Fwd:

———- Forwarded message ———- From: Jon Sarkin <jonsarkin@gmail.com> Date: Sun, Sep 14, 2014 at 9:18 PM Subject: To: michael digregorio <m.digregorio@att.net> The door flew open to the sound of a boot breaking wood and glass. I knew immediately that this was not a good way to start my day. The intruder, I deduced, was not the bearer of good tidings. As I prepared for the sound of the boot breaking my jaw, a very specific thought, I recall, ran through my brain. It was like a cataclysmically spiking fever in its suddenness and relentlessness, and, although its imperation was admixed with the kind of noisy urgency that’s found in folks who’ve nothing better to do than plead with people to follow them on social media: e-mail me @ needydude@trivialwhining.com! follow me on twiiter @ #getalife! instagram me! pinterest me! etsy me! listen to me on i-tunes! call me on your i-phone! text me! be my friend on facebook! my space me! see my website! see my vine! i don’t know why this flashed in my mind as i awaited the boot to strike my face. it didn’t really seem to matter. at this point, i was gone, really gone, what with the harrowing, nightmarish week i spent in Elko still acid-etched on my head like a rabid wolverine lunging wildly at anything that moves. Does an animal in that state have any neuron that is not on adrenaline-stun, driven, riven haywire like the smell of burning hair or machinery overcranked, smoking a bluegray smoke that spells impending disaster and cacophonic, atavistic disaster. What the hell am I talking about, just stringing together babbling gibberish so that I don’t have to face my bleak future, writing this crap in an obsessive-compulsive jag, waiting for my boot-heels to be following. Yes, friends, the smoke-rings of my embered brain leave a smoking crater of macerated ideas, withered (and withering) concepts, disjointed prophesy, decayed innuendo, deconstructed meanings, lost chords, meaningless syntax, functionless workings, meandering arguments, losing debates, short-end-of-the-stick logic, irrational paradigms, elliptical patterns, and a sort the tie-dyed, patchouli-oily, earth-shoed Aquarian insanity that one might see at Dead concerts circa 1970. Ha-ha, kids! The dream is over! It seems like a dream that we *even* had some sort of dream in the first place. What were we thinking. Because of the dream’s nature, I fear we had no bloody idea. But now we must face *reality*, whatever the hell that is. Me, I’d rather fight than switch. Again, I digress. How many more times? But back to the boot about to crush my mouth. I think I know what this was all about. I knew it was a bad idea to deal with Savage Henry, but I really had no choice. I was out on parole from Chino, and my prospects were limited, dead end. I knew Henry from the old days, and habits like stealing cars die hard. A friend of Henry’s Diamond Dave, was doing a dime at Chino at the same time I was there, so like a fool I looked them both up when I was in Elko. OK, I traveled to Elko for the expressed puropose of hooking up with them. Like I said, I knew the idea of working with them was foul, but my better judgment went out the window, disappearing with the west wind like so many geese. Jesus, did I just say that? Or did I just *think* I did? Flashbacks are impossible to lose – I guess that’s why there called flashbacks, They’re always gnawing at your sinews. Just when you think they’re gone forever, the remissions erupts into a fulminating wart of psychic queasiness. — Jon Sarkin jonsarkin.com