Mescalito (Augustus Owsley Stanley Edit)

A thousand Kafkas, arithmetically sound, file the dreams scouted awkwardly in my sleep. It’s the low sleep; the sleep of dogs left dying. None shall trespass here in hollow space – none will hear my cries, or read my laughter. It is a wretched thing - scrutinized by panels and commentators in the prime time of my imagination – it is a wretched thing. 

I am a pile of limp bedclothes in an empty room. I am the blossoming of dead flowers in the dark. I am the silent echo of screaming corruption; poured out as congealed blood into the night. No-one can reach me now; I’m out of kilter. This place is the last elaborate station before damnation – there are no roads out of here, just a gradual sinking into nothing. 

This journey was in my stars; this place was always primed for my acceptance – I want to go home, but I am home. I was incarcerated for possessing a criminal mind. I saw crime in everything. I saw injustice everywhere. But I lacked the imagination to act like a criminal – I had to play the martyr. So take this crown of thorns and sow my dirty sheets. There are betrayals and crucifixions to re-enact before I ever see another dawn.

The first hit of the day gives me that edge – a soft fuzzy boundary that cushions me from the agents of chaos. I’m surrounded by idiocy and brute ignorance. I have my blues for breakfast and wonder who they will kill today. They are rounding up all the queers and taking them to the bus depot. They are rolling bums in the alleyways and sacrificing school kids in the classrooms. We are all marked out for adjustment – it’s your innocence that condemns you, not your guilt. After all, everyone shares in the guilt.

I don’t belong here – I never belonged anywhere, but this town ain’t big enough to deviate in – I can barely turn a phrase that isn’t weighed and rejected as madness or vanity. While wounded congregations pray for consolation I watch the cactus god tear open the sky and angels come pouring out as snowflake confetti to melt like whispers on the ground. Heaven is empty; there will be no resurrection, no day of judgement. There is no final authority – just unending stupidity.

 

I have my blues for breakfast and cacti for my supper. I walk with Mescalito who tells me that the actions which define us are often difficult to understand, but there is nothing unnatural in this or any other world.

I swapped the charismatic for the lead-lined Kafkaesque. If I’m turning over a new leaf I want my papers in order before heading south. The latest developments suggest there may be trouble at the border, but my disguise is perfect. I wear reason like a crown and I’m so very high I may never lay it down.