Bub Affourtit / Blog

Ra. Ra

Of Stardust. To be swept up by a rip-tide in space-time. Charmed into a swarm of spirits spinning apparitional storm, Day's neophyte, waxing give-us peace from pain, and Lil' Wayne. Merry-go-away to Ra, Ra. Ring around the Belle. Rum is Red, pieces fallen dust doth rumly set. If divinity were courier, ovate her salutariness. From dust to dusty, sneeze, to "bless me," viscous misty viscous subsistence, Miss, through dawn eternal felt. Amalgamated pieces fallen, Fell, Into a solid. Falling centrifugal Toward Ra, Ra. Ring around the Belle. Perfection in the well, Where trickles Turnouts, ends, through furrows of frown and pound the walls of memory, say flux it, Heraclitus Shrugs, Then all at once. A toll. The populous, on knees, have dropped. To weep and speak in tongues. The pounding of your everything has sounded. All is well. Abre los ojos. Warm is Ra, Ra. Ring around the Belle.


"San Francisco"

Early morning light twists falls back into my stasis. Lyin' in a pink bed in the girls dorm, Globetrotters Inn, San Francisco. Foggy eyes embroidered touch with a soft focus glow, of heaven or the beginning of a day-dream. Green metal bars between me and her above, bunk beds and trucks unloading exploding whale-blubber bags onto red wheeled carts. Out the window stood tall the glorious Hilton Hotel. Staring down my divide, wretched me and my roach infested hostel. Closed glass doors perfume spins like pink cigarette smoke following me. Inside halls, walls clad with millions of bronze-tinted sepia-toned mirrors. Just so everywhere you look: you can see how good that new coat you bought looks. Outside reads signs strapped with white string to hobos' chests: "Poor, HunGry, and worst of all..... Sober!" With black beards and bowler cap black beanies shoelaces brown on toe flapping shoes. Walked by them with grimace, scrunched brows hundreds of curled wrinkles above glittered eyelashes. Gucci sunglasses half-face covered. Loui V. Bags, "I need some cute shoes!" excitedly tugging the sleeves of their chubbier companions. No spontaneity in a scripted world. Turn the corner beat-boxing freestyle flows, heads bobbing in square shaped rhythms. Turn another corner pear shaped piano laughter, hip chick short black hair. Jazz type sip frothy passion-fruit tea talll glass magenta on ice. Sang on flats, and sharps, disharmony that matches wits with the dark-skinned grit city, angular strides sweaty palms and as smooth as cream batter. San Francisco streets map like broken glass outlined and contracted, positive-negative shatter between buildings and streets. Crazy Horse gentleman's club sponsors call at me, I feel like I'm back in Mexico; spattering voices overlap. Each getting louder and louder. Haight st. crazy burning orange paint drips, this is where it all started. Smoke shops and hydroponic station offers for fresh greens, oregano in black zipper backpacks. Now a photograph to make a tourists being there a reality, snap flash, patted on the back junior with a wry smile. Were they ever there? 1960 college professors exploring rainbow curled matter shrines, lost the need for their eyes, questioning the gray vignette space between the physical world and the one in their minds. Now lies on sine wave foam under-bed discolored on the footstep echo sidewalk. But they still know more than we know, asking the right questions at the wrong time, I guess we're not ready. The park fog illuminates like white brick phosphorescent rectangle lights in elementary hallways, walk in line: red tin lunchbox's clank against knees in unison all across America. Hare Krishna tribe bellow steady beat on giant congas and timbales, with happiness so obvious its almost seductive. I take a pamphlet, fold and pocket. Feel cold dry-blue shoulders of ghosts pass on lines crumpled sidewalk and yellow stickers on orange taxi cab windows. I've gotta get out of the city. BART train under sweaty streets backlit posters reading "Thank-you" in 20 different languages, resting over sad faces worry about future plans for happiness, they don't know it don't stop. Sittin' on the dock of the bay, guitar streams with medicine bottle blues slide ring as I wait for my Amtrak bus through San Jose, sun sets to my right red upon my cold dark window heading for Santa Cruz.