobs, and there will be Band-Aid quite a few less slobs in the world. Nobody likes to get confronted this cha no one l’lectric’ll, likes to be confronted Band-Aid called out up off and down down there is the void the void is down there ha ha mister silly made you look made you look band made you aid look mister Band-Aid all presto; all hollow; all preedy-gidgical mister this cha l’lectric’ll, Band-Aid. Yoshi’s lost. Damn right Los we told him didn’t we Los xxxxx oh pppp wait what the hell no no no, wake up. Lost la la hippynoneducal gaindream got to stay thinking that God for thinking how on earth would we fill these empty spaces, if it were not for the gift of thinking?

This cha l’lectric’ll, Band-Aid.

Look at my watch but have not worn one at least fifty. Sixty. 1 2 3 4 4 3 2 1, fifty, maybe sixty. Used to wear one all the time. Nearly everybody did. Even Pat Brucie, jamalot’s creampuffer-twing-twang, did ever wear one. Even while stabbing! This cha l’lectric’ll, what would they Band-Aid have thought of today had they lived until that? One alone did and. Rat. This rat cha rat rat rat l’lectric’ll, rat rat rat rat, Band-Aid. Jesus Christ, where’s my he she and it? And they’re the least hell of it. There’s deeper. Like—laugh. They—laugh. This chair is too hard, I can’t believe been sitting it more than three of those there while spewing hot over there, to them—laugh. Stay here, they say—laugh. Or, we’ll—prison for you. Hop! But that was not my name then, so I walked—laugh. I can take any name I please—laugh. What the Huck—laugh. Laugh. Like you see, you all know, though you’ve no idea you do. Plug them in this way there each called this, and that. The insides are stable and the same, but. Pull them out flip them ‘round plug them that way and they oo la la presto gigo they’re now called that, and this. And, the insides are still stable and the same, but—laugh. This cha l’lectric’ll, Band-Aid. Laugh. Why can this also not apply to people—laugh. Cars, styles of drapery, motorboats, Jaff-Captinery. We are all X. This’ why we laugh. This cha l’lectric’ll, Band-Aid. We are just X. This cha l’lectric’ll, Band-Aid. We can all be this chakala’ll l’lectric’ll, Band-Aid, either senior, or junior. Ella-chakular, ‘oo. Our what we are’s are all empty, just waiting for a plug. This cha l’lectric’ll, Band-Aid. Yah. Just waiting for a plug. This cha l’lectric’ll, Band-Aid. But we can’t even know we have a socket for a plug. This cha l’lectric’ll, Band-Aid. ‘cause the only jack we got’s in our backs and there are some parts of us we can never ever see ‘nless we pass by. An that’s one of them. Holy Moses. This cha l’lectric’ll, Band-Aid. Pass this cha by l’lectric’ll, ‘til we Band-Aid, pass this coil here there under all by? Pass it all by! OOOOOh, the spook of it but; only at night. They only do come out this cha l’lectric’ll, Band-Aid at night so stay in at night, go out in the day, and hope in just hopes you do not get some great big-bad slurp of a prize! Hot this cha l’lectric’ll, Band-Aids, Mama!

So he entered the big craft’s fuselage without protest. He strapped herself down in its seat and before they rode this defiance of nature up to where—swell!—it ought not have ever been able to be—one next says, Hey, man, I got to say. This damned beast of a thing’s like a rocket ship. You been on one these Meester? You hevr-n-heavely been on one like this here, Meester—and I looked on over, and the stewardess said, He is right you know, hot dog and dog damn, by all that’s sweet of nearly all hovercraft, thus damned beast of a thing’s just like a rocketship.

Yah like a rocketship.

This cha l’lectric’ll, Band-Aid.

Oh yes, you’ll see. Yes you’ll see,

Once landing in Paris, we all did dances, as per guidelines, and snazzed out our sillies to make the packie-parade, after all that’s why we’re herefores, after, go go go go!

This cha l’lectric’ll, Band-Aid.

This cha l’lectric’ll, Band-Aid.

This cha l’lectric’ll, Band-Aid.

Yup. That deedy-is that Hoover Dam That Grand Canyon, too. And all the dead round the round life perpetuated by Big Farming. Greed. In the west only you know. Greed. As seen from space too, you know. Only in the west and as seen from space Morgellon’s be ess phone-himaginary as hell, she says, that way’s only in the west, and. Hiccup! And as seen from space.

I think I’ll take that one.

Oh, great choice, sur. Your taste is better than the smoothest rabbit ever. Ess rappy-rat even; rabbitry o’er rabby-rat, eat. Eat. Eat. Rabbitry o’er rabby-rat, eat—but!

So commanded! So eat!

But? What?

Watch for lead pellets. That might ‘splain somebad, Lucy. Mayhepsebah heaten’ by raccident lead pellet. Or one. Or two—mabbe manni—grey dark lead pellets and ah a sizzle big bangers, the hot parts of them might went up top yo’ brains. Uncle said that. And uncle Rory—he do knot-not lie. Bristlehoot straight eights be—dammed up tight-dry, it does sort of feel a bit o’ green ‘ontiac, as told to Bat-Alberteen Von Der Lincoln, as it feels in the dark of the bed too, not, and something says without words to roll over Rory, you bean.

Yah you beans!

Rory.

Rory.

Yes, Rory! I am after all, your therapist. And here is what he says.

Q - At this juncture you seem still alive. Do you feel the last pack of civiliantry you passed through would have viewed you in this same light, Also?

A – I do feel so doctor but never having seen myself live from afar, but only on tape, that way, I am no judge of this. So my answer’s, hey, about just a tight guess may be right may be wrong but—never middled. Hoke?

Q – Sumimoto. Okay—so now a game. What others before you feel’ve occupied this here closed-in space? And in that very chair, perhaps?

A – How can I know, To guess is futility as there are infinite answers, many less of one of  which are quite very certainly wrong.

Q – Okay, This wat then. Do you feel one named Rory was present here one day?

A – Possibly. Why?

Q – Ah cut that. Here. M’suer Frace De La Supporierre. How abou’ Tim?

A – Not fair. Trick question. Referee—flag down your man.

Q – Why?

A – That French guy who the hell, the big name—or little Tim. Can’t answer both, it is beyond our capacity.

Q – No oooooo Rory diss- as you will no doubt contininue on the past to de-concentration, and over all misplaced hilarity ‘bout I no longer exist, in sweet and dire imitation of you. How’s that for a high, Mr. Midaskippy la la la la La-Sling-slang-slungo-uarre?

Slango eh Slango eh Slingingly Slangoed-out n’ in Slango hitchhopper viz. Slangularre—

Enough! Enough, please.

Up!

Huh—oh! Wake! Jesus Christ, look at that.

Eh, lord, wow.

They were right, all along. Its just—Strasser.

Perk. Jump, my, God, my God, Strasser!

How in hell could Kip have forgotten—Strasser—he—jump run to tell someone jump run, no. ‘f they come and Kip’s not here I’m in trouble, but Strasser.

How could I and Kip both froggott to tell U about, Strasser?

Bury head. Bury.

Come for me please come.

Jim Meirose

Jim Meirose, This cha l’lectric’ll, Band-Aid

This cha l’lectric’ll, Band-Aid image by Irene Koronas This cha l’lectric’ll, Band-Aid                                            Sit. Si...