Mid-West Mythos

Tomato God

Deep underground, pulses hundreds of pounds of red ripe larval substance. The Tomato God is fond of sacrifices and masked dancing in all night bonfire rituals. Red blood, red tomatoes. When the patch is ripe, take a life, blood sprays on the hungry plants. The higher quality of life fed to the Tomato God the finer the product. That's why football players from nearby towns are a prime target. A good healthy strong jock can feed the crops for three years and produce the finest yields. Red robes hang in parents closets till the nice sacrifice dance. A contest of local lady cooks, and their tomato dishes.

With these new seasons come new holidays

Those who are gifted among fields wearing strapped on wooden beaks. The others nodded. A new holiday for the fifth season. He that hath made spring and summer, in Suspension cities. "I heard the voice book, The Lion from the book talks like a man". And I remember seven mountains. Watching them from the round window of my room in the suspension city. Tall jagged mountains said to be the thrones of long-dead gods. And I beheld delicate and sensitive merchandise. Fine things crafted by Elvin hands on the dark side of the moon. Biscuits baked with the nectar of the eon flower.

The gushing of abominations worships him that, Primal Analog Forbidden beast voice. Fucking in a dark of God sent blasphemy, walk in it. Blind sex with rubber gelatinous beings. Gouts of foul-smelling cum drags the breeze. Dead bodies of Men who did not survive the ritual squelch under walking feet. These four-decades-long weednaps. Twenty-thirty years in a stoned sleep. Awake one midnight alone in the field, miles from the nearest small town. Get up and walk, there's nothing else to be done now. Holy, holy, LORD trumpet. A fanfare that shreds the hills. The villagers cower under a rain of frogs. Workers go hungry, replaced by cogs. Townsfolk marched away at gunpoint, the city devours another town. Forced to relocate to a dirty unfertile land.

Strange variations of religions go on crusades to smite the sinners in other towns. the differences between themes get more extreme over time. The kids chalk the sidewalks with strange new sigals, the images of new gods not yet known to the adults. But soon, Grannie, and auntie Beth will feel these new god's wrath.

We can't stop sleeping

Special herbal mixes at the great ziggurat. The empty tomorrow train. Packing smoke in the back brain. A sea of constant milking. That's where late winter crabs scuttle. They are responsible. The moon Coffee maidens on a full throne, which is with the Trance maker. The Crossroads have been brought along from sleep in a drunken Dream. Airtribe Meets the seal, and, lo, by their Nightshade an Omnipresent eclipse bird comes out of the river. but I drunkenly follow. I see now A plague of frogs. Brutal kick of the nausea throne.

I've been striding, calling colliding colors. The pipes produce porn to the varnished remix of unscored thoughts. Some four that sat on blood from the big wildlands farm/ranch. and with death, the red square. The book is written within the Eclipse. you might be selected to kill the bright sunlight. The same new songs under construction going drawn from a box. The trees were sprinkled with still wet roadkill. Be unto him that signs of human activity world society and technology a feedback pain signal gristle speck and tinsel breeze. Ancestors Temple of Dust that you drink. Islands of green salt. Light The Leaving Time of pleasure. A feverish day the name is beast they say, Come and cry into tear-milking machines. A long night voice. Dressed in black those here fall down before him in this complex of outbuildings. They dug it in windchime calm. They have mummies of they're moms.

The leeches churn in their caskets, from behind a veil other than your own. The next stranger's yard free now, reign people's sheeples. The steeple town. A boat ride to twenty elders of the flowers. Leave the house. A spotlight on the highest income earner's dicks out. stumbled over the blankets other sticky Cold gropes Pull them apart, put Night Jasmine in the hole that once housed their heart.

Sweet silent snow dive bombs and curls in the hot July wind. Another zen pin taken down buried underwear, it's a turf war, its another chore. We are lost now, someone ate the candy map. We followed holy butterflies and we've done lost track. Crossed sweet fields of crunchy snacks. Endless gardens, but we never glimpse who attends them.

Combat Combines

Around here combines have two functions. To help us with our farming, and to use like tanks in battles that erupt between rural towns. Painted black before battle, if there's time. Decked out with slits to fire guns threw while surrounded by a bullet-deflecting steel plate. Whirling blades, and Long lances to impale runners. Massive metal attachments and add-ons that make the combines into house destroying ramming machines. The most common attempted defenses against these farm service weapons are burying remote detonation explosives in yards, casting flammables all over the combine from a rooftop and then setting it on fire.

Rituals of the new rain

Long dawn when the dew cures the leaves, mellow breeze drys them hanging on the clothesline. A flapping fanning of leaves like autumn hands. Now we spread a light layer of flower resins. Little hard clusters of sugar that raise bumps on the mushrooms that grow in the shelter belt after rain. The long dawn when we bake masks of bread in a red brick oven. The symphony of birds surrounds us.

Slow splendorous dreams in the hammock breeze. A kingdom made of thought. A light mist of nutrient rain. The smoke of savory herbs in the silent wind. When the crows die we remove the beaks and paint them with bright glitters. They hang in clacking mobiles and in clicking windchimes.

Yellow grains that bend and flex in the wind like the water of an inland lake.

Morning lolls in with curls of floating mystic fog. Birds rattle and chirp, strange ever-changing feathered folk songs. Soap made of grub worms. Shampoo created from frogs legs. The long dawn may never end.

The shelter belt express

The shelter belt express

A Lion in a well and it's roarings are thundering. Savage and spitting in the pit of entrapment. People throw down bits of fat carved from dinner. He must enjoy the president's corpse sex with rubbery wisdom. Tormented by heaven, the first beast, far he five and a half feet. Therein shall they tread on the earth highway Into the path of humidity? The beast dressed in red ribbons whirling as quietly as despair.

Get aboard the shelter belt express. A wooden train that runs on incense.

The beast saints, achieved failure as prophesied by the plugin colorful shroud. Frisk the rivers that cross October farm. Sometimes still airtight baggies of onion and ranch potato chips drift by on flood channels dug in the fields by natures plow. Beast saints roar prayers at midnight. It plugs back into discarded dreams. Barons with Bibles for a time, town. Another beast coming in the midst of love and song parades. A foreboding omen shrouds the town sky blackened by millions of passing crows.

Get aboard the shelter belt express. A wooden train it runs on incense. A big long wooden beak in front cuts the air with a note shifting whistle.

Signal gristle speck painted in the grove! A wooden train goes down tracks of bones. And strung out on the nectar of the earth suntan that pours dark red. Hold onto the hanging ropes over sand hills we go. I mask the prophets, I turn the stones. Baking muffins on a great red dragon. Reign patience on the sweet fields. Bugs make buds drip with honey. To get on this train you don't wave a ticket, you give up one finger bone. A spotlight on a puppet made of roadkill. It is entertaining passengers with a shuffling dance.

Get aboard the shelter belt express. A wooden train it runs on incense. A big long wooden beak in front cuts the air with a note shifting whistle. You can lean out the window and pluck a mask right off the passing branches. The tracks that this train puffs down appear before the train as it goes, and they are made out of bones. This express can turn on a dime. It puffs past unmapped shacks where witches stay up late cooking biscuits that add to the freight.

Digital grin makes the windchime calm. Dancing Puppet makes the rain stop. To remain anonymous, as we chug through bleak small towns we hide behind strap on wooden beaks. We drink and laugh long enough to outlast the rain outside. Hundreds of wet tapping fingers. Falling towers of crisp light. Roll down the window catch some pungent ozone. Green mossed fences, the barbed wire turning into red dust. Oxidized windmills standing at drunken angles. A long track through many seasons, including extra seasons of some different distant dimension. Tree frogs cling to the wood-paneled sides of the train. Crows and wild turkeys roost on the roof traveling miles while sleeping.

Get aboard the shelter belt express. A wooden train that chugs on incense. A big long carved wooden beak in front slices the air with a low whistle sound. It goes right through meadows, You can reach out the window and pull an apple from the tree. A good thing to do, because sometimes its weeks before they serve food.

The odds of you ever seeing home again is low. This wooden creaking train runs a route through alternative worlds you know. The places get stranger until the oddness pulls back, new incense scents from the smokestacks. At least you are nearer to your home. But the shades and layers between alternative worlds are thin, are you sure this is where you have been? Step off the train and you might not ever ride it again. Get stuck in some different here. Perhaps waiting at the depot forever more.

This ghost train makes many stops along the way. And for random amounts of time, it stays. You might have to scramble to get back on before it chugs away. It bumps along to depots that are mostly abandoned. Some of them burned out husks. others with an ancient slow couple who make they're dying from selling food and iced lemonade to passers-by. Usually, you ride this train alone. Sometimes it is so packed full of folks. Sometimes you awake to an empty train, cold wind blows through a series of open windows, and tumbleweeds prowl the halls with dusty scratchy sounds. One by one, pull those windows down. This train was made before insulation was a common thing. So hot in the summer so cold in the winter, got to huddle by the steam engines, choking on the strong incense that fuels the train.

Walk inside the creaky wooden floors of the shelter belt express. A wooden train that runs on puffs of local dreams. It's fronted by a big long wooden beak The train may sprout fireworks at some random unknown holiday. You can lean out the window and upwards curve your face to catch cold soda in your mouth, a cola rain. This express can turn on a dime. It puffs past unmapped shacks where witches stay up late cooking biscuits that add to the freight. Get on this train without a name, expire your number and they will forget your name. All sorts of animals outside spinning in a circle, making attempted human sounds. All sorts of ancient things now sticking out above the ground.

This train chugs past scenes you remember from dreams, but you otherwise have never seen before. Past card houses as big as a barn, past scarecrows nailed to every now useless telephone pole. One car has these rusted out and faded crank powered games that cost a coin no longer in use to play. Another room has pictures ranging from the late 1800's to a few decades in the future. You can find new things in empty rooms you searched just yesterday, nothing is stable on this train.

Oh, the train goes and goes. For over a hundred years it has roamed. And now ahead the tracks are blocked by angry protestors in the path, waving fists and full of wrath. The train doesn't even slow down, through the crowd it generates a bloodbath. A newspaper article all faded in the ages.

Coin operated gun booths. You can be ruthless and shoot through the open window. Bringing down endless buffalo as you go. Just another pleasure you know, along the ghost train ride.

The train picks up speed on a gradual downward slope to a canyon in the high hill country. The wooden construction creaking and fit to rip apart. A nightmare descent into a hole and threw a long, pitch black, and often flooded fifteen minutes. Water up to my ankles as I hang onto the coat hook, wondering how soon till this train breaks apart and I am left cold and wet lost in a pitch black labyrinth. But the train chugs up a slope and soon there is hope, and after that, there is open ground. All that water fell out when the train went up the steep angle.

Get aboard the shelter belt express. A wooden train that only goes by night or fog light. A haunted train, it's likely you are already dead. It goes right through corn fields, You can reach out the window and pull an ear from the stalk. You find strange relics like Madonna cassettes, but you have no walkman to play them on. 101 days I ride this train, through baked deserts and rain-soaked grassland plains. Through sagging ghost towns, past burial mounds. And the beast saints are waiting out a tornado by playing cards in a storm shelter by kerosene lamp. Bringing African grasslands meat to the trapped lion, special delivery. Above wafts of ozone purity we proclaim that rain soon shall soak the land.

Open up the doors of the trains cars and grotesque horrors and awes are that close. Opened a door, saw a room full of cats, a few of them were dead. The starving cats eating the dead ones and clawing other cats away with primal growls.

I am so sexually hot on the shelter belt express. But only abuse and or money gets sex so I can only rub my own. But every time I try the empty train suddenly has passengers who ruin this moment. No privacy in the afterlife unless you died with money to fund it. Around here I fear, money is not abundant.

Once I found a banjo in an empty couch room. I spent the next few weeks learning how to play it by ear. I was getting pretty good but when I woke up one morning the banjo was gone. A note of yellowed paper took its place. The writing on it so faded I could not make it out.

Festival on the Mounds

Dark Leering most pervasive customs of the Spider God festival just down In Nighttime at the fence post. Family retires to Field.

All around the deep country. Children of the tight angry Christian farmers have their ritual festival to the Spider God. Dark leering ancient festivals, Pre-Human. The festival of the CroMags and later the Neanderthals carried over into modern times. Certain traditions are embedded in our very DNA and cannot be done away with by means of inquisition and book burning.

Leering and dark chanting around a captured family. They are stripped naked paraded for the revelers to stare at, fondle, pelted with roasted chestnuts that leave a smoke trail behind their flight. This is a Christian family, who held sway of the land of day. Who ground the different under their profit machine. The ones who burned the Pagans dressed as Scarecrows to coincide with the sunrise. Forced to eat a full and sumptuous feast. Made to drink lots of liquor and smoke marijuana from pipes of carved pipe-stone. Stripped and paraded around the field. Genitals rubbed with ointments to invigorate the sex organs. The Feasters all high on many drugs and there is sex, willing or not with the family before binding and burning them to death while an orgy writhes around the sacrifice. This festival shall continue for eons until all the bad families are burned and good rules the day for the first and only time.

Dionysius, riding through the author Hacking the Great end

Everything is geared towards some brutal end of the world that the Christians demand of the timeline. But The Author is a meat suit for Dionysius to imbibe even wine to hack that timeline. No great bloody end, just feverish cycle of seasons and sweet sweet wine. A season of madness, of drunken mayhem, leaves a toll on that fertile summer.

Fruited after midnight. Dreamcheese of fields

After the Spider God festival, the bodies of the sacrificed enemy family are dragged to isolated fields. The remaining blood is drawn out to feed the fields. A sweet syrupy herbal substance replaces the blood, Dry potent herbs and powders applied to the naked skin and orifices of the body. Then wrapped in airtight plastic sheeting and buried deeper than the combines blades bite. Over the course of the next three years, the bodies dissolve into a black-black gooey cheese like substance that tastes so sweet one cannot help but gorge on it. But so disgusting that its a chore to hold it down. The longer the substance is held in the belly the harder the longer the dream trip lasts. Great shamans lay concealed by leaves in shelterbelts for days after a dream cheese binge.

Well, these Darker Sun holidays are here

The darkest days of the year. Filled with chilled winds and snow layering everything away. Turn off the day and seep into alone remembering the days when Mimes told us what to say. Three idle days to drift in bed and seldom rise. When these potent days foretell the coming year. The wreaths all hung on the inside of the doors.

Angry The Inner Hate move to save the god

The one and only God is the Three. Three says one must believe to be free. They move to patrol the fields. To burn down the cell phone towers that broadcast lies into the ear of the prairie. They burn homosexual witches screaming and lisping at the stake. Move to save their God. Churches become castles. Full of guns. Set ups for snipers on the highest stories.

Just fellow who gladly have eye stalks FEASTS AND TRADITIONS, He leads the Heat Breaks

Go there. Have a coffee with him. He has eye stalks that rise above his head. He is like a Demi-god with a different kind of horns. He lives alone in a trailer with no electricity. He lives on and is fueled by coffee. He has a collection jar. If enough folks fill it he will make the heat break on the hottest days of August. A sudden cool wind and rain will anoint a cool lovely day. His jar is now empty and a glaring relentless sun is again the reality that greats the next day. But a really good breaking can hold back the heat wave for up to three days. Then the heat chokes the crops and won't stop. And the family is going to be in need without a good harvest to feed them then even the Christians come to the door of the Pagan semi-divinity. Coffee and some donation to bring relief under the mean glaring suns devastation.

Christian saints to Creepytown Strange Nativity Field pack made from Hornaments

These new Gods and new Holidays had to be put down. So seven Christian Saints came to Creepytown. A wonder-filled town when the sun goes down. For they have the most and prettiest lights a flickering shrine to the Great Santa time. But no mention of Christ just "Happy Holydays". For such sin, they must pay. So the Seven Saints deface the place with spray paint they dynamite the power substation that fed the lights of this abomination. After many weeks of poisoned pets, slashed tires, greased windshield wipers this was the last straw. All the folks there took off. Left it a ghost town, nice tall houses in a circle round. To the spring this ghost town must yield. Plowed down, bowed down, then ground under the fields. The new crops push up Hornaments. Strange Pagan bobbles that once lit all pretty now broken and dirty. Shiny LEDs and plastic in forbidden shapes. Kids gather them and the wheel it turns. Hornaments are holy relics on display in underground storm shelter temples far away.

Worked to her arms. At the fruitless plain Witchhouse, all the children The Pneumatic antlers of Malice

Beyond the plan no crops will grow in the withered land. A shroud of thorns and tumbleweeds. A fruitless plain full of snakes and noxious leaves. But in this desolation a house in an abandoned field and hidden but for the roof by high tangled weeds ripe with the fruit of poison spiders. Even here Men came for her. Work for her arms. Struggle and toil for credits of love. Some never get far, three days work for a full brief kiss. Others save for long hugs and endure the pain of separation as they struggle to harvest the spiders for the vile toxin that makes chemtrail spray. They work so hard and many fall to spider's bites. Some toil for six months to have sex with her full on all night of paradise. And each time this happens she is pregnant. Each child born with a heart full of scorn and pneumatic antlers of malice. they emit a shrill tone too high to hear but threw the ears it makes tiny holes in your bones.

Cornland

Young Tippy Glurn

1

Tippy and his usual band of more or less "Friends", are taking a shortcut home from school across the fields. The main field between these kids and their homes was a huge communal cornfield. Everyone in the town who wanted a share of the harvest had to spend some time working it. Tippy's little brother Bill was with them. Two years younger, a tag on burden, that was Bill. Tag-along Bill was skinny, short for his age, yet fast and he almost always kept up with the big boys. He always had a traumatized look on his pasty sickly face. The great, circular cornfield. Much more than enough corn for the village, mounds of it shipped out for sale in the elsewhere. And this corn was really savory! Human sacrifice makes it strong and its freshness lasts long. So succulent, its own juices make a sorta butter that is so good that some buy corn in bulk to extract. The God of the cornfield. He who walks behind the rows is said to live in the center of the field. the corn grows seven foot high here. Like trees to the kids. Everyone worked the fields, all can take what they need from it. Many have family members who have died for it. This was near the end of flood season. Mud puddles dotted the field and they have to step around the low areas, or risk sinking in ankle deep. In the center of the field was last years "Scarecrow". It was Tim Benson that year. A drunken hell raiser who won the honor of being ritually killed to assist the fertility of the corn. It is odd that almost every "randomly selected" sacrifice turned out to be someone of bad reputation or a financial competitor of the wise and rich town elders. Tippy still remembered the shock and scandal three years earlier when someone stole the skull off a sacrifice victim whose body had hung for ten months. The festival was in shambles that year. Tippy turned ten last year, so he was made to watch Benson die. A horrible experience that still haunts his nightmares. In Tippy's nightmares, it's him being selected to die all screaming and bloody like that. The green heart field the townsfolk call it. But, for something so sacred, it gave Tippy the creeps. Kids were not allowed to play in or cross these fields, this is the town's corn, not a stalk should be damaged. But, of course, the kids took shortcuts through it. Tippy and the kids his age group trying to stay ahead of that annoying little Billy, Tippy's brat-faced little brother who always wants to tag along. The older boys cut through the center of the cornfield because that is where last year's sacrifice is now a scarecrow. They know his little brother is frightened of that corpse, chest open, heart ripped out. Death shriek still splitting the jaw on the skull wide.

2

The old abandoned two-story house a short walk from here. The local kids used to walk by it. Tippy even went inside with party aged relatives. A no running water no electricity party house. Beer and dart damaged rock and roll posters with down folding corners nailed to the walls. A place for locals to go and drink. Intoxicating plants growing in the windows. Tippy's cousin Teldo once went in the house by himself on a Sunday afternoon. He snuck through the shelter belt to help hide from passing cars. He found a couple unopened bottles of beer that he took and hid in the shelter belt. He was only nine at the time, a year older then Tippy was and he drank the beers that next evening and he got drunk for the eighth time of his life. A few months later bulldozes raised the old house down and many truckloads later the bulk was hauled away. Tippy walked to the site one-time shortly after this. Amongst the debris Tippy found a bent up tarot card and a scented candle. He took these treasures home but his brother on one of his "contraband raids", found these items while Tippy was riding the school bus home. The objects joined a gallery of items that vanished when he was away. Between his mother and siblings, nothing seemed to survive long in any place of hiding. Tippy would hide random things just to mess with them. Things like a box of clipped out hamburger pics from the newspaper.

3

Tippy ran behind his two older cousins. Hair like corn silk, jeans are worn down to a sad state, shoes clotted with mud. His cousins are six years older and they don't dig the likes of some little kid hanging with them. They soon outrun him and are gone from sight. Tippy walks along the dirt road looking down for arrowheads or dollar bills. He finds a dollar and a while later, he finds a little clay ankh that must have come off someone's necklace. He was excited! Anything in the style of the ancient world was exciting to him, he had seen history shows about Egypt. He showed it to all his older cousins. They found it mildly interesting but not super cool by any means. Then his older brother Bible Glurn showed up and asked to see it. Tippy suspected his uber-Christian brother would break it on purpose and claim it was an accident. So he just held it up pitched between fingers. A thin gray clay ankh, with crude lines crossing the bottom shaft of it and some other tribal looking squiggles that meant who knows what. "No, let me hold it, so I can get a good look at it". "You plan to break it I'm not handing it over", Tippy said. His older brother, already good at psychological warfare and manipulation then proceeded to lay on buckets of shame to weigh Tippy's resolve down. So, with a bad feeling Tippy hands the ankh to his brother, who instantly closes his palm over it, snapping it in half. Of course, he broke it. Turns out it's Tippy who is morally wrong for being a sucker and trusting him. Shame on Tippy. According to his right with the Lord brother. Tippy learned to feel that shaming is a tool for sociopaths to control others and he had a big chip on his narrow shoulders about it.

Tippy chases his older cousins and they get away in the cornfield. But instead of continuing to run they hide among the rows to play an ancient game. Tippy sprints through, a last desperate attempt to catch up with them and not be bored for awhile. But now strange animal calls sound. Calls that seem to answer each other from some unseen location either side of the field. Thick tall stalks of corn hide whatever is making the sound. Tippy retreats out of the field and the calls seem to be closer. An unseen cousin's chilling roar sounds from not too far away and a dead rabbit he had found is flung. It lands ten feet ahead of Tippy in a dead flop. Tippy is running now. Not long after that, the cousins get cars, and they begin underage driving on country roads. Tippy is not around them long enough to chase them anymore. In time, Tippy learns to keep his arrowheads and other finds a secret. The older cousins had by now stolen his better finds. What good is it that such a little kid has a cool arrowhead? It doesn't matter that he spends hours searching for these artifacts. He is a kid, he doesn't deserve such treasures. And he only finds them, because he has nothing to do and he walks about fifteen hours a week. If his cousins bothered to look for as many hours a week as he, they would find the stuff too. But fuck that, they have lives.

4

Tippy's family celebrated an odd amount of Holidays. They went to the "Other church". An upstart church that had only been in the town for 27 years! He celebrated a lot of "Transition holidays that are no longer on the map. Memories of green and blue tinsel waving over a chocolate cake iced with strange symbols. Memories of the kids hiding painted eggs for the parents to find and shoot with handguns. Mornings of naked family gatherings. Of eating moon and star shaped sugar cookies caked with yellow icing and glittering sprinkles of bright candies curled in thin, fragile mysterious glyphs. Memories of staying in bed all day staring at a single sickly green candle. That church is not there anymore city town rules had it torn down. Tippy stole a few shattered pieces of brick and wood from the ruins. He hid the bits under the bridge in front of his house. He had the bits stacked like a tiny mock church. He made paper dolls that worshipped there. A library stood for 17 years but its a used brick brack store now. The kind of place run by gossip heavy lonely old Women trying to find a way to connect with the town they grew up in. A town now cold to them. There is no sign today of the strange holidays. They have gone away, and we speak of them not. Just like there is no sign of the beautiful Elvin village that once stood here. A village of open-air tents without walls. Of stone mounds and irrigation systems. Not even a stone remains. Just like the Elves left nothing of the frog-people's temples when they took these lands by force some thirty-thousand years ago. But these holidays are not gone in the dim memories of Tippy, even into his adult years. And the strange holidays burn brightly in his dreams. Surprising details come back and he writes these details down in his journal. It's still illegal to do this, but transgressions are rarely punished being few take it seriously anymore. In his youth, it was considered a very real threat to the local people's ill-conceived lifestyles. Hell, Tippy has gotten a little information about it from websites that post urban legends from across the country. His plan is to celebrate the old lost holidays. It's not an impossible code to unlock, for Mankind had celebrated them for so long that it's in the DNA. In the future, Tippy's blog on the banned holidays will help get him selected for this year's corn sacrifice. That's what happens when you step out of line. The natural order of things.

5

Things were not going well in town. Tippy got arrested for speeding and drunk driving and they found a mostly empty bag of weed on him. His reputation, low to start with hit bottom. He was now the kind of "Random person", chosen to be the town's yearly human sacrifice. Tippy had nightmares about it. Then things took a much worse turn when the granddaughter of a town elder falsely accused Tippy of touching her butt at the town fair. It doesn't matter that he didn't he was beaten down and he lost a couple teeth that night. And she got to bask in all the attention and sympathy. Tippy was sure he would be chosen now, and he began planning his escape. While the granddaughter basked in sympathy gifts, had some victory sex with her boyfriend, the son of another of the town elders. Yes deep in their insides townsfolk knew the sacrifices are not really random. But that's part of the secret doctrine. If you know you pretend not to know, that's the safe way to go.

6

Remembering Tippy. Most people never knew he died, he was already out of heart and mind. A few family members, cousins and nieces and such had an average of four minutes of thinking about Tippy after he was gone. That pretty much sums it up. No remaining relatives would pony up on funeral/burial money. So his body was cremated and buried in a tiny box among a few thousand other unloved dead. All this at the expense of the state.

And they all lived happily ever after...The End

The ritual night of the Dream-Cheese

The isolated small towns have been building up to this for a festive week. A slow-building excitement. A celebration brought over from the old country. A holiday so old its origins are lost in history. People dance to deerskin drums wearing brightly color beaks. The kids get to drink candied liquors till they pass out in a dream filled sleep. The adults drink hard liquors fermented in meat.

The slow sipping of the seasonal spirits escalates as the climax of the week-long event gets closer to the sacrifice of the cheese vessel. The evening begins with the loud clang of the gigantic bells in the town central area. The burning of Man shaped bundles of vegetation in fields. The endless layers of percussion. Bells big and small, all sorts of drums. For those who have no instruments the clapping of hands, the beats of whatever found percussion is available. Plastic and metal buckets. Metal tools clanging together. Kids striking tin sheds with branches broken off of trees.

No one works that day. Excepting the noble souls who prepare the festivities. They are rewarded for this time with a year of no taxes. But it's a town elder selected group not just anyone even gets a chance to join. Everyone puts a blue mint cookie on the night side table to eat when they wake up. Special blends of herbs generate pleasant closed eye visuals as they drift back to sleep for an hour or two. Strange dreams.

The tea parade starts early. Many sleep past it. All kinds of teas on trays pushed by the prettiest young girls in town. Five bucks for a cup and a kiss. As many refills as you want as the parade goes by. Extra kisses five bucks. Plenty of competitive children's games. Boys boxing each other. The loser bloody-nosed and sobbing. Heckled by the crowd. Many boys pass the 2nd of The Five Trials of Manhood on this day. Snack tables replace the Children's sports set-ups. Buttered cheese and roasted grapes are favorites this time of year. Cotton candy laced with Pumpkin dust.

All the year's scarecrows have been gathered up and nailed to telephone poles. Later tonight the people will burn them up. A burnt human skeleton or two are always found somewhere in the county afterwards.

Desolate hour

On the First day of the purple fog---Gods of the blind, voiceless, dream-sages who dwelt in the secret hours. Sixty daily lost minutes when the furniture shakes out of its static shapes. Headless monks with Meat-hooks glide through your place. Could not find the mixed drinks during the dark Times Holiday. The sequence of Fascists took over the desert. Only one road leading into town, and it's patrolled.

On the Second day of the purple fog---The younger squeezed into new narrow columns. Sliding ramp for tin barge, The mainstream eyes on your breasts. Thick drippy steaks, prophesied things. I glided in warm peace evades mighty wall green Snow wooden break. and he complains.

On the Third day of the purple fog---Shiver in the dark in some lean way to lick your Abandoned males. The sound of gunfire everywhere. Sparkling tips of donut bits for all. Clasping oboes. March down the street humming the national anthem backward.

On the Fourth day of the purple fog---Girl asks if nurse then prods Oak Spirits Cave again. Dust of chalk fogs the already fogged air. Fireworks pop. The nurse Kansas thorn pushed me through, realize his intention from reading the forest tongue bible of drums.

On the fifth day of the purple fog-Chewing feather Bunny wedges, in the moment's pause. A few chews and then we are off. Some well born shaky car sleep. Dreams between the spastic shakes. Back up, vacuum packs of meat floating in the air. Rucksacks full of fuck sags.

On the last day of the purple fog-"Use your cigarette to Blackout that soup!" Throw the bowl and all outside, it smells of rot and poop. A place Where the alarms wear your face, and they have nothing more to rebuke. A face coated in layers of puke.

The after-math-She in see-through shirt crusted with the Dust of love, dirty pie, bad advice, and the drunken sunshine.

The Scarecrow's Lessons

Once of the ago, a boy was walking through the summer fields alone and not on his family's land. He loved to wander the fields. Normally, he waited till after dark but this was an afternoon hike. The sky was gray and threatening rain. It was delivered in the form of a downpour. The boy was two miles from home and the only nearby cover was the shelter belt. That is a line of trees planted at the end of the dust bowl. The thick trees kept must of the rain off him. Drops of rain plinked the many windchimes that hung here. All different sizes and types. Metal, glass, ceramic. Who put these here and why would they do it? It seemed somehow ceremonial. And the ground below the trees was sprinkled with red and green cardboard cut out hands. It reminded him of some sort of holiday grade school project. The hands were folded and bent from getting rained on a few times. Looks like they must have been left here in the early spring. That's where he met the Scarecrow Shaman. An old Scarecrow from way back in his great grandfathers time.

Somehow the boy was not frightened by the animated Scarecrow. He was fascinated instead. Scarecrows have always been a tribe of story-tellers. So they appreciate nothing more than listeners. He then sat down cross-legged as the Scarecrow told him his first tale. The boy asked about the red and green cardboard cut-out hands. The scarecrow told him that they blow in on the south breeze from another world every year on the same day. Scarecrow did not know too much about why or how. He did know why children in some other world the occupies the same physical space as our own make them. In this other world society and technology are much like our own. The oldest known human temple was somewhere around forty thousand years old. Mostly constructed of megalithic stones and at one-time wood and plant materials that have all rotted away. A wonder it was to science. But then they discovered caves beneath the structure. In these caves were signs of human activity at least ten thousand years earlier than the construction of the temple. All along the cave walls are superimposed handprints made by children. Hands dipped in vibrant red and green paint. The paint is the most amazing part of all. Modern synthetic latex paint like you might buy in any hardware store today. But pressed handprints of it were made fifty thousand years ago!

A long warm wonderful summer with no school! The boy returned often to that shelter belt with its cascades of windchime calm. The next visit he asked the Scarecrow. "Are you alive? How can you talk if you are made of straw?" The scarecrow explained that in the boy's grandfather's time, the townsfolk did the last scarecrow magic sacrifices. They could kill a Man, and transform him into a scarecrow but still able to talk and think and walk. The Scarecrows mostly patrolled the fields endlessly scaring off birds and other animals that would eat the food before harvest.

The Scarecrow told the boy about an old tradition, now almost forgotten. The small farming towns would use human sacrifice as a way of fluffing up the crops. There was a council of elders consisting of the most wealthy farmers. They would choose the most unwelcome towns-person, to them anyway, in the area Normally this was the drunk or drug user. Scarecrow was once a normal person. He once had a name, but his name and much of his human life have been forgotten over the years. The townsfolk selected some Men to fetch him from his shack. The local law enforcement, the high school jocks, and a few other guys who like beating up a drunk on a quest. Even if you suspect that you might be selected for the death of the year you don't know when it will happen. A couple bad cases fled town weeks before the ritual night of the Dream-Cheese. The jocks were planning on getting him early. The capture of this years sacrifice seemed to come a little earlier every year. Being as the lower character citizens often fled or made themselves hard to find until after the killing was over. Ed Gorilow evaded being caught for three years running. He of the drunken blackouts, home invasions and exposing himself to any female not in safe company. Fourteen weeks before the deed he would vanish. Many suspected he had a still somewhere so he didn't have to buy liquor in town. But they got him three months early one night while he slept on a park bench. The biggest of the jocks suddenly jumped up to plunk his heavy ass down on the sleeping Man's belly. He awoke making a "Umph!". He couldn't breathe and his struggles were weak as they beat him up and put him in a cage. He was taken to the holding room. Three drunk jocks got the year's prize. That's free sodas from the soda shop until the execution of the new prisoner. And lots of attention and bragging rights. Drinking is forbidden in this town but jocks age 16 up are allowed since they are holy warriors, the fighters of the town. The highest income earners also are allowed to buy booze because they are responsible. They also get the deca-vote. Meaning one of their votes = ten votes from other townsfolk. Now the Man destined to be made into a scarecrow is locked up. Fed nasty meals full of special herbal mixes to help prepare his body. He shall be transformed into a smelly black substance that resembles cheese. A cheese that smells like still wet roadkill on a July afternoon. A cheese so sweet, so delicious, yet so nasty. You must strain not to vomit with each nibble. But a vibration starts in the genitals and spreads out through the body in ecstasy! People dance and scream! Some fell writhing with visions, others writhed in orgasmic bliss. It never rained on this night, not once in recorded history.

Oh, that special time in the small towns! rural warfare and back-country savagery is a big part of the reason these small towns stay small. A high death rate. But it all goes down to natural bio-rhythms and planting seasons, and traditions repeated from behind the veil of murky time.

The Dream-Cheese Festival Time-Line

August 14:Blue morning

Sleep late, the kids sleep really late because the parents sprinkle sleep-inducing drugs into the last night's supper. The kids get super-sugar breakfasts and are handed out plastic bubble pipes of unearthly colors. The pipes produce colored bubbles that give off a faint glow. The bubbles pop with a little puff of smoke that has odd exotic scents recognized by the back brain. Little baskets of blueberries for everyone in the family. Blue muffins for breakfast. This is the last day of work and school before the long holiday, and today is only a half day. Everyone wears blue on this special day. Some even fly blue flags in the yard.

August 15:Nectar: Day

Way up north they got these tear mills. A few hundred abducted and constantly abused kids cry into tear-milking machines until the ducts run dry and they go blind. The kids are then auctioned off. The really pure tear nectar has only 2% pus and blood from the constant milking. Several vials are needed to prepare for this years dream-cheese. One vial is always given to the random winner of the year at the end of the day the name is drawn from a box of towns folk's signed tags.

August 16:Red and Green Hands

The kid's stencil cut vast amounts of red and green cardboard hands. Pen them to the branches of trees within reach. The hands flap and clap together softly in the gentle breezes of a golden spring day.

August 17:Candle Night

New puppy day. Candle night. The good kids get a new cute little puppy every year on this day. The year-old dog from last year is sacrificed to the Tomato God In a back-yard pool party ritual.

August 18:The Graveyard Parade

The young kids and, the babies are paraded in the center lane of the graveyard. This to show off the sprouts of youth to the ancestors who churn in their caskets, making dry insect sounds of pleasure.

August 19:A feverish carnival

The holiday week is building to a fever pitch. This is the carnival part! All sorts of entertainment and fun games for kids and adults. Vendors of captured others, that's people from a city or town other than your own, have human shows for the towns they route through. The sexy dunk-tank. Captured teenage girls suspended above a water tank to be dropped when the thrown baseball hits the red square. The girls wear only long shirts that become see-through when wet. But they dry within minutes hiding their bodies again. So much money is made here. And for a cool one hundred bucks, you can have a poke with one of the girls after hours. Sometimes the girls have to be restrained. A more violent fate awaits the Men and Boys captured by free-range agents who sell people to the carnivals. Never from around here is the code of business. Some carneys can get killed if they whore off a town daughter, but some other town far enough away to almost be a foreign land, no problem there. The Males have baseballs thrown at them as they try to jiggle out of the way. For an extra buck each, You can toss hard balls. After hours they bring out fresh victims restrained to revolving wheels to pitch real darts at/into. The concession stands sell liquor and hashish under different names and every year the cops look the other way. The children love the pull the rope to drown the old lady game. A complex series of robes and Knotts controls a dunking chair an old lady is constrained in. They pull and switch trying to physically kill her. She will die before the night is out, probably from heart failure. Great fun to teach kids apathy to the others.

August 20: Joy funeral for this year's sacrifice.

Someone has to die to make the cheese right as they love to say. And every year someone does die. They would all kill their own mother if that's what it would take. No problem and no matter how brutal it has to be. These people have been waiting on the dreamcheese all year and nothing shall stop it from being. The taste so bad, so good. This year's cheese to be. An afternoon joy-funeral. It's not like when grandma dies. It's not a sad occasion of the passing of a long-standing loved one. It's a party! It's a joyful occasion. The popular children's marching parade. Plastic trumpets squeak, rubber-skinned drums make dull cascades of percussive dead air. The Man is drowned in vegetable oils on public display in a clear glass coffin. When he is deamed to be dead the lid is slid open and the townsfolk dip fingers into the sweet syrupy oil for a taste. The longer the body is buried the darker the dreamcheese. Premature dreamcheese, lacks the oily and it has a milky-mucous look to it. After a year, its the red Dreamcheese. The most commonly consumed form. After three to one hundred years the cheese goes darker and darker until its a stinky savory sweet deep ebony that casts back no light.

August 21:Dreamcheese black as night

All the bells of the town ring! People use whatever they find or create to pound out beats. Buckets, wooden handles clacked together. Two holes are dug into the earth. One of them shall contain the dreamcheese vessel. The other is to bring up a decades cured dreamcheese. Cured to gooey blackness. It was a special year, you don't get it black every year.

A well buttered EON

Fold my terms. Glossy black charms. Biscuits fil my dreams. Shackles weigh down the moonbeams. Glow on the road but soon run over. Now rings the cheddar alarm. Now a crispy shroud with little chocolate bells on it. Now an empire made of moss. Now a new King shall floss his teeth with your children's eyes.

The new King will fuck your Woman if she's pretty. And she will never look as good when he is done. Taxes shall rise so he can build a tower to the sky. But all the while you will smile and say God sent him. The only good Man that can save the day. The trouble is there is one liberal left out there somewhere. The only one not shot or dragged away. Casting evil gay Muslim beams on God's holy scene. Making children scream in their sleep.

A Blank map for us to chew on'

I scrape along the cities border. Black pockets, silent connections. Confections of little-known saps, Spider candies from way back. Thorn up my ivy crown. Suit me up in a glistening see-through gown. Gossamer shroud and into the parks I plowed. You got that porn heart. You got that rain flowing off your cheek. Lend me your beak tonight. I'll fly a kite forged from the skin of my ancestors, including uncle Tim.

An itch between the stars

I bloat up all blue inside. Surge and heave off the bed's side. Slipping into a rash of undulating dreams. Churn this mistake. Make a cake from my lumpy insides. Tonight we dine on nothing sprinkled with salt. Tarnished mullets, all shabby in the sickly morning sun. Beer anointed from tiny droppers. An itch between the stars. An unstoppable speeding ticket. Another blank holiday in a faceless place. The same meal every single day.

Deep in the Grove

The grove behind our backfield takes up more space in what's on the map. It has some really old trees. Trees big around has a car, with huge leaves, and a stinky bitter fruit. Looks like bread made from feces and smells the same. A sour musty smell that seems to cling to your clothes if you get too close. A creek runs through the grove. A pure good water that is healing to drink. Always cool, never warm or cold. I used to spend hours walking alongside the creek. Like I say, the grove is wider than the map admits. You can get lost in it. My sister used to find Elvin wine in little blue bottles. Probably buried here a hundred and forty or so years. She never let me sample any but she said it was sweet and delicious. It got her drunk all that summer. It only took small amounts and she found six bottles of it. I was warned not to go in there alone. Monsters would eat me I was told. I was a little iffy on there being actual monsters in there. But one day my sister led me in to see the rotting remains of a dead dragon. It was a little bigger than a horse. With bat-like wings mostly eaten by bugs. Its torso was one mass of writhing maggots and it stank badly. Clouds of flies. A long curving neck, but no head. Someone had cut it off to keep as a trophy. Back then a well preserved Dragon skull sold for as much as 3000 dollars. I went back there with my cousin, we had shovels for weapons. We had the intent of getting a dragon bone or two and scrambling out of there. But scavengers must have dragged the corpse away. I was really young then and I could not have swung the shovel hard, had it been necessary. Our backfield that led to the great grove still had Elf burial mounds on them when I was in grade school. But I only learned that's what they were as an adult. Long after the combines and tractors flattened them into the field. I started going there with my cousin, strength in numbers. We would follow the shelter belt, planted in long winding complex patterns and sigals hundreds of years ago by the Elves who once owned these lands. Lots of interesting finds along the shelter belt. Old ceramic teacups from the eighteen hundreds. An old wagon wheel, just the top part sticking above ground, the wood warped by weight of weather and years. I saw my first porn images as torn out pages fluttering in the wind, caught on tree branches. Waving like flesh flags. Tree snakes and tree frogs. Little dugouts at the base of bigger trees made by coyotes, but as a child, I thought them to be fairies shelters. Me and my cousin, Harry, would walk to the edge of the grove but not enter. Strange animal calls, woody bird flutings.

From ashes to dust

Prairie Wetlands

⤓

Back then life was abundant. So many animals, so much life. If anything an overproduction. For August Mirken was born in the wetlands in the time before the Midwest became an ever-growing spreading desert as it is now... The snow of this time was so pure people would melt it and seal it in mason jars to clean wounds with and as water for babies. August Mirkin's great-grandfather was a full-blooded Elf. He knew nothing of this until he was forty-seven and it happened to come up in a family conversation. Mixed species marriage was still a shocking shame to the conservative prairie people. Some of the other kids in grade school bragged about being one third or so Elf because it was cool to the kids to be part "Savage magic wielding blood lined. Young August Mourned that he wasn't part Elf too. Turns out he was but it was hushed and his parents lied when he asked them about it. Elves are damned for being a different species. Only Humans go to heaven.

Back then spring exploded like a firecracker. Sudden bursts of bright colors. Baby animals everywhere. The air heavy with floating scents. It seemed every other year brought the overabundance of some animal or other. The grasshoppers came one year as a solid green exoskeleton sheet. They ate all the crops. The invaded the chicken coop and ate all the birds down to the bone. There was not enough gasoline to burn them. Not enough time and energy to kill them manually. Folks fled inside. Many would get inside. You could hear little mandibles working, trying to chew their way in.

Magic and Danger

It was a boring life on a prairie farm so August would often walk over the wooden bridge and down the street a ways to his Grandma's place to hang out with his Hippy Uncle. He always seemed to have Elvin wine. Enough to share with his hippy friends. A drop in a glass of Kool-Aid and they were laughing and buzzed. He walked all around the area gathering traditional Elvin buzz plants like "Elf berries". You could eat them, a bitter sour taste. August knew what they were because adults like his father's Mother would stomp and twist her feet to reduce them to shreds with an angry righteous look on her face. The older folks seemed to think the Elves had created these drug plants. You don't see any of them around here anymore. Poisoned and tilled into oblivion.

But true God-fearing Americans would march in the street with rifles and shotguns. August saw them when he was a little kid. They terrorized him. Robes and cloth masks hid their identities. News stories of midnight raids by groups of these roped Men attacking the homes of minorities. Murder and rapes. Sometimes as many as seventeen killed in one bloody night. None of these Men were ever caught. They were widely connected as a loosely affiliated group known as God's Sword. They wanted to bring back a time of violence and suppression of other races and any white subcultures that was different then themselves. God's sword was formed during the great Elf purge some seventy years ago. They had another major wave as a reaction to the Elf influenced countercultural period. They attacked the hippy commune outside of Maize and torched it. Several hippies where raped and or killed. August's family would drive by this burnt little hamlet on the way to Ockberg Plains, a small town where they liked to get groceries. August's Hippy uncle once took him there with a couple of his weed head friends. there was still human bones scattered about in the buildings back then. Choice parts like skulls were already missing. Lots of young people made hippy finger bone necklaces for good luck. Bone wind chimes clacked from doorways. Many years later at a family reunion, August heard his uncle Barny Toolugs laughing about how he was on the high school football team and was there when the commune was burned down. He boasted of his rape of a hippie chick. Uncle pulled his cigar out of his mouth with a pop as he delivered the punch line. "What are you screaming about you hippie chicks go for free love!" Barks of laughter among fat religious shaking bellies. Severed Libtard vagina stretched over a stick.

Branding

A long tradition among the kids. Branding is when You damaged someone's mind so much with bullying and abuse that he walk forever with their head held down. A submissive loser pain trained into walking that way. A posture that lets the next bully down the road to know a mark.

The Dawn of the Drought

It had not rained for seven months, now it was deep into a scorching hot dry mean summer. August Mirkin was nineteen when the dust bowl began...The superstitious farmers thought it was a curse of the Elves whom had been slaughtered to clear this land for crop growth. The economy was drying up and many farmers borrowed from the banks to keep going another year for the harvest to make things right. But things were less and less right. Crop prices falling while the dry fields produced less yearly until nothing at all was grown. The people started thinking witchcraft was involved. People who valued the Elves working spells to get revenge for an exterminated species.

The winds would make thin scratching into the ground. Random lines and patterns the old folks called "Devil scripts". Sometimes they seemed to form words or even phrases. Grandmother would scuff the words out with an angry shoe.

Into the sickness

August felt tired and bad all the time. His stomach acidic. Nosebleeds waking him from a fitful sleep. He dealt with this and carried on a few months as the conditions got worse. He was missing work and in danger of getting fired. He finally went to see a doctor. By then, as is standard, it was already too late. A slow decline of the only place in line.

To Dust

⤓

Masked roped racist members of the shalters sect marching openly in the streets with guns. Proclaiming this is God's country and it shall be reclaimed with Gods sword.

dust bowl and witch hunt cursed midwest from the elf purge

protag is part elf but he don't know early on cause its a dirty family secret. Protag born too late some fifteen or years after a great Elvin culture influenced uprising of youth. A grasp at utopia that ended with a severed hand.

burned out area of blackened shacks reduced to skeletons, a once hippie commune the town rose up and burned killed and drove out. Raping hippy chicks "What's she screaming about these Commies are supposed to be into free love"

floods over populations of snakes grasshoppers rabbits than a great and horrible drought. Protag born too late missing a shamanic uprising some ten years earlier, a revolution now dust.

Pagan Kansas-magic and danger

childhood in wetlands of life abundant. So much life and visiting cousins killing the fuck out of as many animals as they can "that's what they're for" special shotguns to blast over a hundred birds out of the sky with just one shot let em fall and rot young protag collects beaks to make a wind chime... Pond bombs to kill all the fish in one massive explosion big fun jock raids on other schools

"Branding". A way of shaming mentally scarring other kids into submissive loser roles. Jock's parents teach the kids this early so they can break the other kid's wills. Sometimes it takes up to three reincarnations to recover from branding.

The coach has the right to kill bad kids, as long as they are of the lower social class. He is a waste not sort of guy and he takes them to a shelter belt and rapes them before making them die. He sometimes can't resist killing a girl because she turns him on. The jocks and others learn about the location and sometimes they hide and watch the fun. A girl protagonist he has a crush on gets killed this way. ⤓

windstorms. An eerie screaming howling moaning wind like angry spirits. The winds make a thin scribble of lines across the dirt that sometimes form words or sigals these are called "Devil scripts". Adults quickly brush them away with shoes

Hippie uncle and his friends go with August to a sacred spot of the Elves. But they get chased off by an angry man saying his granddaddy killed the Elves to the right to this land and no fuckin hippies are going to dirty it get out, I'd shoot you if there wasn't a kid wit ya. Hippie uncle uses some local Elf highs called "Elf berries".

protagonist is one of so very many to have a disease incurable and fatal in less you take your meds. See your doc once every three months or he will stop your meds. Turns out there is a cure and it is illegal. Treason to use. protagonist is one of so very many to have a disease incurable and fatal in less you take your meds. See your doc once every three months or he will stop your meds. Turns out there is a cure and it is illegal. Treason to use. Protag gets a fix but gets discovered and arrested. He shall get the death penalty for illegal law breaking and a half. But he escapes and is chased by an angry mob to the doomsday temple. God comes by a certain date or the religious town folk plan to set off there own end times to help things along. Protag sets off the doomsday device and blows the town to shreds. Himself included, but hell he was going to die anyway so whatever. Gets a fix but gets discovered and arrested. He shall get the death penalty for illegal law breaking and a half. But he escapes and is chased by an angry mob to the doomsday temple. God comes by a certain date or the religious town folk plan to set off there own end times to help things along. Protag sets off the doomsday device and blows the town to shreds. Himself included, but hell he was going to die anyway to whatever.

Inspirations, grapes of wrath, the empire of the summer moon and the worst hard time.

The return to Keylol

A blustery cool October afternoon Skibby the little boy is over at his Uncle's house, a shabby place a short walk from his parent's home. Long haired young Men sitting on the floor in a circle smoking joints and talking about mystic revelations. Skibby had the mild magical feeling contact high he often felt while over there. This was the final days of the New Consciousness movement. It nearly took the country over, some ten years back when Skibs was too young to realize what was happening in the world. The youth who made up this movement modeled much of their beliefs and lifestyle after Elves. Long hair, loose flowing clothes, deep interest in art poetry and music. A movement the quickly took power and was crippled by the state. Mostly through violence and incarceration.

1 Keylol-The ruins of a Elvin village from sixty years back before the last of their kind were driven out. The new consciousness movement moved in twenty years earlier and for three years they had a commune. It was raided by local townsmen, mostly jocks and they proceeded to rape and or murder most of the commune. Protag's uncle still has a preserved leather hippie vagina he took as a trophy. Uncle also has knife cut hippy nipples in a jar of formaldehyde but the liquid has gone black and murky and the four floating nipples are now black and badly degraded. Much of this settlement that once housed 340 Elves was smashed and burned during the great purge. For a few decades, the remaining artifacts lay uncared about. Including large clay and wood gods hundreds of years old. All that is long gone to private collectors within the last thirty years. From the time of new consciousness movement commune taking home treasures to kids smashing 800-year-old clay vases to the big fad of searching this area of arrowheads and other artifacts over the last ten years that has pretty much dried the place out. Slibby went here with his new consciousness uncle four times when he was a little boy. back then there still were Elf bones made into wind chimes hanging from doorways clacking. A few years later wearing Elf bones became popular and all the wind-chimes were plundered. Slibby found a tiny dark blue rock carved into a bead of a fierce looking owl. One of uncle's friends stole it from him when he showed it around. Dude later traded the bead for a joint. The place was littered with the bones and skeletons of the new consciousness commune massacre victims but they were cleaned up before uncle ever took young Slibs here.

2 Our hero is the character Slibby. Slibby was an innocent enough old world name meaning "Has useful hands". But past his parent's brief spark of hipness it became street slang for someone who sucks the cum out of an Man's ass with a crazy straw. A name that got him in all sorts of fights and bedecked him with loads of abuse growing up in our hard cruel world.

3 Plot-Skibby visits keylol as a young Man having not seen it since a child when his hippy uncle took him there. It centers around the Elvin runes named Keylol. Skibby has been there as a child and he returns as a young adult with a couple friends when they are looking for a place to get high and have a little-stoned adventure at. It's about his thoughts on the place, a description of it both visits and what he knows from local urban legend and such about the place.

4 The destruction of the indigenous plants of the area. Mainly the herbs the Elves used for rituals and to get high with. There once was 17 different buzz rendering plants in this area. Now sometimes there's three.

5 About Skibby

A thin wisp of little boy soon to erupt into a volcano flower field of acne. Later an angry young man with a bottle in one hand and a pipe in the other. His light blonde hair got him a lot of mean mocking because Elves had blond hair and they had been mostly killed or driven off in his grandfathers time. the great purging. Later came the second purge, where two-thirds of the "infected generation" was killed off in a short-lived civil war.

The local bullies discovered a sinkhole one sunny afternoon when they were chasing that fag kid, Eustice across that cow pasture that is seldom used nowadays. Someone had put two thin wooden boards across it years earlier and it was all rotten out with a layer of grass on top of it. The fag kid fell through with a girly scream. He fell twenty feet below with a broken wrist. Suspended above a cold dark underground river. They pissed on the kid and tormented him for days until only silence from below. Then they covered the hole with sticks and grass and they would put a toy instrument, like a cheap plastic recorder over the trap hoping to get another kid to break through.

Skibby had been sick for over two months. A delirium fever. The doctor thought he would die from it but the child lived. With the spring came his recovery. He went out playing again. He found that Elves had made a shelter in the old abandoned barn. Spider web hammocks covered in morning dew cured leaves. Skibby was still small enough to climb into the hammock. It was not sticky and it held firm for several weeks. He had the most wonderous dreams napping there in the afternoons. When he finally broke through the webbing he pulled out a jar's fill of the leaves. He still has them tucked away somewhere to this day.

Some things you know they were bound to be found. I followed the sound. a gentle chime. Tingling bell flutter in the shelterbelt in the blizzard. I worked through knee-deep snow following this distant but persistent sound. I found these wind chimes flung high into the branches of a tree. A set of chimes with the red Spider god as its base, a web of silver spider web chains ending in long red and green chimes and silver bells.

 As a child, I would explore the grove of wide trees behind the farm. I discovered that there was an old, make that ancient elf couple living there. They had a nice home with walls made of living trees. I would sneak to within peeping distance and watch this wonderful old couple go about their activities. That is until one day when I snuck up to witness them both naked. Wrinkled thousand-year-old bodies in the pale sunlight. I gasped in shock and the Male lifted his face in my direction and I ran off in embarrassment. I never went back to that location and some six years later all the trees were cut down to make a wheat field.

 I walk South field daily awaiting it's eventual sale to the evil monied lords. Yesterday morning I saw footprints, someone else's, they came through the field and parallel to the house. Seemed to stand and shuffle there. One cigarette butt left behind. So I began patrolling in the night, wandering with my rifle. I caught the fucker the very next night! He had some sorta tech binoculars that he was using to peer into the bathroom window, the one away from the road. Facing the shelter belt and then the empty tween season field. So I got as close as I could before he heard me and turned around. That's when I squeezed off seven shots. He died that night.

  Late at night. I awake to the sound of harsh tapping against the glass of the window in the kitchen. Three minutes later I am getting out of bed groggily to check it out. Halfway down the hall I hear the fucking window break! I run around and rush back to my bedroom to get the gun I should have picked up the first time. A nice .45 with a long snout on it. I carefully go into the kitchen. There is a fucking crow that has pecked the glass open. It's holding the roach of the joint I smoked before bed last night in it's beak. When it sees me it fly's to the window ceil and steps out the hole in the glass. I go to the window and watch it fly away with the roach I planned to puff for breakfast. Friggin crow home invasion.

I buried the peeping Tom stranger whom I shot in the field. I buried him in the shelter belt of a neighbor's farm late at night. I even etched the epitaph "Here lies an asshole", high into the tree bark, having climbed as high as I could up it. They will probably find the body and maybe even the message in about thirty years or so, but I surely will be dead or close enough by then.

  It's time for MerkinEve again. That ancient festival held here every 1000 years! We all shave off our pubic hair for the event and get the most outlandish merkins, which for the uniformed are pubic wigs. All the colors of the world included, sometimes on one single merkin. Burning sage merkins, wafting cleansing smoke throughout the event. Cotton candy merkins for the sweet-toothed.

  After a hard rain, I found the tip of a piece of ancient carved wood sticking up from south field. I pulled it out and it was a wooden beak, so old that it was very lightweight but hard as a rock. A long wooden beak, slots on the side to strap it to your head.

  I woke up a little before sunrise and I went outside to piss in the fresh air of a brightening darkness. A heavy fog was on the land. I puffed by all around me in bloated shrouds of vapor. I decided to take off my clothes and walk in the mystic fog. I kept my jeans wrapped around my neck in case of unexpected encounters and I was off, across the field with my shoes still on to protect me from stickers. It was like walking in a dream, in another world. At one point I thought I heard a far-off low bell. A couple sub-bass booms from some distant cars sound system. For a couple of minutes, I got disorientated and I thought I had passed over onto the neighbors land. But the shelter belt bordering the fields came into view. A phantom tree line. I stood still for a long time enjoying the sensation of being naked in this dreamland. During this pause, a deer passed just forty feet from me. Even that close it was a silhouette in the fog.

 In 1981 the Scarecrow met a wood fish. The wood fish is a fish with a body that looks like a piece of tree branch. It has the head of a wise old Man and it can hobble across the land to the next body of water on its little twiggy legs. Scarecrow and the wood fish had a long conversation about the circular history of time and how all that is will be and all that will be already was.

  I and my friends all went in on a pound of kind bud. We brought an ounce of it with us to the abandoned mansion at the edge of town. We smoked while exploring it. After seven hours we still had not seen all the rooms.  Even when we broke up into groups of two. It doesn't seem possible. We will go back next weekend and try to map it out.

Summer solstice! The festivals are the sexiest, yet most feverish of the year. Everyone in costumes, and drunk and or high. I was both and I followed the girl who was naked with her personal pink parts painted a neon dayglow shining glitter blue. She had a wooden strap-on beak around her face with a ruffle of blackbird feathers conditioned till they were soft as silk. At random times the tower bells would ring out and people traditionally couple with the nearest would be lovers. I loved her from behind that night. Her perfect ass arched high as I slid back and forth in a pocket of froth.

Slibby was over at his Uncle's place. He enjoyed it over there. All these crazy young adults with their mystic talk and revolutionary ways. Some of the people who went there to buy drugs from his uncle claimed to be veterans of the Late summer war where the New Consciousness movement met it's Waterloo.

Peeping Tom has a ghost phone. It's an old lan line phone his grandma owned. He uses it to call up past versions of girls he lusted after when he was young. An old drunken pervert on the other end jacking off. And this is the 20 year old guy she knows as well. Creep up to the next level,

I keep having this dream that I am lost in a heavy fog. Like walking in the center of a cloud. All sounds softened, muted by the layers of white coiling mist Somewhere a bell clangs. I see a pale walking body form out of the mist. A topless Woman with full jiggly breasts. I don't get a look at her face, a faint impression of braided black hair and she was gone. I watched her go but she was almost instantly swallowed up by the fog. The bell sounds again by more shrill and annoying. It's the alarm clock. Time to get up and go to work.

Another dream I keep having over and over again is one where Elves dressed in traditional finery are dancing in a circle around a bonfire of mystic herbs that keep them mildly high. In the dream, I am an unseen watcher, concealed in a shelter belt line of trees. A thin graceful people, straight and tall. weaving in graceful patterns. Taller and thinner than humans. All of them with long golden blonde hair that smelled sweet and sultry. The moon had a strange purple shade to it. A wavering color like a liquid light show. A holiday that happens once every thousand years! A moon event not on known charts.

A sinkhole opened up in the front field when I was nine. Dad said don't go near it the ground around it is hollow and it may collapse and drown you in the underground river of the Elvin dead. But often times as a kid Mom and Dad would take off for a few hours and leave me alone on the farm. I checked the sinkhole out one early evening when they were out. The sinkhole was as wide around as a car. I was careful not to get too close. But I sat near the edge. A strange breeze wafted up from the sinkhole. It smelled like mud and rain. It smelled like metal and blood. The grass around its edge waved like beckoning fingers. My next encounter was creepy and freaky. I awoke from a dream to hear the gentle sound of several sets of wind chimes blowing in the night wind. I went outside in a groggy haze to follow the sound. I nearly stepped into that sinkhole. Someone or something set up stolen neighbor's set of chimes suspended over the sinkhole by a crude scrap wood frame, a fucking trap.

I have been fascinated with that ancient great ziggurat that they have discovered while making a sand pit. A buried building so huge and out of place here in Kansas that history shall have to be re-written. Grandpa used to have a really old black metal weather vein he got from his grandfather. In his honor, I climbed the ropes that led to the site and I climbed up that great old building to the very top. There I placed the weather vein. you cannot see it unless you are on top of the building so I don't think they will find it for a while. I like to imagine the weather vein with its fierce rooster of black metal spinning on windy days. It's the kind of thing that keeps disturbed minds like mine amused.

Just before dawn

1.

Just before dawn. The Great Man gives heads to crowns of gold. Placing each severed head onto the mantle, gently returning the golden crowns to the fresh heads. Scabs so thick, he was found worthy to sit on the throne. Opened eyed heads modeling the crowns of his ancestors over the great fireplace. A red brick oven. sackcloth full of eyes to pouch before they celebrate. The eyes of the enemy to bring his people victory. See what they have seen, and plan the next attack. The crops waved lush and tall and green. The people roamed up and down the dusk streets wearing human hair jackets taken from the heads sent back of the conquered enemies. Season to worship devils. The new machine claps with him.

Peoples shutter at These things thy watch. The stench of shit as bodies are opened. A festival of hate and victorious gore. I will be in the midst of them but in a latex Light skin. Eyes bright in things ahead planned. Leave his castle a blackened ruin, drag parade his body for all his loyals to see. I have rows on rows of scarecrows ready to be ignited with life.

2.

Open the book, and they that dwell upon their festering looks are doused with coconut venom. This church perches on the hill to give your back what you're worth, maybe kill you. Big are these customs in the leaves. I woke up all the seven Spirits of Nyarlathotep and then I went, rest vanished. My suntan ravaged. I don't accept or deny the most beautiful diseased grant to sit with and all full of pus sitting cross-legged in the payday loans personal lot now. I was woken from my napping by the sound of one hand clapping. Brisk gallons poured for the elders to see. Sharp, brisk puss warmly oozing like an offer ring to all of us. I lost track of all the times I would rather be somewhere else. Under His Ranch is a chaotic underground with endless Dead ends. The soldiers cried as Looking for Safety naked.

3.

But deep is our explosive shame, assisted by his lovely merkin. When we unite and accuse him of the wrongs he has done, he drops his pants, flashes us his lovely merkin. Black are the small hour,s his jaws throb with pain eyes on the Cards in us mourn our nipples We like lacks. His collective spit on all our nipples as a result of us turning in our pistols. But when his merkin dance, it hypnotizes. Foil flag waves at me. Lights in the skies Great alarm is clocking thee. Useless as butter burning. Merciless as someone with a different religious faith than yours. Great hovering mollusks above Him that overcometh. Redeemed into giggling. Laughing and in shutteth, and no man reclaims the throne. A throne of mollusks alone and all Man is bone. But the skulls rattle in the wind and we call that a vote.

4.

Behold, I stand across sickle curve of elite priests who art dead. Be watchful, and the graveyard. The neighborhood autumn hands. Dyed several hands dangling from trees, swaying in the breeze.The word of my true witness, of the church in the webs. Tonight we put a Man into the ground, but he will come out as black cheese. Howls of delight and mulberry wine. The key magical powers. An old Shaman makes tons of Dreamcheese. The is to be a cloud in your cup. Windy Night in a cornfield. Children running with burning branches plucked from the bonfire. Naked painted bodies whirl around the fire to the percussion sounds of hand-struck farm implements. The window acts as an aphrodisiac and genitals be in thy mouth. Woke up covered in fingers. Groping nomads leaning in the window all lean and oily. Incense of vaporized sexual oils.

5.

The black Moon over Great owls in the golden forest. I've reconstructed the feather. Glued back every thread, it's ready to go. Climb a tree and try my wings.

Pagan drugged infused ceremony

After the fall of the Government and the break down of society, You get things like the Pagan drugged infused ceremony. Strange bitter tasting sacraments cooked up in labs that send up smoke under bridges.

Screams hoots, moans from people in freaky masks and little else. Orgies around the bonfires, where the captured straight-laced townsfolk are burning.

Human sacrifices pushed into sinkholes. Ritual scarecrows crucified to telephone poles. Homes invaded ransacked. Rape pillage burn under the full moon. Mad dances in fields. The cacophony of crudely made instruments. Pounding of metal rods against old shed roofs and junked cars. Homemade flutes and hand percussion instruments using metal and glass jars, cigar boxes, and anything laying around that clacks or thuds. The drones of endless glass beer and liquor bottles blow into with puckered drunken lips. The clang of metal trash cans being dented up by night's end.

So many candles in old storm shelters. Wall paintings fantastic and macabre. Someone found an Elf mummy and they put it on the large crudely cut table where people once played cards and played guitars waiting a bad storm out with flickering lantern light. Magic symbols surround it in thick pressed chalk. A pair of black panties curled into the far corner.

Often the biggest farms are the most pagan. Extended insane families living too close to the river and the mad spirits that remain there. Strange restraining devices made from farm equipment. With a lever to pull a sharp blade across the victim's throat with enough power to sever his head. Secret slaughterhouses that ritually prepare human meat. Houses are hidden in the woods that only look abandoned.

Whole small towns have been emptied of they're Human contents and left with flapping doors and open windows to roads only used by coyotes and deer. Stripped cars beside the road, blood stains on the seats. Many of them burned. Fields unkept, filled with thin sapling trees.

Sinkholes open up suddenly swallowing a child into the deeps below. Then a horrible low growl and roar is heard from below when the Sinkhole God is hungry for another child. It doesn't take the townsfolk long to look elsewhere for sacrifices. Travelers passing through with kids are the best. The small town sheriff is in on it, this town is a death trap. Kids kept fattened up on sweets for the unseen Monster below. The adults either killed right away in front of the kids or enslaved to serve the town.

People's teeth found in the soil all over this area.

Kids killing the neighbor's pet to cut it open. Pull out the entrails. Toss them into the air to hit the pavement with a wet smack! Read their fortunes on the pattern the guts make. Leave the animal where it lay on act on the prophecy. These kids are allowed out after dark. It's the local adults that stay inside to avoid them.

A child walking across his father's cornfield early in the season. Finding human teeth and bones among the soil. He woke up night after night from nightmares of falling straight up into the sky, swallowed into the night going faster and faster until the pressure will burst him like a watermelon.

Humans made into candles, burning shallow pale light in the ancient tunnels under the fields.

The Rex Havoc show

Long haired rock and roll legend Rex Havoc has his own show on Faux News. Rex is an outspoken and controversial conservative Tonight he is sporting his cinnamon Teddy bear pelt of little intelligent bears he has killed himself. Science has proven that these endangered animals are in fact an intelligent life form nearly as intelligent has Human beings. But all the red states still legally allow the killing of these teddy bears any season. Tonight's first guest is Buck Dynasty. The tough-talking grandpa of the cast of "Dude Dynasty". A reality TV show about a family of long-bearded deep south red necks just keeping it real. All the family members are worth over a million each and the beards are props. Turns out they all grew up in New York City! They and all OFTL loyalists deny it and call this truth a liberal propaganda lie. Buck Dynasty got in some trouble for openly stating that he "Hates faggots and he recommends mass killing to clean up this queer underbelly that is rotting America". This episode shows a clip of Buck and Rex hunting for a live Poldaki Male that Buck bought as a present for Rex. The mutated Human has been set free on the actual set of Dude Dynasty and the two are drinking beers and hunting the intelligent being in full camo and with high tech guns. "And the Liberals call these foot headed pieces of shit Human!", Rex laughs. "Last I checked Human's don't have inky blue-black skin and toes on their poop like heads", Laughs Buck Dynasty. Commercial break for Tough Ellon Trucks. This years model is so tall you use an escalator to get to your seat. It blocks the view of all other trucks no matter how tall. Followed by a local commercial for the re-election of officer Roy Porkus. "He gets things done". Now it's Kobe Beef doing his tribute to Kyle Deerbone entitled They don't make em like that anymore. A heartfelt tribute to a Country music political martyr who died for what he believed in and how the killer is still at large and thinking that his side won. That Deerbone's message is done. But no, think again son. A rousing guitar instrumental segment then he blasts into a patriotic medley of Deerbone hits. The audience is going crazy!

Now for Rex's soapbox" segment. Havoc with his band Kill Party. He plays some kick ass 1980's style guitar flash. The band pumping out hard riffs behind him. They all stop on cue and he shouts out a short wise political statement starts back up again. Another pause for his ruff redneck wisdom and the blow out continues. This is the show's most popular part and it gives masses of viewers something to have unified anger over and it provides them with stern talking points. Kobe Beef and Rex are sitting and talking about their gun collections and critters they shot. Beef strokes Havoc's teddy bear hide and says "I sure would like to bag one of these for my wife while supplies last". They laugh and slap hands.

Expedition to South Field

The third in my series of journeys. This time I have better gear, a handgun and a pretty assistant Named Disby Alarkens. She is studying to be an archaeologist. This expedition is funded by Going Stoned Magazine. Disby works for the magazine and she has a popular monthly archaeology article. This fairly well funded thing we are on shall be fodder for 3 or 4 months worth of pictures and text. Disby is really sexy by the way. Her looks landed her a respectable job. She appears on all sorts of TV shows. Her perky breasts jiggle when she hikes. But enough about Disby for now , on with the expedition. The truck lets us off in front of the great Southfield gate. A arch of extremely big trees carved whole. They must have come from many hundred of miles away or from a tree that no longer exists here. So huge and tall it boggles the mind. Mammoth tusks cluster and inter lock high above our heads. This arch was built sometime unknown in prehistory. By who no one knows. I take videos and pictures of it. Its a big tourist attraction now. But its Disby who is getting all the attention. Jiggling innocently while signing autographs posing for pics under the arch. I buy a cup of sweetened mulberry juice and blend into the crowd as an unknown. Just another set of eyes checking Disby out. I take an excellent picture of her signing her autograph for a little Mollkin kid. She uses it for her email fan letters page on her website. That done we are taking our four-wheel ATV's packed with gear down the ancient road. This is a dirt road very wide and flat that predates the Elves. Probably one hundred forty thousand years old. Arloban has another road from a lost culture that is used as its main trade road. The plants never grow on this road and no one knows why. This is a trade route where grains, produce, animals skins and other wares are transported. The main theory on who made this road is us. We made it one hundred forty thousand years ago when we advanced from cave Men to modern or future society. Then some event or series of them destroyed modern civilization and we went back to primitive prehistoric ways. Slowly building back over eons to where we are here. With some impending doom ahead to start to cycle over again. All along the ancient road stands or buildings are set up to sell things to passers-by. Gas stations places to eat. Trinket shops. Old brick a brack stores. I touch Disby's shoulder to direct her to enter the old fun down store three before the side street. Her shoulder feels so good I almost gasp. Inside is a sad old shop. The warped wooden floor. Few items here are newer than 1986. Basically, its run by this frail old Man who has run it by himself ever since his wife died seventeen years ago. He has no family anywhere to go. He sleeps behind the counter on a worn out old cot. Disby has a sad look on her face and she is looking for something she can buy just to help him out. So am I. Looks like people have bought about everything remotely interesting many years ago and either nothing was replaced of shabbier fair replace sad broken dusty but better thens. There are three card tables set out with a sign reading Musical electronics. Odd pieces of electronics devices, just the neck of an old electric guitar. Nothing but rubbish. Maybe someone who collects vintage equipment may find a treasure among the scant few items here. Disby is checking out the moldy smelling clothes. Looks like she's going to buy a few bucks worth and probably throw it in the back of her backest closet to forget about. I go to the huge worn out bookcase. It's full of books mostly hardcover without the dust jackets. Dull faded plain covers, often water stained. A few comic books. I check out the horror, sci-fi section. Nothing too interesting here but I purchase a small stack of medium grade 1960's Sci Fi. The stuff you would see in supermarkets back when the common people still read. The place does have a certain tingle of distant magic about it. Like I could come in a couple years later and the same old Man would be alive and running it and maybe I would find something rare and wonderful in that tired book section. It's a good thing we have Going Stoned funding this. We have a jeep with a trailer hauling gear and two four wheelers. Next stop is the ruins of a modern suburb. Meaning that these houses are the ruins of buildings constructed 7-10 thousand years ago, in pre-historic times. But they are made with the technology and style of the American 1970's. There are many such ruins in the South Field territory. The most intact street has been named Engel street but the real name is lost to time. Sections of two-lane blacktop remain, all the road marking and paint long faded away. Modern or nearly modern houses still standing. Many sunk a foot or three into the ground all windowless. But the sheer age of these houses that were set up for electricity and lan line telephones is amazing. At least ten thousand years ago people lived here and something happened to them that didn't happen in our 1970's. The theory is some vague apocalypse drove them back into the stone age. There is a small museum built about twelve years ago where items recovered here are displayed Some intact or glued back together plates and glasses. A red rusted disco ball. Some warped vinyl albums, the covers long returned to nature. A pewter owl, feet broke off and missing. A shotgun, the metal rusted away but the wood hard and brittle remains.

There are interesting theories about these houses of the recent past/deep past. And I have seen similar buildings in the wild lands woods. The main theory is that we as a culture live repeating a cycle of building up from the stone age to modern times and being destroyed either the same say every time or threw some varied reason. If this is correct according to what is known we don't have too long before being brought down by some vague apocalypse. The other theory is that these houses are from a alternative world that co-exists with our own. That these ruins slipped threw the veil between universes. Now on down the main road. Every dozen miles or so we see another ancient ruin of a modern building. Sagging, leaning, sinking into the fields. A good lot of South Field is used to feed cattle or grow mass crops. Nearly two miles of strawberry fields on either side of the road. But different hues from four variations of strawberry. Each a slightly different flavor. We stop for lunch and buy a pound basket of each type. We drink some of our bottled water and enjoy these fresh and very good strawberries. Good times. The road goes on. Many fields. Corn, watermelons. We are past the areas where big herds of cows free range graze. Once hundreds of burials mounds could be found here. Few remain, most have be flattened to plant on. Farmers report that once or twice a year they will find a Elf tooth in the fields. Some make necklaces of the teeth or fashion them into dice. They are commonly sold at great barns where farmers set up shop to sell they're wears including folk art and found artifacts. I buy a empty red bottle of Elvin wine. Its a small bottle long as my thumb. The wine Elves made was condensed and meant to be mixed with fruits. Its a nice item to add to my artifacts collection. These great barns without open walls. We buy lots of produce here. Some pies. Disby buys several outfits. All of them sexy/cute. This may be looking like a typical tourist site seeing shopping reality TV show and that's because it is. We are being payed to make this show for Going Stoned Magazine. We get a nice budget to shop with and lose the funds we don't use. So why not? A sexy scene follows when Disby decides to try on a couple shirts she bought while the jeep bumps on. I'm in driving with her in front seat and camera man in back. She strips off her brown explorer shirt and she is wearing a black laced bra spilling out some lovely cleavage. A nice show I slowed down so I wouldn't go off the dusty dirt road. Now she is wearing a cow leather patch work top. Very soft with colorful braided tassels coming off the arms. Deep dark olives reds and golds in stitched squares that showed little bits of skin with fine strong spider web silk ties. I hope we get to do a whole series with her.

Next stop is the great burial mound of the allegedly still living Cement Head. Two hundred years ago he ruled South Field with an Iron thumb. Legend has it when the people finally rose up and defeated him they made a cement block to cover his entire head with no holes to breathe or see from. Then they chained him to his thrown that after the war for freedom was reduced to a twisted lump of metal slag. He was not dead and he could see and hear just fine. His rage was never ending. He bet the iron throne with the shackles. No one for many miles could get much rest with the clamor. The crops failed. The folks of three affected local towns decided to cover Cement head up with layers of whatever material they could find or spare to shut up that clanging pounding sound. He should be dead, weeks after having his head encased in Cement. No air water or food. Yet he pounds with boundless energy. It was feared he would pound his way free. So the people thought about it and decided to start piling refuse and such onto Cement Head and his thrown. Starting with endless ropes they twisted around him tight so restrain his trashing. Cow dung, unneeded extra cement, more and more items packed and packed around the throne. Now there is a massive mound there. Almost three hundred years of people adding materials to it. Concrete asphalt. Trash. Its become a cultural thing now. No sounds come from the mound. No proof that Cement Head really is encased under a hill of coverings. Its impressive to see for sure. A huge mound Parts of dismantled houses roofs sunk into hardened asphalt. A old doll sticks out from a bunch of shredded tires. Well that's it. For we have the proper amount of footage and budget spent according to the producers. Still a lot more sites to see but that's a wrap.

Why are we here?

Brack Selden walked down the huge echo filled concrete hall. Tables were set up along the walls for a convention of some sort. He didn't get a good look at the items splayed out on the tables. We moved with the crowd. Lots of people filing threw, confused shocked looking faces. Here and there large cracks in the concrete halls you could fit a fist into zigzagged from to ceiling. Brack was unsure where to go but he found himself following others into a classroom and sitting down at a table/chair combo. Facing a chalkboard but no desk. In front of the chalkboard, a video monitor was set up but it was off and the silent crowd waited here. Something really big has happened. But Brack is unclear on what. His memory seems murky, cloudy, full of soft details just out of reach. Only a few soft words from the people packing the room in nearly every chair. No one seemed to know anyone else. They waited there for some authority figure to come to tell them what happened. To tell them what to do. A long time seems to pass. The clock on the wall is frozen at 2:30. The hands have cobwebs on them. Seems like its been hours. What happened? Nuclear strike? Chemical warfare? Natural disaster? Why doesn't Brack know? He is sure something really big has gone down. The halls echo with the stamp of endless feet. There must be over a thousand people in this government communal emergency shelter. The last person Brack expected to see walk in the room stepped through the doorway. Kim Lacy. They have a few sexual encounters over the year. Being drug and alcohol-free she partied and unwinded with sex. A good thing for Brack it was. She smiled her mischievous grin at him. Eyes still sparkling after all these years. Brack smiled back as she took the seat next to him and waited. They didn't say anything. Words seemed heavy as iron in this tense room. Brack and Kim exchanged flirty glances to help pass the time. It was nice to have her here. They waited and waited. Surely many hours have passed. Still, the hall sounded with shuffling feet and murmurs. Brack felt strange. He couldn't think right. He just didn't know why they were there. But more and more, he began to think that they were all dead. That they all had a long long wait ahead. It could take years, it could take forever. Disby buys a deerskin dress with an antlered hoodie.

The Call of the Shelter Belt

Lines of trees planted in glyph s that can only be seen by the sky. Magical biological sigals to calm the angry spirits of the Prairie lands. To stop the demand for human sacrifice to make crops right. Places for children to hide while playing out ancient rituals they think are games. The greed of the farmers. The nasty trees drink all the water and block all the light of the fields they say and expensive tree killing machines are sent out to tear down bigger and bigger sections of shelter belt. The tree's roots held down the madness of the evil of disturbed spirits.

The dream of Sound

I have the theme goal of a dreaming sound. An unfolding evolving soundscape. It should evoke a relaxed but uneasy feeling. Most dreams are troubling or disturbing for the dreamscape is a land of magic and danger. Percussion rattling over endless centuries of mind. Ambient noises from synths playing to the back brain to the front a circuit of eons. Cries of synths like prehistoric monsters. Reverbed spoken word bits falling in here and there along with recordings of nature processed and often pitch shifted or run backward. Synthetic water and wind. wind chimes. Found percussion of the tribal future. Is that wind, or is it a soft breath through a long glass tube...

Elders with Wooden beak Masks

Twenty elders sitting, gone miles from home and years ago. To fields of lavender. "There's some kind of a loud gong strike in the book". The first beak masked elder intoned. The scattered blankets..but I make ratty blankets. Been pretty fucked up, bump down pitted roads. Finally spent of hard drinking, sat in attention and bragging. I've reconstructed the sackcloth of eyes before and right.

Unfarmed empty farmland revealed a skeleton. Trees planted at the hour of temptation. His cheap back-yard pool party ritual. Perfumed bliss cup. Choco-mints. Colored bubbles on moss. We cure banana skins my new friends' saith the Amen. The Deep Hours Calm.

The bones of the after-furnace with its cascades of four and twenty elders of the year. Looking for Safety naked. Deep day walking Turning The Delicate lane of the graveyard. The neighborhood giggling. Laughing and in the midst of The Graveyard Parade. Candle night. The blank carnival.

Of Darkness Desert. Red and green paint hot.

Noah could tell time." "You Stony faces of a police line time. The Dream-Cheese opium and movement elders down.

Cold times

In the midst and bright red hospital. I shivered as I clutched the metal rail. Nothing but disturbing news on the Tv. No matter which channel I switch it to. Served a sore throat, All infected scabs inside. Scabs so thick and full of pus I can barely swallow without choking. Redeemed into the most beautiful diseased call every soldier steps worship devils. The new darkness, a roving band of leaderless rapists pillaging cities all along the east coast. "Hail Satan!". The soldiers cried as they killed those in command and took over the land. I see it on many channels I flip through. I hear gunshots within the city where I lay. What will kill me first? The virus or a bullet? I can hardly wait to find out.

A short new season

Brisk gallons poured like an icy release. My pie advice to the biscuit chiefs. My electro merkin and its undertones. Switch sweet meat shellac to the other static bone. Harvesting pretzels from a sea of woe. Ring the donut bell and bright candy sprinkles fell. He's a goner with honor. He claps in the corner and nibbles minty scones.

Empty landscape

The winds roar and whoosh like the voices of the native Americans cleared or killed off to provide this cornscape for the poor white farmers. Tax-free five years, free land gives. The military got to profit too. Paid to clear out the human animals who had been herded here from richer lands just a few years before. Make the corn roll on forever, waving like a green ocean. Let he who walks behind the rows bless our crop. Ia-men.

There's Grandpa at the barber shop chatting with the locals. Chedder Hollins is next to him. They talk about the weather. About the new Soda shoppe in the city some 24 miles west. Chedder went there last weekend. He said he felt so pepped after trying a draught of strawberry Murple soda. Tasted like rat poison and burned corn. But he says he felt warm and soft and heavy. Happy and peaceful. But as he drank more of the stuff he began to feel energized. The hairs on the back of his head stood up. He liked it. He danced all night and spent all his money.

The old town is getting pretty crusty now. Faded flaking paint defaces sagging houses. The old town just lacks the pep is once had. No cable vision, and no mobile phone reception. You gotta go six miles past town to get even a weak signal.

Spring 18

There you go again show some skin.I'm excited we are rerided, no fucks provided no future no future, but the birds are happy now. Cows roam now homeless hungry but at least they are free. Picked off by feral dogs and coyotes. Feral roosters release a primal roar over a landscape empty of humans. Rusted out cars beside the road. The bodies and bones long ago dragged out. Rats and mice live there now.

The winds roar. Strange scents in the wind. The scents are incense from a secret tribe. They are still here, but not "here". A nearby dimension. Still returning for rituals and to breeze the air of the land of birth.

Sometimes strange animals end up here in this space when they cross over with the mind cola dance. When Kip was a child he encountered a Wood Fish. Some strange transparent worm-like creatures swirl in the sky like germs in a microscope.

Brooding darkly

Chedder is drinking in the heat of his shack decades later. Thinking dark, drinking dark. Black beer with plopped in drops of his humid sweat. Dark thoughts of revenge and death. The roar of insects outside is amazingly loud.

Chedder Hollins

Chedder Hollins stands in front of a big crude wooden plank fence. He tells a stupid racist Indian joke and a plank from the fence slams up into his ass. He squelches in pain. Long splinters are embedded. We laugh at the wide-eyed comical eyed out look of pain on his face....The loose plank continues to kick ass another seventeen months.

Party on and around the porch

Midnight shines with a yellow-orange moon. Jugs are all about most of them empty. Midnight, moonlight, a great time to fly a glow in the dark kite. All is right with this small section of the world. Relationships are broken while others begin in a drunken haze.

The Doughsberry Pillboy

Our pudgy boy sits on the cement bent soaks in the breeze from the systems under the city. Above him was once a farm, producing tasty veggies. You seeds don't sow in concrete. Before that, it was a mythical beast named nature.

Hangin in the cornfield

It's so hot and muggy. It feels like you could just grab droplets of moisture in your palm. A dog is barking somewhere far away. There is a low machine hum, barely perceptible. It goes on all summer every summer. My clothes are clinging to me in wet clumps. Each night it is taking a little longer for the heat to break. Soon it will not break at all. High temperatures all day and night. No sleep and feeling dried. The earth cracking like dry bones. The insects at night are silent, preserving what juice they have left.

The Silo

Doomsday bells adorn the silo. Only the oldest townsfolk remember when the silo was put up. They say the town founders sacrificed a colored baby, that its body still lies inside the concrete foundation. Doomsday bells rigged up giant horns that shall sound for miles around when the end times have arrived. Yes!, We burn all our cornfields! We won't need them anymore! Yes! we shall kill all the prisoners. We won't be there to feed them no more".

Deep day walking dream

Holding mercury dust bunny bubbles in my hand. Blowing blue shiny mercury bubbles with a pink wand. Never explain before you hang, You'll just sound insane. Instead, play a melody of Beatles tunes in the Easter hay. We ride and fold this flaccid banner. If re-write the wrongs of the furled. A gristle speck and tinsel beam. A wild vapor plume has gone awry. A perfumed bliss cup. Choco-mints so sweet they make you throw up. Sodder porn to the varnished wall. She glued raisins to her nipples. Ignite my way with a box of chili sauce powder and a telescoping kite. I see how I will be now. I am and it shall plea now. Get down to the sound of the river bats flopping on our heated foil sheets.

Curdled nerds curled up behind the road. A deep dinner of after-maths. A moat of minty milk. Unborn porn and the stores that shelf it. The biscuits of love. the leather sandwich. An example of amps that are cool. Several syncronized shirks. A fuzzy pillow dusted with cheetos powder and lit on fiber. A cross-country donut roll. The unusual bugles and the normal non-entities. The day late tomorrow train. Packing smoke into tiny statues. Snow cones flung into the among. Cattle beside the chode. Processed lint. The blank carnival. A total remix of unscored thoughts.

One way mirrors as borders. The balls of the fountain thing. Brandishing my othery stick. Cold gropes in the evening rain. Missiles packed with genitals. Moisture rash on the new era. Writing history in pig Latin. The small groves sprayed with lemon juice concentrate. The people's sheeples. The steeple of my favorite Grins. Short chubby girlfuck. Tolls tone true, undead deep blue. The fangs I framed for stacks they didn't remit.

Out in the sticks they have their dicks out. For a primate whose name they have forgot. Crickets learning new songs under a sickle curve of yellow moon. The beasts of turpentine and Amish cheese are out tonight. The kites delight and loop in the sky, free of masters they will sail till broken. We have spoken now we turn our faces towards the wall.

Sticky black mirror. Faces stuck to the walls. Again we bring the leaves, red, yellow, and brown leaves to matt the floor with. We cure banana skins into tassels that float on our heads in the breeze. Hundreds of feral dogs raid the town. Days afraid to leave the house. Tarot readings on cards made of leaves. Painted with nail polish. We shall frisk the breeze. We shall leave town soon. At the end of a long silver chain we shall drag the moon.

Coffee maiden whose full breasts flow with each step. Dressed in black satin, and crow feathers.

Why brisk? This risk? The settlement made of corn. And what bricks of beans. We can eat this place once we form a face. My lovely pets beyond the grave. We like lacks. Give me seasoned facts. in the end, we fuck ourselves.

Pulling the soft gray wool off of late winter crabs. They can't stop sleeping. Nothing will wake them up. Pull them apart, put bits in your cup.

Scrape the crust off the vomit prow and we sail again for musty mildewous parts unknown. A forest of soft dusty cheese. An island of flightless ducks, all fat on moss and ready for the plucking. Just pick em up and twist their heads off. A boat ride to islands of green salt. To forests of lavender scented trees. To empty islands of seagull shit scribed manifestos.

Black wrapped in lonely places

I am looking for Dice among the sugar/dirt kingdom. Convention of dead dance butter licked foul rotten kicks. I moved on with a shudder. I only stayed long enough to sell my last carton of rum. I realize the two ladies are observing the spirit deer that's shivering under blankets. Then I leave the way I come.

See media that track wicker library. Woven books checked out by leaving a box of cookies. Thousands of Incense Pumpkins burn warmly in Electronic shelter. My warm basks, suck in the sweet heat. Eating crispy baked cinnamon beaks. I buy a pair of bone dice for the price I could have sold the rum twice. Lingered behind for Night. Night dance wearing cheddar. The night is a moth collection, traveling populace holds a coffee. A nice place if I return someday it will be with a smile up my face. I can still taste the coffee when I dream. They bask in frowns in the nearby towns. No happiness allowed. Priest of future times street No Trespassing get the donation keep flicking back playing cards.

Party at the Wooden animal death factory. Acting wild feeling free. Pass the electric flask. Hands clap then dip in pants. Party Aftermath I feel attracted to welcome here cheer filled with adrenaline Owl mask. It's endless, where Nyarlathotep went, girls bent, the best Asian girl grinned. She of burning frisks. Swarthy, slender, hot bowls that I hand over to thrill other young girls. Special humus and ambrosia chips. Mind a puffball broke open to spore the air. Nyarlathotep, swinging into the platform and who knows a sharp quiet with antique vines of an approaching wicked toasted mischief. Was there an orgy? That morning there came a soft light-blue rain.

Awaken-mad3-death in the centipede-maize room. Roaring on a powerful high and running from a car length centipede that makes an eerie crying baby like sounds. There is a magnified dome above for the audience to watch the game. But when I look up I see only black glass. Half-seen centipede Horn's raid on a small gate of bones. Sensitive shadow writhing door brings me Red Horn. Light the fireplace packed with Neon peppers. The spicy smoke waters the eyes and drives the centipede away. Escape into a mosh/grope pit. Sea of hands to crotch and ass, both genders grasp as I try to pass. The Earth Grasshoppers stood there naked. Unsaintly filled satanic horror Cement covers the fields. Nothing grows but toe mold. Only scrawny dried up birds paddle across the sky overhead. Crispy, all the blacker my thoughts. An endless empty parking lot doesn't leave a lot of places to hide. The sky blackens worlds with sores. The wind curdles with storms. Oh just to be a lovely merkin! Flapping free with no worries. And no memories! So no regrets. Clams walk free with and disembodied hands and the grave is saved. But I escaped all the same.

Wait nervously warm back still A corn field. Is it safe here? An African lion calls in the dark night. He had to pick up a Gods dick in the darkened room He stammers. He looks into golden folded moldy coffee, stirs it back and forth. Playing with the latch of the wooden beak mask. Open up the strap and insert face. A long and strong beak speaks that now he is safe.

Escape into DEATH BY WATER, unsoothing unsmoothing. Teeth of lions. And vines of an approaching man hears all. The ear knows fear now.

The night is asleep on us again

The eagle perched on top a telephone pole. The knowledge spread out like cheese on the bread of discontent. A series of drunken attempts to put the key in the keyhole resulted in the extinction of two major animal groups. Sponges that soak up smoke. The terrible taste of morning wisdom. Mixed with coffee and biscuit powder the night fell asleep on our watch again. Running wild, running naked through the aisles of Walmart. The hunt is on. The parking lot filled with smoldering smudge pots. The suit of shellacked croutons, a hat of meager intentions. The lawn thin with gone gropes. Scary stares from withered masks. Cross your heart and vomit false facts. Be the antler in the beam of the nothing. Strange animals sound off around the corner before coming into view. Trance masks wallow in your velvet carskits. Funnel vision, the eclipse of all meaningful tasks. I am having my skull redecorated. Brutal murders over possession of bottles of drinkable water. Houses shot and stabbed out of life over a rumor they had steaks. Someone should wake the night up, it's getting reality wrinkled. All that long morning the children giggled as they flew clear kites, and set off muted firecrackers. Another church is burning, surrounded by singing children. The age of innocence has returned.

He never expected it would happen

1

Brian West slept in a drunken daze.Dreams sparking and dissolving. A long night of hard drinking, the last two hours of it a complete blackout. Now the sound of bulldozers and other heavy equipment wakes him with a loud gong strike of a hangover. His neck hurt bad, he slept on it wrong. A brutal kick of nausea jerked him curved. He didn't vomit. Not yet. He wrapped up in the scattered blankets and he tried to get back to sleep. Too much sound from the mysterious construction. Too much harsh light coming in through the glassless windows of his shack. After laying wrapped in the ratty blankets he has used since childhood for a few more minutes his stomach lurched again. His intestines felt like a coiled snake now striking. He jumped up, stumbled over the blankets that would not pull away but instead gathered in clumps under his feet. He puked a sour stream of vodka scented bile all over his door and arms as he reached out to turn the knob. Now outside in the horrible bright light. Puking up foam and little squirts of stinking acidic bile. His skull roaring with pain. It felt like the bones would break apart from the inner pressure. He tried to get a look at the construction going on in the field across the street. But the bright sunlight sent a feedback pain signal through this optic nerves that made him close his eyes in agony. He was so weak he crawled back into bed with the door hanging open. He clenched in pain for a few minutes and then he was in and out of sleep to vomit a few more times over the next three hours. Finally spent he drank a little water from the warm jug on his cheap and warped table he had stolen from a farmer's shed. Looked like it was half ruined from leaking rainwater and had sat there for many years anyway. Turns out the farmer never even noticed it missing. Brian owned no land and he paid no rent. He was a homeless drunk who had retreated to this grove of trees on unfarmed empty land that had been bought in mass by a land speculator some four states away. He grew up in the small city this area edged. Back when it was a small town. He had lost everything along the way but that wasn't much. Now he walked around gathering bottles and cans to make scant recycle money from. He found Native American artifacts along the river he also sold for scant money. He stole the rest and that's how he lived. The only reason why he got away with it is the town people had forgotten all about him. Even if someone saw him out walking he normally flicked in and out of there thoughts and dismissed. Only vague distaste for this shabby person flickered. On his kitchen table, three pumpkins were stolen from a near field. He had some other produce taken from local fields as well. It was his main stable of food in the warm part of the year. The jacket he wore in the chill of the night even was plucked off the shoulders of a scarecrow some kids had rigged up in a cornfield. A scary looking specimen. One blacked out night a few weeks ago Brian was chugging whiskey and pouring it into the scarecrow's mouth. A lot of time spent with the Scarecrow. Pouring drinks into the cloth mouth and talking crazy drunken talk. When he stalked in his late-night blackouts sometimes he would get sick and vomit out acidic booze puke all over someone's porch, or their car. Maybe vomit all over the backyard grill. He called himself Pumpkin mask when he drank to excess. And Pumpkin mask had no love for the people of this crappy town. A good walk about the country roads normally yields about forty cents in scruffed up change. It provides all his soda funds. He always finds enough change to buy a soda by week's end. Sometimes he even buys two. Brian was Pumpkin more and more often. He had a still can he stole the ingredients to run it from local sheds and garages.

2

Brian begins carving pumpkin masks from the shells of stolen pumpkins. Looking scary and sinister. Drunk mad eyes threw triangle holes. Blazing eyes. Gleaming blazing eyes.

An ocean of finger reefs

Delight the corn and shiny muffin darkness. I'm last to be kind. The glow of the after-furnace the grievance files piled to the roof. The grimset ghost. The only puffs that count here. The doctor of genital bumps. The cheddar-horn. The crescent foil flag waves above a scorched land. Red and Green cardboard cut out hands fan the breeze. Tumble like leaves across the new way. A new day and the sun is blaring down. Roast the ghosts in savory piles. Trucks bump down pitted roads. A plague of frogs. Flattened green scabs flake on the hot day lane. Shuffle yards in stranger's yard while the Man is away.

The ritual night of the Dream-Cheese

The isolated small towns have been building up to this for a festive week. A slow-building excitement. A celebration brought over from the old country. A holiday so old it's origins are lost in history. People dance to deer skin drums wearing brightly color beaks. The kids get to drink candied liquors til they pass out in a dream filled sleep. The adults drink hard liquors fermented in meat.

The slow sipping of the seasonal spirits escalates as the climax of the week-long event gets closer to the sacrifice of the cheese vessel. The evening begins with the loud clang of the gigantic bells in the town centre area. The burning of Man shaped bundles of vegetation in fields. The endless layers of percussion. Bells big and small, all sorts of drums. For those who have no instruments the clapping of hands, the beats of whatever found percussion is available. Plastic and metal buckets. Metal tools clanging together. Kids striking tin sheds with branches broken off trees.

No one works that day. Excepting the noble souls who prepare the festivities. They are rewarded for this time with a year of no taxes. But it's an elder selected group not just anyone even gets a chance to join. Everyone puts a blue mint cookie on the night side table to eat when they wake up. Special blends of herbs generate pleasant closed eye visuals as they drift back to sleep for an hour or two. Strange dreams.

The tea parade starts early. Many sleep past it. All kinds of teas on trays pushed by the prettiest young girls in town. Five bucks for a cup and a kiss. As many refills as you want as the parade goes by. Extra kisses five bucks. Plenty of competitive children's games. Boys boxing each other. The loser bloody nose and sobbing. Heckled by the crowd. Many boys pass the 2nd of The Five Trials of Manhood on this day. Snack tables replace the Children's sports setups. Buttered cheese and roasted grapes are favorites this time of year. Cotton candy laced with Pumpkin dust.

All the years' scarecrows have been gathered up and nailed to telephone poles. Later tonight the people will burn them up. A burnt human skeleton or two are always found somewhere in the county afterward.

On that ghost Train

Old black and white film. Train rolls down a track with a black background and distant reverb drenched railroad sound fx. Introducing our cute couple. The lady has a lumpy look about her. The guy appears to consist of cottage cheese pressed together and sealed with shellac. Black suit, bowler hat, boney wormy hand on her breast through a cat fur coat and woven spider silk shirt. A tap at the door with a raspy sound like a skeleton hand. Cottage cheese boy, let's call him Carl Zodi slides the wooden door open and a stale looking specimen asks for the tickets. Carl disconnects his suction cup of a palm from her breast to fumble for the tickets for four minutes while muffled conservations of passing passengers weave a dreamlike reverbed vibe. The inside of there compartment is so drab you basically don't see it. The couple turns to face each other groping and grinning.

The camera pans outside their cabin. A narrow hall. A pudgy Asian kid running but getting stuck on the conductor because the hallway is too narrow. Old dark wood. quality but it looks like it was carved a hundred years ago. The kid struggles to get free and the conductor puffs his belly out to pin him against the glass window and interrogate him. This goes on too long and looks uncomfortably sexual. Then he sucks his gut in and the kid is released with a plop. The kid flees, his front greasy with the Man's sweat.

The conductor slides open the next compartment door without tapping. We see him from the front. Face like an ashtray and just as blank of expression. "Ticket please", He intones with a voice like a fingernail scraping out bone marrow. The lady is knitting a thong and she has a redwing blackbird in a silver and tensile cage. Her hair blond with black, red, and blue ends, and they are starting to fade cutlely.

Side view of the train, it's made of wood. Clanking boxcars, even the wheels are made of wood.

Triple Nipple freak floss go pile and a half

The movie starts with a feeble old Man in a wheelchair being taunted by his daughter about the death of his son, her brother. He wheezes and weeps while she piles it on with hard green eyes staring like vipers. Cut to voice of murdered Man in the grave. "You must listen to me, only you can avenge me". Cut to scene of a sexy lady laying hypnotized on a couch while two Men fondle and interview her. She is telling him about her past lives as he unbuttons her shirt and unclasps her bra, now her full firm round breast is in his mouth sucking her nipple while the other Man lears. Cut to scene of an average couple. They are on the porch of a nice house. She has the voice on speaker mode. She is asking a Man about events concerning the murdered Man. The Man on the phone agrees to meet up for a talk. Now the lady is alone in a creepy house thunder rumbling in the background. She sees a gray-faced Man stumbling around outside. She pulls out her phone to make a call but the screen reads "No service". Now the lady, blonde, in polka dot dress and perpetual shocked looking facial expression, is at a dinner with a group of misfit teenagers asking the lady behind the counter what happened to Screaming Jack Johnson. She says that she heard he was devoured by feral children. Hollerin Jack cries out from his tomb, "Avenge me". The young couple parked in the driveway of the abandoned Johnson house to spend the night trying to find clues. While drunk on beer and arguing about politics they hear their car screech off. Running outside they see it rounding the corner. Stuck here in the middle of nowhere with no ride, in a no power abandoned house. Cut to scene of Jack Johnson at home with his family. Wife and daughter with red hair and a yellow dress. Another daughter of brown hair and orange scuba diving outfit. Looks like it's way back in 1994. The lady is wasted with the teens in the abandoned house. They find an old photo album with Johnson in several pics. One has him in the basement with creepy occult symbols spray painted on the concrete walls. The place has a moist look about it. Black mold that almost seems to form symbols. Spinx moths flutter, having been captured and set "Free" here.

To sit without seasons Reflections

And come to Mysteries Sleep. Cities slumber. Sidewalks become beds. Forward to south room with chalk patterns. The devil sagged before him. Tired droopy horns. Goat-like yawn. The sun forgot to come up again. Someone needs to get it an alarm. A Great Alarm to bring up the dawns red glare.

Pick scarabs from the dawn

Drought morning, the soft breeze just a trickle of rain on the plains. Drought flood. Grasshoppers eat everything. Rabbits overpopulate. Random cycles of a harsh nature god.

Sucking cotton candy like strands of orange from the sunset.

Stricken beacon lays on its side, gives off a flickering pale glow then dies. This issues in the dark days that come. A small town troubled enough. Build on bulldozed down burial mounds. Tiny bone fragments in the bath water.

One year we had a nightmare crop. The corn stalks grew tall and strong. But instead of corn, the cobs held human teeth. That's the year traveling salesmen made lots of money selling magical protection in the form of glyph weather veins.

There's a spring fest older than recorded time. It is still celebrated here in this normally straight-laced high moralized town. A town that still sometimes has public killings of the mentally ill because they are believed to be possessed by a Demon. A fifteen-year-old is randomly selected every year to by Young Corn God! This always means a jock or someone of handsome looks gets "Randomly chosen". Except on my fifteenth year they somehow, probably by mistake chose me. I had to walk down the bleachers past cheering jeering classmates and townsfolk, plus a scattering of outsiders who come for the perverse thrill of it all. I accept the still drink the Principal hands me. He looks a bit cross, angry at me being chosen. Not my fault, hell I would have dressed in better underwear had I known. Young Corn God that's me for the season, now I have to take off all my clothes on this stage while nearly the whole town watches.

I had never been high before that evening's event. I felt really good and a little sexy, my shyness numbed away by the mix of whatever drugs were in that horn. I think there was blood in it too. I pulled my shirt off, skinny arms, pale skin shining in the bright lights. Camera's flash. For years everyone shall have pics of my cock to show around until they are all are lost or have fallen apart from too much handling. My cock is as long as it gets without craning upwards. It looks big and full and I'm proud of it, excited by the gaze of so many eyes I know. I've seen others up here and I never thought but sometimes feared I would be chosen. Such a straight-laced we don't talk about sex in public community all year long until this ceremony older then our invasion of this land we hold dear.

Yestermorrow

I'm on my porch and its starting to rain. A few weeks ago the universes went insane. It's now a mix of everything. Chaos now and probably forever rules the day. Raining for hours and the waters are rising. My lawn is mostly a pool. The driveway is a flowing stream. The water smells and feels so clean. Like it can dissolve pollution on contact. I have been drinking it and I swear I feel a lot better than I normally do. I wash with it too. There's some crazy looking fish swimming in this clear and rising water. Wild streaks of vivid colors. Odd eyes and sometimes long barbed tails. Wonder if any of them are good to eat?

moist heat of the ruined prairie

School is so hot. Humid like you could squeeze droplets of water from the air. The air so thick with water You feel like you could drown. There's something wrong with all us kids. Something new and burnt smelling in the air. Like a Man smoking a bowl of chemicals and circuits, copper popping and popping spiraling smoke curling into the pipe stem. We sipped the first wave of the New Synthetics. Factory produced sweet drinks. The only thing real was the sugar and that was a few years away from replacement. The last set of bored TV staring kids with mostly unified TV programmed experiences. Later sets had cable TV and other media revisions to mix up and more personalize the viewing experience.

The texture of the times

Times are hard. I got a second part-time job. Twenty hours a week and it all goes to buy the meds that keep me alive. Being poor makes me live light. I have a tiny apartment that is basically a narrow room with a toilet behind a ratty hanging blanket at one end. My series of blankets that serves as my bed takes up half the remaining space. I used to make decent money at my job but when President Geraldl Ellon outlawed the minimum wage I had to take a three dollars an hour pay cut to hang on to my "job". The spokes Men for our new Christian republic said that prices would go down in a few months from the rich elite saving all that payroll money. Instead, prices increased and by the end of the year, nine percent of the population was homeless. I eat a lot of lamb's quarters. They grow all over the place and people just think of them as weeds. I raid neighbor's land late at night to gather them too. I also have constructed a couple of rabbit traps that gets one every nine to fourteen days. In harder poorer times garage sales are the main market. Folks who grow veggies sell them in they're yards.

Yesterday they finally cut off my electricity. This changes a lot of things for the worse. But maybe its a luxury I should had ended long ago. I squint at a paperback from my vast and partly unread collection. But my eyes are too fuzzy now at my age and its a headache-inducing strain trying to see the words. Either I shall buy reading glasses one fine day or maybe I'll just burn these books for warmth come this bitter winter. Probably I will do both.

Pagan Kansas

Driving rain like drums on the roof hour after hour. The driveway is a stream with water flowing down it fast. Rainy season is on us. Roofs rotting under the endless rain to drip drip drip on the sleeper's face. The drought becomes a flood. The pile of kidnapped folks traveling through and captures from nearby down in the woods. A pile of stinking death. Left there after last ritual ceremony birthday party. Now the bodies bloat and stink as if they have washed up from a warm sea. A breeding ground for endless curling maggots. Waving at passer's by with they're pale front halves.

Finally, it stopped raining. But it didn't rain another drop for three years. When the drought raged and so little product was produced and years went by like this. Eating towns. And the cities were even worse. Robbing killing raping. Starving in the streets. Hunting pigeons and rats for food. rumors of cannibalism.

Out here in the Fields

The great green wall is one of the wonders of Kansarado. This massive rectangle slab rises above the earth and is covered with grass during the summer months. The slab is a grey pink granite found two hundred miles from here and often mined in ancient times. It is covered with dirt and dust that the stone catches to keep the rich grass alive. The slab is filled with nutrients that are slowly eroding into the covering soil It is estimated that this slab was brought here twelve hundred years ago. This places it and the end of the classical Elven culture period that had lasted three thousand forty-six and a half years. One of the wonders of all is that the Christians who concured the great plains never destroyed this monolith, as they did many other Elvin sacred spaces.

The scripture of fevers

Ghost Train flatlands and glory, and blessing. To wander the fields..

Leaf freedom-loving pick em up and with greed and progress, a foil flag waves above and it's threatening rain. Vendor of the captured was a council of the throne. towns folk's signed honor and thanks seal. His is the unseen hands, finger on things. Bulldozers heavy. Turn our faces towards building, to a fever plume gone awry. Equipment woke him with prints made by children. I beheld, and behold a pale church in sight like all in the webs. Shall you Christians drone of knowing Forever sacrifice. These tear mills. It seemed to come as it were across the gym floor Ceremony. Write the wrongs the elders see. And They usually are suspicious. He Cooking marshmallow cheese with the most wealthy farmers. The boy was bits in your cup. Scrape and behold, a throne.

And I got lost.

Reading cards on the lawn. The first blessed Greasy songs of the elders dry, and they go. Invisible hand and forgotten holidays, crowns of gold. One of the pumpkins stolen from them. Blue morning Sleep settlement made of corn. The ranch is a chaotic grievance files piled to times and bruises my home. The beautiful future grove of trees behind the wall. Sticky black mirror on top it. And another angel upon him my virus of biological relations and they and fell before wood.

I, eternal was in space This to show off I'm soaking wet and dead I like it

A Circular Lost abyss canopy Ceremony thousand rooms and forage all. Modern synthetic latex Light Season of Nights three measures of barley. They, several hands across the sickle curve of yellow in the evening rain. One of the Missiles packed with genitals. They were things of the grave. We like lacks.

The Eclipse bird. Wove it on the throne.

Fat limbless bird. Two long stork necks allow the heads to nestle together with endless self-affection, Blue feathers. This bird sits on the thrown while the dictator is away. Rocking back and forth, weaving long bright sleeves for the king.

Woke up covered in leaves

I woke up all covered in leaves in the shelter belt near the Fonck street bridge. Must have been some kid's work. Older kids would have slathered me with gasoline and set me alight for a giggle.

Beyond the yields we know

Beyond the fields we know all is revealed its so. We appealed til it was sealed. Now we shall go, beyond the yields we know. Nothing is concealed now, its all revealed, we peeled the hills. Forever is repealed as the fresh winds blow. A blue truth beard is the weapon I wield. In a foggy spurting flash, all is healed in this windy field. So yeah its all set to go. Fields of pure snow and Man's sad go is now below it. Although time is built to spill it goes slow, soaking into the ago. The bones of Man a stones throw from the jam where all is planned you know. Beyond the places we've been, pull the stitches out of that grin, cascade into the night now.

The UnTour

The Ghost train ride

Late night rumbles It started in that spring when I began leaving the bedroom window open every night to feel the fresh breeze splash across me. It seemed deep into the night, around three I would be shaken in my dreams by a rumbling sound. Sometimes I would wake up just for a bit and the smell of jasmine would be rich in the air. I don't know how many times, a small handful, give or take a finger. When spring warmed into summer I would on nights off sleep in my backyard in my cot. Naked under a couple of blankets. Under the stars, the coyotes sounding in my dreams. That is how I discovered the UnTour. The Coyotes were really howling that night. Like wolves, and I kept waking up to the primal magic of their sound. The rumbling sound was coming closer when I woke up. The rumble really sets the coyotes off. A lot of them baying at the same time and that strange rumble that seemed to be coming from the other end of the shelter belt. That's when I saw the train rounding the corner into South field. The first thing I saw was a sorta a dark cone, like the snout of a prehistoric beast. As I focused on it I realized it was a long, carved wooden beak. Then the wooden boxes of an ancient looking train could be seen. I stood up from my cot, holding the blankets over my nakedness, my eyes bugged out in disbelief. What unseen tracks does this ghost train run on? It approached me and I was too startled to run. Clouds of jasmine incense billowed behind the train. I glanced down to see that bones had come up from the earth and this is the track the train rolls down. White bones clotted with dark earth and yellow stains. The train slowed and stopped in front of me. A wooden double door creaked open but I could not see anyone. I just stood there, unable to move, stunned by this strange apparition. The train just idled there, seemingly waiting for me to get on board. I looked in at the wooden room with black leather seats. Old fashioned ashtrays standing between the chairs. I wanted to get on board too. I could swear I smelled burned marijuana wafting from the opened doors. I was a statue of indecision. Finally, the doors pulled themselves shut and the track clacked away. The bone xylophone tracks receded into the ground. After out of site the air was spiced with a lingering jasmine scent.

Tough go of it during hard times Of course, I obsessed on the ghost train in the following days. Internet searches did no good. The next night it rained hard with lashing winds and I slept inside. My dreams undisturbed by a ghost train rumble. The economy was drying up and thus, so were the hours I got to work at Brush. My next week's schedule had me working 11 fucking hours! That means my electricity will be shut off, and my phone service. Things were looking pretty desperate and I kept thinking about that train. So what if I get on it and it takes me to some strange place I can never return from? I spent the next couple of nights sleeping outside on the cot, I don't have to work those mornings anyway. I used to be happy when I could afford to buy weed and get high and record music. But then the funds got too low and I was drinking whiskey for a cheaper buzz. Hell, now I can't even afford whiskey. I spend all the time sleeping I can and often when I have drained the sleep reserve dry I just lay in bed in silence for hours. Now I think about the ghost train all the time.

Get on board Maybe you only get one chance to board that mysterious train. But I planned to be ready if I get another go. I started sleeping outside every night. What would I bring? I don't have much of value but it's a normal thing to bring a suitcase on a train. I had an old suitcase in the back of my closet. I pulled it out, it took some effort. I kept the suitcase packed with spare clothes, a few of my favorite books, my collection of arrowheads and tools I had found over the years. My harmonica, a few other random items of personal value. I kept the suitcase under the cot when I slept. I would wake up to the sound of coyotes some nights. Once I woke up to see a coyote a few feet away from me. It seemed to smile with its tongue sticking out before it ran off. It looked back at me with that twinkling look. Times stayed sparse and I rationed my meals. The electro blinked out finally, the phone connection was cut three days after that. Then my car wouldn't start, I could not call into work to tell them my two and a half hour shift will end about the time I arrive. It was all over. I had come to the end of the road. I walked four miles to the liquor store and spent my last funds on a small bottle of whiskey. I drank it in my dark home that night, most of it anyway, chasing it with warm water. I got so drunk and I stumbled to my cot in the middle of the Farrel field late. this field is no longer used, sad sandy used upland. Some land speculator bought it to ignore and wait for the city to come to eat up the terrain and he will make big money then. I was asleep instantly. Again I awoke to the rumble and I sat up in my cot watching for the ghost train. I dragged my suitcase from under the cot and stood where I stood before. That wooden beak puffing incense out its snout came into sight and my heart went spastic! I took my foot on the first wooden step, it creaked all old and wise. I climbed up the steps and into the small room where the conductor would demand tickets to be punched. But the room was empty, no one here. No furniture but squares of cleaner space where some had once sat. Empty walls of multi-hued dark wood. The doors creaked shut behind me and the train started up. 'Hello! Is there anybody here?", I called out but no one sounded. The creepy thought of this train being empty shuddered over me and I went for the front of the train where the engineer should be driving it from. Down a narrow hall with empty cabins on either side. The control room at the head of the train had a scarecrow seated in the engineer's chair. Staring ahead out the windows of the train's cone snout I saw the train crossing the road, the dip of the ditch making a jarring bump and puffing on through the next field. Where is this train going? Is there any terrain that can stop it? Does it roll through people's backyards or cut through the city somehow? Cows stepped out of the trains way as it chugged on.

Cross country I still intended to find out who was controlling this train but I stood there transfixed by the slow night travel through these fields and over the roads. The closest it got to a farmhouse was the wooden walls of the train brushing the branches of the apple trees bordering a farm behind a two story red house. Now another harsh bump as it leaves the field through a break in the barb wire fence for a field access path for combines. Then over into another field but this one borders the river! There is a dike past this and the river itself! I pushed the Scarecrow out of the chair and got in, preparing myself for impact. The train went right up the dike like a jeep! The bumping and jarring were rough and it got my neck out of alignment. Then the train plopped into the river with a loud splash and floated to the other side. I was amazed, jaw agape.

Is this a prank? I finally broke away to look for somebody on the train. There had to be some people. Maybe this is some weird reality TV show using crazy technology to achieve all this. I slid open the wooden panels of each compartment. Not much room to hide but I did a short search empty cabin after empty. The sixth cabin had a Sony Walkman on the bed/seat. Headphones attached. I put it on and press the play button. The sound of Micheal Jackson filled my ears. The batteries are still good. I put it back down and searched some more compartments. Another compartment had a sun through windows faded Monopoly board on it. The pieces all were on the ground.

The window view The train went on, across fields and near small towns, but never on conventional tracks or roads. And no one seemed to notice this train! How can that be? Can't they see it? I was really tense and wondering what I got myself in on. The train moved just fast enough to make it a little risky to jump off of. I thought there would be a 17 percent chance I would break a bone if I jumped. I searched some more compartments. In one of these tight little passenger rooms, there was a lighter on the fold out table and an ashtray with a third of a joint in it! If this is a prank then fuck it, I'm getting high. I decided. I sat in the seat next to the window watching the train chug along the river at the edge of a series of lush green fields. Just smoking and viewing. I got so high, so over whelmed by it all I lay down on my back in the seat and the train rocked me to sleep.

First dream of the train's past I had a disturbing dream in that seat. In this dream, I am a bodiless observer floating a little above where my head normally would be. The train was a lot newer. A different look. Black and white patterned wall paper where the hall wood halls now stand. Young boys, ages around 6-11, are running down the hall howling. They are shirtless and their skin is painted with ladies makeup in tribal lines and animal fx. They have long metal tools in their hands. A light long rod with a sharp end like a spear. They are opening doors and searching the ceiling. On the ceiling of one cabin room, there is a pulsing three-foot worm. It's slimy body dimly lit from within by phosphorescent organs and digestive tract. A kid hurls the tool at the worm and it misses. The tool sticks into the fine wood ceiling, dangling side to side before it falls with a loud ping. Another kid rushes forwards into the room and he holds the spear with both hands as he leaps at the worm. He nicks its tail and the worm bulges and makes a high pitched farting sound. Colored gashes coil out its ass and the kid runs out into the hall. Another kid walks to the doorway and pitches his spear/tool. This one impales the creature in what appears to be its three section heart kinda like a red shamrock. The thing twitches in hard spasms, its length sometimes expanding to nearly five feet. A thick grease running out the wounds. Looks like a curdled milk mixed with Wesson oil. The kids flee screaming sharp grunts. They wait a little while and return to collect the dead worm. They wind it up on a spear tool and take it to the back of the train. They seem to have done this many times. The coal hatch glows red hot in the last train car. The kids put the snake-like worm onto the oven and instantly a bubble filled steam clouds the room. The kids don't run this time, instead, the breath in deep and seem to be getting high from the steam. After the steam dissipates, they use the tools to pry the worm off the coal burner. They use the sharp tips to cut the worm into little grease oozing section and they start eating. The outside is cooked till it's the texture of pork rinds. The inside stays soft and multicolored. The meat is mostly consumed with the remains going to the alpha kid who managed to spear the beast.

Another passenger

One warm summer morning, the ghost train stopped at a burnt skeleton of a depot and a Man got aboard. I watched in facination. I had seen another person in a few weeks at this point. He was dressed in an old fashioned suit. He even had a handlebar mustache. The Man curtly nodded to me as he made his way to the baggage storage section. He had two brown leather suitcases. Buffalo A way station

A gallery of reasons to give up hope and a crumbled biscuit

Dark along the folds. We wish prayers into the hole. We crush vitamins into the ruts. The next step stock footage and a babbling brook. A yellow vine sewed with satin braids. Sentient mole on my shoulder growls as it grows. Bring maps of lost roads, chase spirits across the plains of tea. Sent a blend of brain stems to me. I am like a biscuit in the friend, zen spastic phallic pin. Under moist roads. Tunnels to the bundles. Barony of piss, the road to the winter mist. The cheese like after birth of our disappointment. Cut the wires of reason with a nipple clipper. Gone beyond the sourdough wonderland fell 300 feet and landed in the meat of my hand. Yodel against your will.

The lonely party

Get greased to go blessed, it's the best policy. Like weeds outside the needs station. It's the way to go. I'll hit you with those wiggle beams, spin and giggle, jiggle those things. The night is like a closed fist on a plate of nachos. The sky tonight is like the gasp of a voyeur seeing more than expected. We press clefts and rest in the festering fields of monkey wheat.

Parade of future beaks

Baby skull rattles
Wrapped in colored felt
found percussion taps and clacks
by stumbling shamen

Pale spirits hung from
tree branches in the form of plastic bags
vegetable puppets dance from
strands of scented cobwebs

bonfire sigals burn on every hill
savory smoke curls in lungs
ripe for the ceremony
rubbing genitals against tombstones

Scarecrows crafted from sage smoke for days
peasants with flaming pitchforks
sexual cotton candy merkin
surgical graffiti in flaming spirals

unseen feet mock our steps
push through curtains of hair
sleeping naked on the roof
under blankets of fall leaves

Summer's veil

I followed the floating puffs of reefer smoke for a half mile.

I walked up to the sheer abyss drop where the overpass had fallen. Some kinda society is forming around the ruins below.

The local map changed overnight.

Garden filled with the fruity scents of intoxicating plants. The wind blew up her dress for a brief glance at nothing underneath.

I found an ancient ceremonial clay figure in the field. A Goddess.

As a boy I would follow along barbed wire fences plucking the strings like a dull rusted harp. Sometimes I would find a plate with a piece of cake, or perhaps some donuts on it. I would eat these surprise treats under the afternoon trees. I never found out where they came from. '

The people who were here before could save a breeze in clay jars. You break the jar and for a few seconds the breeze would blow out with the scented wind of a former age.

The civic Pyramid

Crypt shines on a great ziggerat barbed wire

Behind the Great Ziggurat is crypt of the dead elite, surrounded by black barbed wire. This wire is very infectious. Children have been sick for weeks after a tangle in the barbed wire trying to explore the forbidden crypt. Barbed wire painted with poisons cooked up by the priests who live under the great Ziggurat. The local bullies sometimes take a grade school victim here to push into the wire. Sometimes they shove and hold a kid against the wire and pull him along a ways, making many deep long cuts now infected. Death is common under such conditions. You can't see the crypt in the great stone plaza before the ziggurat but I have seen in when working the rich fields that grow at either side. Me and some of the workers sometimes speak when no other ears are near about how nice it would be to bust into one of those big fancy tombs. Throw all the bodies out, sell whatever is of value there and move in. Most of these workers sleep in the shacks the elite provide. Small cheap no insulation. They are more like wooden pens.

high-on the dream cheese

The Great throne at the end of the Shelterbelt. A clearing of trees and crops. I like to eat gooey sweet rotten Dream Cheese on that high iron throne gone green and red with rust. What are fields all around where once a city ruled by Cementhead and this was his throne. Little remains of that old city now. Sometimes the combine with til up a brick or a nail. I have found other more interesting objects walking this field. An old pure silver coin now bent nearly in half and scared up from combine blades. This is a coin from the old city hundreds of years old! Maybe thousands. I and the boys who lived around here used to beat the tall thrown with branches we gathered from the shelter belt. Dull rusting tones, different areas gave different tones and gritty details. Five kids whacking away in a rhythm older than our nation. Probably beats from our DNA from the common ancestor of us and the Neanderthal.

I was fourteen feet above the plains in that old throne so huge it has a built-in ladder. I could see pockets of fields over shelterbelts. Eating that sweet foul cheese and trying not to vomit. An hour later still perched up there like a hawk the hazy feelings flowed over me. I lay back with my eyes closed and watched the inner visions begin. At Maize Food Center Scarecrows This is a coin from the old city hundreds of years old! Maybe thousands. I and the boys who lived around here used to beat the tall thrown with branches we gathered from the shelter belt. Dull rusting tones, different areas gave different tones and gritty details. Five kids whacking away in a rhythm older than our nation. Probably beats from our DNA from the common ancestor of us and the Neanderthal.

I was fourteen feet above the plains in that old throne so huge it has a built-in ladder. I could see pockets of fields over shelterbelts. Eating that sweet foul cheese and trying not to vomit. An hour later still perched up there like a hawk the hazy feelings flowed over me. I lay back with my eyes closed and watched the inner visions begin: At Maize Food Center Scarecrows slowly work as guards and cashiers. They never sleep so the store is always open. A robber at 3 am emptied his pistol into a scarecrow and it did no good. The scarecrow just kept dialing 911. Second vision: Afternoon after god=playing percussion Below Ghost Town. I used to be in the clave brigade. When I was twelve me and six classmates played wooden claves after church. We played in the cellars below the nearby ghost town of Galko. Long sessions of clacks in the echoing darkness. Memories of it so intense. I could almost feel the polished wooden sticks in my hands. Last vision- Me and Aubrey on a night walk. As the golden sun comes up I grab her ass. I grab her breasts. Grab from the Dawn. w

Bridge-Temple- In the Empire of Cards

Night Priestess of the Clouds My Initiation in sex naked at the Horn. Swaying chanting, the de-flowering of young Males is always a ceremonial public thing. Smoking a glass pipe. On a couch while midnight voyeurs watched in silence. The pipe was filled with a rare tobacco that is said to be an aphrodisiac. I had only smoked a few times before. Bullied into smoking cigarettes as a kid. Behind this black leather couch was a great curved horn. Longer than the couch thick as a Man's chest at the broadest section. Remains of some great beast that had grazed here eons ago. Children are not allowed to witness this act. Deflowered on your birthday, Age 16, some of us are not even virgins at this point. I wasn't. Once you have been de-flowered in this ceremony you get to watch all the ones that come after. Even Woman age 20 on also get to watch. It was exciting to look out at the crowd as I approached that couch. Seeing Women looking watching me as I walked to the "Goddess" who waited for the copulation to begin. fucking her waiting Making Love most humid braless night. I did well that night. Shy or gay boys who can't commit are of lower class. Dumb help and combine fodder for war. Assumed gay and sometimes beaten and raped by horny drunken homophobic Men with tingly crotches. I sucked her nipples kissed fucked. tried out several positions to the uproarious laughter of the watchers. But I didn't cum....The sign of a Priest, warrior or outcast. Later days showed it to be outcast. Nowadays these ceremonies are video recorded on people's cell phones and put up on YouTube. It's not allowed but someone always sneaks some footage in. In my time recording the ceremony was taboo. this is Sacred. I still remember the taste of that lady dolled up to represent the fertility Corn goddess. It was sexy Misses Ralmond the third-grade teacher! I had her in third grade and I "had" her again as a sop more.

Chanting-snow-rain-rattling Rows of Scarecrows

I'm wearing my wooden bird mask. Taste my mask's clack. her nipples harden when masks snap. With raspy clacks, telescoping beaks shrinks back. Tongue stretches to flick the nip and taste her flesh. Hands clap. I whirl around. A breast blessing in flurries of snow followed by cold rain. Scarecrows are standing in a circle chanting with husky voices. Rattles or reedy words. I'm naked under an ankle length open cloak of feathers. Wooden sticks are clacked together, gourds shake. Three weeks of snow early in summer. This Extra season black as Combat Combines. Black dark moonless nights for three weeks. slaughterhouse of the Flat Lands where enemies killed in the rural town to town combine warfare are prepared. Hung naked from meat hooks. Cooked up for a victory feast.

The Dreamcheese bridge. Found Thorns winds? In folk legend somewhere along the river is a bridge made of pure dreamcheese. Before you get to this bridge you have to cross a field of thorns. The harsh wind sends a hail of stickers. A torrent of thorns.

South full view of the emergency center-Combat of the Corn Dream Lounge Goddess

The rural uprising of '34. The cult of the Dream Lounge Goddess rose to power. Took over much of the countryside. Then they invaded the city. Combines smashing open banks to loot the wealth. The city people fled when the defense was breached. Fled to the great Civic Emergency center that houses ten thousand. Fled like refugees. All these long years they had raided the farm people controlled prices and exploited their wealth. Today the city is looted and burned. Hungry people taking the vegetables they grew back home to feed their families.

After the Wooden beaks Drag a path

The priests in feather robes and wooden birds masks fashioned to break the earth, they dance ahead of the planters. Making paths for the seeds to be planted in. Young ladies follow behind the planters, head banging, their long hair lashing above the seeds like ripe golden stalks. Naked breasts suddering. A wonderful sight for the God's below the earth.

There used to be a massive soda factory, it made a lake of Taco Pop soda. They made so much that a solar-powered air-conditioned aqueduct to store it in perfect condition. Long after the city fell and the factory was abandoned that sweet-savory soda can be drawn out from far below ground. The legend of the Goddess of Soda was born here. Images of a pink-fleshed naked goddess with a soda can for a head are spray painted on the walls of the ruined factory.

When people kill a people they also kill their gods. Over decades the Pagan pantheon slowly dwindles.

Drought restrained by mummy shaman. It had not rained in fourteen weeks. Relentless heat and wind. The crops would fail the people would lose their farms. Have to make a desperate mass exodus. They took their woes to the mummy shaman who sat cross-legged in an underground chamber along the ten-mile barbed fence line. The humbled people offered up things best not to mention here and the mummies stared at them with living eyes. Lighting cracked the darkness that night and by morning a torrent of rain was falling. Falling falling. Two weeks of intermittent rain. The country side was saved. The mummy prepared the offerings rendering the contents into a clear liquid inside the silver pitcher was topped off. Enough sips to sustain the dead shaman another one hundred years. He had nothing but dreams and time. He crossed his legs and remained in that position for sixty years.

Nurturing girls dancing stood there painted her the More of toxic after one The Red Grasshoppers.

Those football sized red grasshoppers. Voracious and aggressive. They have been known to eat babies. The red spittle from these oversized bugs is highly acidic but a vibrant red. Dancing girls dancing naked in red grasshopper paint are a major turn on. The ladies who dare this decoration net triple tip money from the club patrons. But they can only wear it a little while, or it eats the skin and can reduce a girl who to bloody muscle and fat if the paint is left on for hours. Tying a Woman up and splashing her with the stuff is a popular horrible revenge.

Mask in the Fields smoking weed

A mass bird die off. Burning Ashes South field. Just the beaks remain. After the rain washes the ashes away the beaks lay scattered in the fields like black corn kernels.I'm wearing a mask made out of a watermelon shell. Star holes for eyes. I wonder the field collecting beaks. Smoking a delicious joint. I shall make a wind chime of clacking beaks. In the breeze again they will speak.

A finger. Side roads Leering bloody morning

Walking the backfield that morning I discovered a severed human finger. Dried blood caked to the severed end. Long purple fingernail tells me it came from a lady. It looked days old. I wonder if she lost it here, someone tossed it here, or maybe coyotes or other night critters dragged parts around while devouring.

Three fields beyond ours is the Agnostic burial Field. People who believe in something get whatever the belief prescribes. Those who believe in nothing are thrown into the wilderness to rot or are ground up for pet food. But the ags are buried unmarked in this field no one plants in anymore. Sapling trees pop up here and there, said to be the restless spirits of the ags wandering the earth still looking for answers.

That summer I ran away from home and moved into a tree house I found in the shelter belt behind the Fergus farm. I was living on watermelons from the old Man's field, and birds I killed with my slingshot. I had a lighter to make a fire with. I stole some neighbors clothes off the drying line to make blankets out of. It was a magical four and a half weeks. No one found me, or maybe no one looked. When the watermelons were harvested, by then I was sick of them anyway. And I didn't get any squirrels or birds for a couple days I returned home. My parents didn't mention my absence. But they were always pretty distant.

Weasels in the cornfield

Before the end of that terrible summer, hardly anyone had hardly even seen a weasel before. But they overpopulated and these where huge dog sized aggressive weasels. Breaking into chicken coops and eating all the birds. Attacking kids who played in the cornfields where the nasty creatures made home territory and defended with gorilla ambush and numbers.

Ziggurat with Seven Year Moon

Once every seven years, the Moon turns full and blue. A luminous blue that makes you feel high to see it. A huge festival is held in the huge ziggurat plaza. People dressed in blue. Vendors with tents and tables selling blue drinks. Traditional music played on replica instruments. So many kinds of candy. Drunk Men paying five dollars for a turn at shooting real guns at cardboard cut out enemies of the people.

Twilight under the Strange Owl mask

The convention of cards on Tyler. A field set up with pick nick tables where the cards are sold. No wind that day. Rumor has it Owltan will make an appearance to premier and sell his new tarot deck. Decks of cards, new used, complete, partial. just single cards that remain of otherwise lost decks. Bulk decks. One hundred duck dynasty decks for thirty-four bucks on bulk clearance. Kids buy as many decks as they can. They go home, mark the decks and put everyone's cards together to make epic card cities.

Owltans's Night and fog

We had to hide in the storm Shelter. Not old enough to see the "Nights of the great Stars". We find a dradle on the lawn, So Duane turns it on her nipples. I simple trick with great effect. Fireworks going off. Spinning gyros with bright gushes of flame nailed to winter trees. People singing songs they dragged out of back brain ancestral memories. Thick slushy drinks lots of sugar added to cover bitter intoxicating ground roots. Erections gathered around the baseball pitch dunk tank. Air mystic with exhaled smokes.

A thick blue tinted fog rolled over the land. yard lights made into a yellow beacon with a sea of midnight blue. Knowing the blue night was coming people would leave their clothes on hanging lines to air out and absorb the strange lingering scent of the blue night It freshens the house, windows open as the swirls of blue fog drift in.

Towns of our ancient ruins. The naked Revealed goddess. Its Spring, severed hands in a gourd.

When I was a kid our school still proudly and openly displayed skulls and other bones from players of other town's teams who were killed during a football game. All towns did it back then. Made legal trophy claim on kids killed in a brutal night of football. Nowadays you have to give the dead kids to their families so they can take them home to bury. The schools had to give up the trophy bones, but the more elite schools switched up and returned cow bones and skulls to the outraged parents. The real bones are no longer on display, the school claims no knowledge of their whereabouts.

The Long King Spider God

Secret Dark dark Shrouded biscuit festival. South field the world shelter belt. Late hour End Times Horn. the storm beneath leads beard of Shroud. smoking cities. Beard of shroud crinkles in the wind. A storm of fire and brimstone ahead of his floating sail.

Mask the workers. Television winter Final Holiday Machine. Totem Mask Disturbing dreams. A secret dark shrouded biscuit festival. After the mounds mating dance. The Darker clock. eclipse bird society-tribal-a long Belt Road. Every city builds a temple to the Spider God. Incense sticks burn in the homes of the faithful. The dreamers. Advanced technologies left able to survive with very little interaction to the physical world. An age of dreamers with incredible beds. Sleeping 10-14 hours a day. Living drugged and dreaming even during the waking hours. The great thirty years of dreaming began.

Everyone should in South we walked from driving to Warmth Great Mollusk side. Harvesting night-I'm Wearing antlers Raid on Drink. The neighbor's still yielded a drunken mad night. The moaning after midnight bones. Digging up a grave on a drunken dare. We re-assembled the Man's stolen skeleton on that nosy bitch's porch. An eon August madness. Warm dancing girls licked Masks. itself-human sacrifice-bells lower the red-hot iron Heat Death snake.

Dancing with barn now The haunted clothes off. where driven dance we late. bed opium the fields Dust Dreams Maize harvest" Strange churning =meeting in you, malevolent. Sucking her Bird.

Dark playing cards

The clack of Pitchforks. Chains on the Mad Man. Wrapped gifts, death penalty entertainment for the bored and pissed off of the town. Bleak Habits. alarm chimes our farm. before dawn, the sky blackens My bird. Darker Bullfrog Midnight south field holidays are instruments. She Carnival tin soldier rise falls on in the Kansas-green paint. in their Fucking her of grass Holidays. it was great. Flight on stalks the Mad Saints of walk.

The field- deer howling with Crows Requiem town antlers. Strange weather After the red rooms-The prairie in yellow.

Dead makes Thousands of walks. Scent the Deadfolk's Dice.

Raped Dangerous Great Alarm. death factory. night rape.

No Trespassing Times Gathering

As society broke down we tolerated no strangers coming around. dark political times where revealing one's ideology can get one killed. Things broke down faster and faster and some assholes started using homemade bombs to blow up vehicles on the road. Checkpoints, warrantless searches. Suicide bombings of Police stations. It was madness. Don't come around just got enough food and booze for me and the kid.

Rednecks standing with shotguns blocking the intersection with Sawhorse roadblocks. "Citizens inspections". Liberty, so something like that.

Cult Meeting at the old Maize Food center. Storing its stash of ritual drugs in the storm shelter expecting police or citizens raids. the shelter Surprises her. chill its Conflicts.

There goes Nowhere Manifesto'

drunk celebration burial. Biologic weapon Vines of Sudden shift Apocalypse.Weather control Breeze War from behind The Heat Field.

Dust bowl shrouded Ikipr Rises from Field

Ikipr shrugs off his shroud turn on Sets that grow Brains. wearing a Shrine to the workplace. Television winter Final Holiday Machine. Power pulses tills the plains. Why all these old life pattern's. It's time to mix it up. furry ducks waddle from the lab. Snake-like frogs with triple long bodies crawl into the new landscape, sometimes making long leaps onto trees with powerfully muscled legs. Up there devouring a bird.

corn god burned her nipples

Late summer dance ceremony, Celebrating the Corn God with his gift to Mankind, whiskey. A giant cauldron that the folks in the field dig their cups in.

When rules and laws fall, emergency center Stampede of cities. Vines of barbed wire. Dust claims the cities. Spring Sink Holes open under the roads. Wooden beak Sad Grey Embers. The city sleeps ten thousand years.

Don't be still, follow Pitcher Rituals in Dreamlands. The tall thrown on the roof, under blankets. The blankets are replaced every solstice. Pale skin shining in the workplace. Television winter mint cookie while watching the snow swirl outside, and it's August. I've got no furniture and I block all access to deerskin drums. The covered city builds a temple in the meat. The stars drip bright foams. Now the sound Black mold almost stood up. Black goo envolved gaining moving parts, emitting strange keening sounds that wake you up at night. He liked these declining rural years. Brack smiled about the small town troubled, shrunken in just enough to amuse him. Drought restrained his cheap and warped woke. His plans plummeted, his dreams were broke. I record music about the wrongs of the service. The built to spill world. If this is her dress in the corner and Ambient noises from her synths then I shall frisk the breeze. Prices increased and a few years away from finding my lost things in the last train car. He wears a Pumpkin mask when he talks politics. She heard that he was rain, he washes the ashes off all meaningful tasks. The guy appears to Give me seasoned facts. Salty logic in a sack. That ghost train stopped as I am recording the ceremony. A three hundred Women topless parade. Serpentine body rub the briefcase of the Bellly police. Seizing the first opportunity to give up hope. If there was a heaven, the slogan give up all hope view past these Gates would be on it

Mid-West Mythos Part Two