My second paperback is out! This little guy is stream of thought. If you think of it like a dream, or like episode eight of the new Twin Peaks, you’ll be good. Here are the first five pages from “Four”:
CHAPTER ONE
This may be the (pseudo) introduction to the abduction of your mind. Sitting at the table eating swine and listening to the ranting landscapers outside. The brown dog buries her last violet chunk bite inside the tattered red flip flap blue blanket. Yelling “peace” then asking if he doesn’t know when to quit Mr. Flagstone movers fight. I just finished the Orion waste of time school of flight with a creeping headache in my back and behind my eyes. Welcome to the blathering want to be crusted papyrus scrolls someone calls my life and I ponder the intent to call art. BUT! I’m home to no Muse, honestly, I’m looking.
Something tells me page one should be child horrifying gray THUNDER my eternal missing muse feeling sounds around his/her being pleasured by the quirky word play and special characters while lips drip pomegranate and guava over the sticky traces of star fruit. A trump card’s new winning pattern design the plan behind stopping time. Lying on my stomach wanting a helmet so I can ride. Welcome to the weak ass gray Thunder you call shit and some poor sucker somewhere calls a work of near art. There is no use, but apathetically I’m combing the desert in search. Tired of hearing the vowel sound “I”. What could we say to change the overall conscience and consciousness of spelling? Question One is never deep but as we go perhaps it will seem a little bit thicker than a year old milk shake. So far I can’t avoid “I” and it floods frustration. Where are we and why? Not my question my question my question is where? Where is my muse?
No problem, friend, go ahead and join in I’m here for you of course you know I am a cook who used to have a little nook and now I have a bustling line and barely any responsibility or rule over time. Placement. They move me where I need to be and don’t care about my future because I’m leaving on a spiritual journey to South Carolina to find fame and a personal guru.
Mr. Harris if that was your name blame is sometimes positive and you my vice president are to blame don’t be afraid I heard you were like me. Gallup along but really Gallup isn’t going anywhere and just the mere mention of the name sets a purple fire in their hearts (purple being a nonviolent evil). Drink and pass out in parking lots so your children will as well take your free money and buy crap. If I had free money I would buy a plane or more pencils I have to steal them right now. I can’t draw or anything but I do, do you Gallup? Sometimes but mostly those who aren’t given free money. I’ve never been hated so much except for my first couple years in baseball in Hawaii but here is nowhere near as rippled in the water. No water is that why you fight and try to die have you not begun to believe that it is smart and creative to live? AND on that thought snot dives out as I slide out to find paper to hold it in till we both dissolve. Every morning my nose is dried and grows a skin of green filtered blood. If I scratch my nose it sets it free and once I found debris inside I dubbed as the best art I’ve ever made.
My woman. My beautiful other than man human creature. She sings just to sing and her throat could make clouds whiter and purer than a pillow brand new. The clouds will sit in the sky and read books about assholes that eat lunch naked. I wrote a poem about an asshole a couple days ago and it was not directly inspired by that. BUT! In between notes and words comes requesting voices of cartoon raccoons from her soul spelling words out to write stories of fantasies. Dust pours from her mouth creating mountains more beautiful than anything Gods have done. I wish everyone were from Ohio Miss Kt. It makes me want to go there… not enough to actually go though. Well, maybe. Schools teach fools but A’s are rewarded I’m proud to say you got a good grade because I’d give you one as well. With those gem like eyes and giant hearty breasts, plentiful perky lips and child bearing hips I’d give you whatever you wanted if I didn’t know your soul but I do so I’ll give you even more and as of now this page of my life is given to you. I’ve done my best and tested my wits but I’ve done you wrong thinking about the future. I should be lying on my bed as I am now, but trying to cry because it’s been days since I’ve seen you. Felt you. Write me a history worth a king maybe even Henry baby. Tell them all you were my only because you are the gold of my crown and all the rubies. Ann is your future her heart and her laugh. But when you look back at life please don’t see me.
Standing naked in front of the window, shades down but I feel shame even though I know the stupid orange cones are on the road and it’s almost time to crash. I said my question is not why I write but where did I pick up this muse? Was I passing by someone on the street when my soul reached out with a mask and kidnapped him? Spare me questions write me a real big answer please. Send it to my forwarding address when I leave. Siddhartha follow me. The grandmother next door is stopping her two curious crying grandchildren from outright displaying emotion by making sounds of her youth. Moaning as though the children were two large men dressed as firefighters, she screams I am too hot to handle! The kids stare in awe or something. My phone floats down to the flagstone in slow motion and collides with the ground like wall going light years fast. Grandma wakens from her daily afternoon hallucination and looks out the window. Her eyes catch me walking inside to go recover my plane wreck. And Old sex is silenced. It, silence, makes me wonder about riots and clowns on stilts throwing rocks at the police trying to ruin their fun. I bite my moldy burger in delightful oblivion as my head floats far from my stomach. I paint shades on the window with Raphael’s skill to try to trick you all to thinking I haven’t made a trip to the store today.
A. M. Langston 
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