all those great civilizations
walk back and forth with dazed eyes
someone forgot to give them their wake up call
they missed their flight
the one that intended to save them
guess we have some time
to bullshit musically
here at the end of our conscious stream
where the mutant fish
endorse all progressive hooks

all those bodies with bags
under their third eyes
the custodian is going to clarify all of this
if you learn to relax
the restoration committee is sending out the checks
balance with me on this fragile high wire
when the missile comes humming
i’ll show my learn to duck comic book

salvation will be moving in soon
as soon as it comes up with first and last month’s rent
make way for the big everything
a change swears its coming
if it can clear airport security
show me your wounded paper weight
paint me your discovered wonder

the old road just doesn’t recall where it meant to take us
meander along with me
in very slow tempo
i’ll assume any position you need
just save me a seat
i can fit into
without cringing

the big dance accepts debit cards
the soiree just turned legal age
no broke down dreams live here
they relocated to more affordable housing
i’m just a gypsy
rolling through a mine field
without walking papers
i’m gonna play my heart’s drum
a bit loud
tell the deaf watch dog
to put cotton in his ears

TAGS: ,

SCOTT WANNBERG was born upside down in the mythic commune of Santa Monica 57 years or so ago. At the time he told authorities he might someday behave. His final years were spent in Florence, Oregon. A manifestation of his interior universe is available from Perceval Press, called Strange Movie Full of Death.

He died in August 2011.

5 responses to “follow your consciousness as it streams toward the big everything”

  1. Yes, the big dance does accept debit cards. And the first dance is on my, brother. Wonderful work.

  2. I meant to say “the first dance is on me,” brother. But for that matter, the first dance could be on my…frontal cortex. Or perhaps on my microwave. Or on my front porch. Or on my Twister game board. Or on my future grave (whether that may be). Or on the shoulders of the masochistic midget that stands at the foot of my bed all night, keeping me awake by saying “Would you like that regular or super-sized?” Or that first boogaloo could be on the dance floor of my sick-dog blues. Or on my outhouse roof. In fact, we could do that dance anywhere, Scott. But not on my kitchen floor. I just finished mopping it.

  3. Simon Smithson says:

    I’m with Rich on this one, Scott. Here’s hoping Salvation makes it past the metal detector.

  4. Erika Rae says:

    You can save me a window seat for your stream of consciousness any time.

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