6:17 am

By Brian Pop-O Flannery


"I love the smell of naplam in the morning." The slow death march. No fear of sparklings of claustrophobia. Two canadian geese flying south for the winter. Translucent figures weave in and out of consciousness. Like a dutifully stiched quilt by a coven of pure Amish ladies. The cobweb patchwork of neural nets becomes alive as the neurons fire,cut,ripple,non-bullet time, back and forth. Vibration, shaking metallic wheels clang on the tracks. A young boy looks out the front window within the first car. Wet leaves add excitment to the ride. A mini hyperspace people, buildings, trees whisk by. Speed faster then light. Inherently equal to the speed of a sloth in its alter jeklying-sub-warped muscle-ripped enhanced by steriods universe. Galloping, running, walking, crawling, wiggling, rolling-over, kicking, sucking thru stardust increments, creeping notions of etheric particles. Time stands still yet the hands of a clock keep moving. Quantum flops, sub-atomic nanospores become visible. Numbers one thru six begin to drop Dali style. The small ink pools dance like naked virgins ready to be sacrificed. They try to yell for help but realize they have no mouths. They try to t2 morph into a mouth but with no neural network, can't formulate a thought. Gently stirrings and low mumbles, silence is the mandate. Carved in granite with blood and soul trappings. The eleventh commandment dismissed by Noah's angel once the dove brought back a twig. Ny, U.s.a bought from Native Americans for a half days hunting raid by a Nyc mole dweller. "Ahmet- "Ah, yes America! My name is Ahmet. I studied philosophy at Harvard for many, many years. But actually Oxford is my real Alma Mater. I've also studied in Vienna. Now i study here." Post, Times feed clothe rekindle most. Chirping birds are even still asleep. Their rem blips are of earthworms and crumbs. The white dimpled, rubber core, ball goes into the hole, a hole in one. Two hands come together, a light touch of fingers clap back and forth. Blue chip stocks are down, the private sector is targeted for unprecedented growth. Splitting atoms, four horseman of the apocalypse, droplets of cyanide. Emp to stone age, Fred Flintstone bombs. "Tricks are for kids, silly rabbit." A one armed chimps afternoon enrichment activity unbeknownst to Phd rocket scientist's. Thankfully no broken parts, calmities upon this speed machine. "Ahemt- You see we all come from the factory. Sometimes the factory makes bad machines that dont work. They put them here. The bad machines dont know they're bad machines. but the people at the factory know. They know you're one of the machines that doesnt work. I think we have spoken enough for today." The smell of aftershave, sex, baby-powder, herbal essence, dove, chanel no 5 permeate, float, linger, suffocate like cs gas, causing double time tears of a red sky in the morning saliors delight. Musings and maskings. Hops and barley creep into the mix from late night journeys, jaunts, adventures, silent shadows make friends with the weary. A stirring of thoughts fluctuate biorhythmic cycles of loops, valleys and criss-cross, weave, dopplengang, encite, blaze a hodepodge of psychic energy pockets. Psychic traumas, claw marks, scratches, nocturnal energy vampires feeding on blood red emanations from one's auric forcefield. Sleepless nights turn suits into hunched up Squirrel nesting tribbles. The sun peeks out of the trees. "Ahmet -Good morning my America Friend!. There will be trouble if you go this way. A good turk always walks to the right, left is communist. Right is good. You must go the other way...It's good." A quite contemplative look out the window. "Ahmet- to know oneself is to know God. My friend. The factory knows. Thats why they put you here. You'll find out. Later on, You'll know." "Billy- I already know. I know that you are a bad machine. Thats why the factory keeps you here. (Lowers his voice) You know how i know? I know because I'm from the factory. I make the machines. I'm here to spy on you." Last stop Grand central station.


Brian Pop-O Flannery still lives in New York.

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