Nicotine...I swallow him, I incorporate him, I use him for my art tho' I cannot make use of him now...for it was Burton who discovered that particular high from some warrior pals at Pamona College, showed him how booze and nicotine could help create fabrics of conversation and epiphany, layers of false yet gorgeous insight, and isn’t that everything youth is anyway? Fabulous and false insight, high after high, “shoulders back and cock out!” But mostly it was our felonious assaults on night, how high one can feel on a summer’s late surrounded by friends on a rooftop deck, drinks and a small glimmer of pussy on the horizon, the Flatirons spearing endophysically to the west, the foothills where reared I secretly loved the grey nights of full moon in Boulder Canyon, where the melding of poetry and mystery would magically lay itself along the creek beds and I would get a feeling that there was nothing else but that moment, that somehow in a slice of prana everything that ever was or would be was present and radiating...
As to what happened my third morning in paradise...
An uncomfortable cushion, an altered altar, only 25 minutes to myself, something starved in the air...It was the fuckblack hangover...how many can one have and still have health? Moreover, nobody ever gets a single experience for nothing...sodding oneself night after night, even every other night, is to pisseth against the wind, upeth a rope...I knew this but in the birth of the cool, nisargadatta said “what’s a little vice like smoking?” Just something the body does and that’s wise for it’s outside of guilt and shame, outside the game, the calendar, the hordes and hordes of goyims...but I am controlled by my desires. I become what I behold...I will become desire; sultry, hot material desire, this is my body, this truss of grief, and I will transcend my very own cells, with Genocide and Holocaust I will wage a final wisend battle upon these concepts which now control even the corners of my mouth...pay heed to the providing of nourishment and to what a man seeks to fill how own mouth with....because I had Ramona in the brain, frontal and slender and biventral...I was infected with the way my eyes took in Ramona, how her color pulled my groin, how the signals traveled from eye to vas deffrens...and to think of the tittering copulate hair-blessed eggs and butter pussy she kept hidden from the sacrificers and victims...that it took men a half hour to sober up after observing a slice of her naked neck...like a tiger with insatiable craving, I wanted to have her for the rest of mankind, my relief inside her, their relief from afar...
I awoke that morning as her slave...the marrying maiden...the man leads and the girl follows him in gladness...thunder was astirring the waters of my lake aching to have a concubine for I was still leaglly married to the Nepalese Siren in San Francisco yet bent on oral copulation as a Eucharist, a lame man, a one-eyed man...I wanted to drink deep the sweethearts and muses...So I got up for the ritual newly acquired of cinnamon bread toasted with copius butter and bad coffee and NO newspaper for one couldn’t be had—even from the mainland a paper was at least three days old and unnewsworthy—I was suffering from not having my paper, which had nothing to do with news...for news is never news but gossip, opinion, slant, maneuver, and guilt...No, what I missed was the actual fiver, the grey fibrous tree pulp and the ink, the black mirror press of production...but I came from terrible paper towns, Boulder and San Fransisco, and so often I felt like a hurt child dragged by a burro through the myrtle as I browsed...Dinn! Noise! Give me the Times or give me dirt...But now in the morning, I’ll take a cup of coffee and a periodical, a daily, anything in the moment! In San Pedro town it was the San Pedro News out every thursday...inspired by fever and cancer and island woes...which meant very little news...and usually about 10 pages...so I sat at the table with a copy of the I Ching and fondled my junk and sipped the bad coffee white-ed with evaporated milk, which wasn’t all that bad a substitute for cream, which I took with no trepidation, as I was fond of dairy and digested it in a matter of mini-seconds...
-Michael Price
