The influence of gaslight or electric light on the growth of paraheliotropic trees

Young Americans, raging angry imperials, orphans of history, cut off from the Great Dung Heap of Old World Memories — we are free to live in this brave new consumer’s world and buy whatever shit we think we want. Sweet Jane in Paris in 1974 — women on the radio, head of KCRW, doesn’t know who Lou Reed is — it’s 2009 in America. Barack Obama is going to be the President. Israeli’s are bombing Gaza. What world is this? When did we get here? How did we get here? I’ve got a little chemical pill coursing through my veins and arteries, interfering with my neurotransmitters, and its supposed to make me happy happy happy. Happiness is a soft pill — happiness is a warm gun — happiness is the right quote, the right reference — dancing around, young law student, clever clever, building up and breaking down great large intricate lattices of references and referents, listening to the song in the background and typing in rhythm.

Would it be easier to read if I had more paragraph breaks? Singular audience. I love you. Is it enough? I hope so — still — with such great and terrible randomness and chaos and cloudy future weather — where is the hope? what is the point of talking about futures? Multiple futures — are we living in the middle of the apocalypse — Sweet Jane with a Suitcase — Phish, Hamptons, March 6,7,8, here we go — $300?? Not this year, buddy? Primal Scream? DJ Logic? The music of my youth — things listened to in the first few years of the second fin-de-seicle, Glorious Moderns, Ultramoderns, Dance, Dance, we are dancers, Stonehenge was a rave the internet says —

The bright white LCD screen — traces of my thought sketched across it like my finger along the glass shower door — three chords — six strings — somewhere there is a crossroads — deep inside the omphalos now — sitting across from Old Mother, Somewhat Agèd, Simple Woman, Lovely Woman of Philadelphia, You are Loved, Mother, don’t doubt it — she is scared I will leave — leave and never return — I do not understand it — I gave her more years than she had right to expect — now, I fade away —

Do I feel cloudy? Is time moving slower? I feel a cloud, yes — is it just lethargy and tired slowness? The emptiness of purpose? The great hangover? My life is in shambles — the money that was supposed to come will never come — there is no answer, no exit strategy. I whine and complain. Urghh. Orphans of history. That will need to be enough to end it. Erhh. Ahh. Goodnight, night. Good morning, morning.

by Joni Mitchell

Woke up, it was a Chelsea morning, and the first thing that I heard
Was a song outside my window, and the traffic wrote the words
It came a-reeling up like christmas bells, and rapping up like pipes and drums

Oh, won’t you stay
We’ll put on the day
And we’ll wear it till the night comes

Woke up, it was a Chelsea morning, and the first thing that I saw
Was the sun through yellow curtains, and a rainbow on the wall
Blue, red, green and gold to welcome you, crimson crystal beads to beckon

Oh, won’t you stay
We’ll put on the day
Theres a sun show every second

Now the curtain opens on a portrait of today
And the streets are paved with passersby
And pigeons fly
And papers lie
Waiting to blow away

Woke up, it was a Chelsea morning, and the first thing that I knew
There was milk and toast and honey and a bowl of oranges, too
And the sun poured in like butterscotch and stuck to all my senses
Oh, won’t you stay
We’ll put on the day
And we’ll talk in present tenses

When the curtain closes and the rainbow runs away
I will bring you incense owls by night
By candlelight
By jewel-light
If only you will stay
Pretty baby, won’t you
Wake up, its a Chelsea morning

I place the white pill on my tongue, daily communion, self-delivered, this is my body, absolving me of one thing or another.