(joined, like most things, in progress)...subscribing to the everybody's an individual idea, no total duplication, no two alike --I mean that's comforting, appealing, isolating somewhat, too, but really boosts the innovative aspect of being, even if those differences are small: on some scale AN ORIGINAL so this is in some part an(other) instance of paving the well-paved way to privilege and entitlement, and simultaneously this is a nod to a lack of exact duplications as goofs in attempts at exactitude; this time an account of:
When I was bread, I wasn't bread in the way in which anyone or anything else has been bread.
Definitely not Jesus bread, for instance, though I've had some of that; had I not had any,
had having some not been so powerful, I might have been saved from having to start with that staple of my diet, the daily that was served once a month, every first Sunday, and I might not have gotten to, as directly years later, interest in Salvador Dali's CORPUS HYPERCUBUS (Jesus on a hypercube --not that I could get a hypercracker into my mouth except in my imagination as I'm doing now, experiencing the yum of that).
I even came by the Jesus bread I had the right way (as taught to me by a half-dozen pastors including the one who held me in watch-care in a primitive pentecostal store-front while I was two-years in New York, fire
somewhere in the hand-painted sign), the bread always separate from the blood, not a chance for a good sop
but Sevress, who is God knows where right now, worried about being caught
halfway, Jesus bread in his stomach, Jesus blood about to stain his lips
(and when it did, he had me snap his picture
but I was picturing, because his lips invited this,
two potato halves stained purple for the starchy kiss-stamping I'd be doing all over necks
and arms to make it look like epidemics and bruises to shut down the school.
I am not alone in this; Scottish architects are condemning potato stamp houses
for their role in the death of imagination).
While Sevress was still half-baked, caught with Jesus bread in his stomach,
Jesus blood about to stain his lips, lightning (like a super-sized flaming Cheeto) would strike and split him down the middle, both heaven-bound and hell-bent
(light as a feather rising and cooked like a goose, an H2: heaven and hell or one-half 4H)
so Sevress made Jesus cocktails to stay out of that position
(from which he'd have to campaign for Rumpelstiltskin who finished waist-to-toe
as deep in the dirt as a potato
and head-to-gut as above ground as a combination bird bath and feeder).
Sevress mushed and pulped the bread, the Jesus crackers that is, in the blender
with the blood, sometimes topped it off with whipped cream, a cloud of Holy Ghost,
wheatgerm for a sprinkling of sawdust from the cross.
Magnified: a mess of splinters to spike the throat.
a secondary beard of neck stakes
kebab skewer hub
(and so forth till arriving at the packaging that sticks)
He sold way more Second Coming Juice than anybody else
sold Kool-Aid, even when Kool-Aid was sweeter (easily sweeter than hard to swallow
drink-once-Jim-Jones-in-the-name-of-oh-my-God drink, even when lemon and lime slices swirled around in it
like thin cross sections of salamander and chameleon heads
(it did look good, so good, I can't resist linking it
to stunted and aborted micro-galaxies);
maybe Kool-Aid was sweeter for not being crossed
(as it was in the mix with drink-once-Jim-Jones-in-the-name-of-oh-my-God drink).
Kool-Aid Man's House
was another kind of sanctuary altogether. You could wear a 50-hula hoop stack
of hula hoops there and be okay for looking like a psychedelic Michelin Man freak.
You could be praised for that. A sense of entitlement could start to take shape for that.
Sevress didn't have to see it to drink it or make it.
The Sevress Second Coming Jesus Juice was just half the story, thirst to be quenched
by the son of God; for the other thirst, the son of man needed a shot of Flaming Jesus
which had, as men need to have both alibis and aliases from time to time,
several aka's that covered the base bases, earth and below.
Jesus was all over wine, covered the grape fully; that was one of the first things you learned on your way to being religious.
Wine was the big part of a miracle. The state store was all spirits.
You can get alcohol by breaking down sugars.
You can call "alcohol" alcohol by using Arabic.
When I was bread I was part of other histories; I was connected to them when I was bread. I was a slice of them when I was bread.
After it soaked in Kool-Aid, I sucked a slice of Chameleon Head citrus dry.
I wouldn't have sucked it if the slice had soaked in methanol.
Methanol is wood alcohol and is known to be easy.
Known to inhabit volcanic gases, is nearby in organic decay; methanol happens
in the sunken cemetery chambers. Methanol is in space, almost 300 billion miles
of a great gas lake spitting out microwave radiation
--as if it learned its ropes from a cloud of Holy Ghost.
Sevress didn't have to see it to drink it or make it.
Sevress didn't see much of anything at all; methanol in his system converted
into formaldehyde for which the optic nerve is a toy.
For formaldehyde, the optic nerve is a gift, is a blessing
as understood from my awareness, since formaldehyde has none, has structure
that excludes it; I'm even aware that I was bread.
As aware as I am now, taken on faith in Jarret Schecter's Journey in Sight,
that a child goes blind every minute, timed to, slowed by half, the slow blink
of the caution light, where Seventh bisects Miller, after midnight. Wink, wink
not a minuet or a minute goes by when there's not a reason to salute Helen Keller,
Ray Charles, Stevie Wonder, Jose Feliciano, Dianne Schuur, the Five Blind Boys, the three blind mice, three children beautifully blinded by a holy light show at Fatima perhaps
--a show maybe based on coronal mass ejection not meant for the naked eye except to fry--
and Roy Orbison (not because he was blind, because he wasn't, but for achievement
itself, for what went on behind those prescription glasses the likes of which
Gabrielle White is entitled to wear,
in the news smiling, Fox news logo overlaying beige paper slices blistered with braille,
that her fingers crawled,
on her lap a year after shadows of young men definitely incomplete, one-dimension less than humanity,
doused her with acid
[that took advantage of its corrosive properties, its holdings]
before Gabrielle could get through a door that should've opened up in the atmosphere, just one facet of each link in a chain of prisms; her salvation rainbow should have happened
for someone like her, trying so hard to go somewhere else, somehow not arriving
in bitterness, one of trauma's primary tributaries; they are fraternal, not identical twin cities); Laura Ingalls Wilder's blind sister, another Mary, including Typhoid Mary, Mary Magdalene, the Virgin Mary, the Mary Jane Girls, Mary Mary: the gospel duo, and quite contrary, Miss Mary Mack Mack Mack, cousin of Jimmy Mack Mack the Knife.
Brings to my sliced bread mind part of, best part of sliced bread, a slice of Lorca bread cut with a quarrel of Albacete knives, magnificent
with stranger blood, flashing like fishes
on the gully slope
(as translated by Robert Bly)
Albacete: capital of the province of Alabacete; Albacete: a city known for scissors, daggars, knives
(to face the most adverse situations, as it says if you scroll down this page of nieto.
And when I was bread, I wasn't bread the way Lenore was bread in Closet Cases #1632, shown here:
And when I was bread, not only was I not bread in the way that anyone or anything else has been bread, no one knew that I was bread
while I was bread, so I definitely didn't get considered for the Here Is Your Life: Loaf of Bread Sesame Street honor shown here:
When I was challah bread,
this was my hand:
When I was challah bread,
I was challah bread because
of this stove:
~feast of the heat of an Empire~
When I was bread, I experienced ovens
more intimately than just reaching to put something in or take something out.
Hansel and Gretel's witch lived in a gingerbread house larger than but related to --it was an ancestor-- of the gingerbread house
I was allowed to make every year for the Shipp-directed junior church choir
(I was indeed a Shipper)
until word got out about the witch connection, and the house was condemned
for confirmed evil at the hands of a Tituba-type girl who could make witchcake, devil's food cake and angel food cake
with equal panache (God help her), who said predicate
and everything else, with generic white-girl / white-bread enunciation, like an incantation.
Here are some slices of a video loaf of the architecture of simmer
because something simmered for years before it popped out of incubation and my thighs
became two (necessarily, being twins) twin locked hope chests
numb to every effort to open them, all spells reworked to the hope chests' femur-rodded advantage, reinforcement of their purpose (extended, it's said, here & elsewhere to old New Guinea), vow to not repeat identically
what happened on Pandora's watch, her box almost emptied (her possessions and her identity were in the box and jars, too,
all her ideas rooted in her brain even when disease, when circumstance graced her with the likeness of the mind of a jellyfish, a basic yet, I understand, atypical --outside of the jelly community-- Cnidarian nervous system)
whereas these hope chests were full, solid empires; I could not move them:
This is a good place to share My Galactic Octopus:
This is a continuing brain thing, art and the brain, plus every now and then an attack of the nervous system, at least an adequate triumvirate. This is a continuing brain thing: art and the brain again. This is, among other things, testimony to Arts & Minds.
Ciao (dialect alteration of schiavo, [I am your] slave)
(from the dashboard dictionary).
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