Zen of the Moonshine Buffoon

Welcome to the Telecommunion Mk IV, where leapfrogs kneel and pray to a subliminal majesty of orchestrated confusion. There’s noone immune to photon manipulators. Today the bandwidth transmission maidens are liquidating multi-way mirrors to re-enchant your hallways. Low voltages on the hard lines of your body. They’re keen to interlace with fate, a sheer electro-woven light-emitting subcutaneous screen, that’s hyper-connected to the latest beta-test quasi-monolithic supreme agendas, tuning your identity to the latest cookie cut culture flavor. 

Jeanie dreams of the I Ching. Book of Five Rings. Monitors cast quarrel of capitalist queens, as they hog spotlights of the precious hour. Scandals play out like performance art. Crass bogus hash propaganda schemes are slashed to smithereens by the involuntary wrath of the dopey pixie. Pay close attention betwixt the resonance of the klutzy crusader and a latticework of dapper gents as she extracts the shellac of a sunshine raider. Away with the henchman who slyly trespass the realm of my whirlwind kitchen, barking at the blowhards again because somebody  let ’em in. Send in the Tonka squadron. Ain’t nobody gettin’ bullied by the dough boy no ‘mo.

‘Ol Willy Blank Face, freckled to the teeth, covered in polo tees. Denim strings hanging from his pant legs and signing his name with serpent tracers in the sands. Another dream drifts away like a chance to see a comet we kept in locked closets.

I’m stranded on teardrop island, skipping rocks and dancing through the fog chains. There’s a holographic weave of ripple effect that’s caught my subconscious. Hear the crickety-crick of the lonely pier play maestro in the mist, fit of the sea spritz. we’ll meet there.

we’re all pirates. You’re the brainiac love child of a harlot and a shaman dressed in moonlight clues. If I didn’t know any better I would’ve taken you as a Buffoon. Again, we catch trends, and there’s no telling who’s story your in. Conjure the breath of the Dragon and you will find that it has eyes. I’d follow the Zen of my own kidnapper if I had fallen in love with him. We could live in disguise. I’d trust the Zen of the midnight fisherman if he could catch enough shad for his family to eat. It’s up to you to choose whose pages to read and which ones to burn for heat.

Your smile and complexion seem to ring my recollection. Now tell me who you are one more time and refresh my ocean cloud. We’ve met before. I remember now.  It was you who rescued me from the gauntlet of Thor’s protocol. We wrestled in the tule banks among echoes of laughter, and got tangled in a patchwork security blanket. No one could find us when we hid in a pincushion pie. I sang your name as we slalomed the pillars of the dock, forever daring the incoming tide.


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