TUESDAY, SEPT. 18:
Peacebone. Piece blown. Pea brain. My brains. They’re on the floor somewhere. I know they are, trampled by the blackened soles of poncho enthusiasts and sly girls with ‘heartbreak’ written into their organizer. In pen! We stood together as a giant mash of organs and transaction fees, pressing glistening skin everywhere it felt good. Everywhere. For over an hour we stood. No one leaving. No one pushing. Everyone just grooving on their own chi. ACH! ACH! ACH! How does that guy scream so much? Does he speak in the van? Does he communicate with blinks? Are those deafening, too? Those three little white boys know how to compromise the support beams of a building with bowel-loosening explosions of gurgles and six-hundred-some-odd layers of noise supported by noise and noise and noise. Add some lights splitting my eyeballs, Bunuel-style. Merciless. And that poor staff. Bewildered security guards with no one to stomp. Bathroom attendants unable to sell their colognes to the unwashed masses. Only peaceniks offering free hugs and good vibes. Just leave me. Leave me here. Leave me hear. (SOC)