A sweaty pig lizard with silly string hair keeps farting on me. Sweat beads made of ecstasy and slime are breaching his fury top lip and being sprayed in my direction. He’s smudging the air around me. Leave me alone Pig Lizard, I’m trying to listen to God deejay silence. God please make him stop and I’ll get you a flaming Dr. Pepper shot after your set. Hey! Look at my shadow dancing to the beat of Everything — trying to bend beyond the light. It’s being energized by the knowledge of a star being born. Shred lightly silly shadow! I’ll kiss on you later! Can we all be hollow now? Flesh blending and erasing the pretend measurement of time. No more shall we part. I will forever put my light here, as we melt our bodies together. Now touch me silly lady. Rub my carousel of wounds with a snowflakes delight. I’ll take the troubles from your eyes and give you the universe’s regards. Put your hand underneath this faucet of the galaxy. It’s pouring out eternal giggles and singing hymns that can neutralize the hysteria of the darkest void. It’s the music of our blissful understanding. And we always have the music. Now shed the sorrows of your skin and put on this rambunctious rainbow suit. We can expand and bloom in shards of Eternity’s colors not yet realized. I want to taste your outrageous innards. Tear at your skin and open you up. Wait a sec… Is that the Pig Lizard farting on Beetlejuice’s ego?!! I freaking love Beetlejuice!! Hey Beetlejuice, you wanna wear my red beanie? It looks goooooood…
Good thing God is deejaying Dead Air and other great hits of nobility at the Applebee’s in my mind and everyone is invited. I’m going to order him a buttery nipple shot and set him on fire with my light. How old am I? I am a few thoughts older than the eternity of thoughts I had before these thoughts. Eternity plus two thoughts. Now three. This could go bad any second.
I ransacked my ego and threw it in the river. Choking and gurgling for life, drowning in my fungi-enhanced everything. But this time is different. This time I’m balancing on truth’s graces. What is my name? This name that is dressed in cheap driblets of anger, guilt, fear and shame. I am the awareness that knows this name and it’s dribbling, not the name. I feel home. I feel truth. I feel funny. So if this is truth, what is everything else? A misunderstood dress rehearsal? How do I tell everybody about the vibrating vacancy in my brain where my ego once was? The endless space beyond the effort of a thought. Is there a word to describe such bliss? A word that can cure everyone’s celestial slump? I know, I’ll open up my mouth and spit out the space between my thoughts; then everyone can share in my bliss… K did anybody hear me? Anybody? Dang it…I guess silence is kind of hard to hear against the boundless sounds of psychobabble.
Bali Belly magazine from Bali, Indonesia.