A frank discuassion of the state of mental healthcare in the U.S.  Solutions sought.  All solutions, not just solutions of chemicals, but solutions of word, deed, experience and change.

Avoide the Red hooks… are these distractions or sacrafices?  Or just the area of Brooklyn known as Red Hook.  Is it the police? Or theAliens.

Burnt offerings and the temple mount.  Is this a good idea?

Tell the Hemmingwayesque story of Cash and the 99 bottles of beer on the wall.  All of them lost but for the ones Most Def took as brackets to hold his negotiation with nothing.  Bad form and areal no no, but all the reast lost to a theif only the stolen remain.  THe key to the bank (Banks Key is Becks in bippty boppty talk)  The case of Canada one could drink a case of and thanks to three xxx it looks like a kaws dead Mingus 3 smiley Alien.  Prince to Joni.  Purple to blue queen.  Heart is given not sold.

Benzo is the new tag for Leopold Bloomberg.  Homer.  Eternal return.  What if happy ending is just a cocktail?  Or is it water washing me down?  I think I know but I haven’t written it down yet.3LEVATOR UP>

Like any good sci fi there are aliens.  In this case it is all based off a twilight zone… to serve man is a cook book.  The invention of money has to do with the deal made by the illuminati with the three eyed pyrimid shaped aliens.  Earth feeds its poor to the aliens and they spare us the species.  We become sort of sacred cows for the Aliens.  But the aliens like the taste like the Japanese love whale blubber and humans are a great delicacy….plus the aliens shit gold after eating us!  A hard bargain and a hard rain… the money hides in the alps.  A deal struck in Basel with the Devil.  Hitler yes, but also blip blip bloop the Alien embassador to Earth.  He hides in plain sight as David Bowie, or maybe a Japaneses school girl?  A K pop idol?  A moony?

Solvents and secret potions.  Awakening the multiple truth in the mind…. Sophie is and isn’t Male and Female, Korean, or Swiss, Red or Blue.  It is a digital coding of the uneverse into choices 0 and 1 being all there need be in its infinite combinations.  Metampsychosis and Joyce blood line and Royal line and one made in the sand define a triangle name a circle.
Ace Hotel is one node All ends here or some such hotel.  The hotel as metaphor for home away from home and the VonBraun CIA space station is known by the key holders as The Hotel

Hotel Romeo Fox Trot shall we dance Wagner Max Wagner  Jew Eat?  I destinctly heard her…  Not did you eat, but Jew eat?

Body of Christ Body of Christ In Imago Speramus

Smell of Napalm = Smell Gasoline = Victory

As falls Victoria, so falls Victoria Falls

Red Queen, Blue Queen, White Queen, Black Queen

Let X =X=x=x, etc.

A Good Place to Die one, all, and no one

Five easy pieces.

Call me Sophie

From the fire of my mind  I have brought  fourth or back this  infinite spider’s web… like an idiot Star Wars.  Portrait of the Artist as a Young Wooh man… stop.  Babble bablle in cipher and code.  2001 as a rom com tear jerker.   Sci Fi which we know sells mixed with high concept Jungian psychosis.  It cant lose.

Sci Fi in the manor of Vonnegut in Dresden… babes in the woods  Romulus and Remus Asops fables.

Sophie gets a choice here…dark and white  every tendril another possible outcome.

Literature as video game. Hub with many wheels Eezikial, but mostly Blarney

The idea where danial day lewis makes a pair of boots for Christopher Walkin who dances in Flourece to Nancy Sinatra’s Boots are Made for Walkin

Imagine everything is exactly the same only played by famous actors.  God is digtal surveilance.  Know all your choices are marked like Hansel and Gretal in the Forest of your own mind, time, space and spot in the universe, or verses, versus other verses multiverses.

Four endings this one the happy one.  OMegg

In this one Stanley never dies, Orson never dies, spalding never dies… all put down on glass like silicon Jesus reborn and rebooted.  These boots were made for Christopher Walkin and we are all Christopher Walkin, or not.

Mr. Delicious wakes up on the psych ward of Stamford Hospital and Mr. Delicious says:  “I don’t want to die.”

Mr. Delicious changes out of his mother moldy shirt and becomes Mos Def, or rather changes into the shirt from the day before.  Back in Black, he thinks.  Even Mos Def can hear Bad Vibrations on the ward.  A strange disturbance in the The Force.

He marches down the hall, past the nurses’ station, around the day room to the activity room.  There, the new clock radio is pinging away… a window open.

A paranoid thought dances to the front of his consciousness that this could be a signal.  If he can hear it so could an outside intruder, conspirator, whatever…CIA, NSA Google Glass Ninjas!

Just because you’re paranoid doesn’t mean that they’re not out to get you.

Twisted, drugged, limping in a rough footed teeter he returns to the glass cage and tells nurse Nathalia that something is wrong.  Nurse Nathalia is the precisely vague color of the caramel sauce on a vanilla sundae.  Her face the proverbial cherry on whole dessert.

“Something seems out of sorts in the group room,” he says.

“How so?”

“An alarm is going off… With the window open.  It could be a signal.  I assume it is.  It probably isn’t, but let’s assume it is a break out, or a break in?  What with Ebola as a vector, you know…”

“I’ll look into it,” she says and smiles and the world turns right side up for a precise toothsome moment of beauty.

But then she doesn’t look into it.  Instead, she sends Nurse Ratchet … not her perfect self.  Ratchet is Ratchet with an ass like a mini fridge but unlike Ratchet from cuckoo’s nest, she’s quiet and distant and vague and seemingly burnt out on crazy.  She’s not evil, she just doesn’t really pay much attention to the loonies any more.  It’s a job.  Like walking dogs… but less rewarding.

She opens the door and blamp blamp blamp it is the new clock radio.

“Thanks,” I say.
She shrugs.

I walk back up to the hall to see Nathalia sitting like a jewel in a  glass vitrine.  She smiles at me and all of a sudden life is infinite and worth living in.

“Where are you from?” Mos Def asks.

Harbor Point Nathalia said.  And Mos Def remembers the ALE chimney of the Yale Lock Factory and Jesus shot down in the street and Cowboy and the Lost Wax Residue paintings.

“No I mean ethnically.  Where are your PEOPLE from?” I ask.

“Jamaica,” Nathalia says..

“Ting.  Ting,” He says.  “There had to be a Jamaican named Nathalia on this ship.  Nice casting gentlemen… and Ladies.”

And then he walks on down the hall wondering who is playing her in the movie.

“She plays herself!  The Engenu roll,”  He announces to the surveillance equipment on the ceiling.

Maybe Mr. Delicious is directing?

Mr. Delicious wishes he’d packed a James Brown or a  Bruce Springsteen T. Shirt.  He has paid the cost to be the boss.  Maybe a Sinatra shirt… naaaah too Guido.

Later I ran into Prudence Le Roc, or Molly Ringworm, or whatever you call her.  Crystal Meth.  Prudence had on a fright face of makeup and pink silk pajamas and her fashion glasses.

She says in the phone, “I’m not going up to see you.  You owe me two dollars and fifty cents!”  She hangs up and tells me, “He likes his cigars, but he was supposed to pay me back.”