the stick-man speaks

       Terrified(my shaky-lines lacking utter surety's perfectly-pixelated 3-d form,) outside my built-not-drawn Townhouse, my green cactus-tri-piked hands clutch an assuring brown-business-case in 2nd grade-raptor Jurassic haste, off to the coffee-house to play Picassoesque chess, and then into the Television to save the alter-artist's ever Theatur-smouldering many-holed chimneyed house from chaos theory, Count Dracula, and Tyrannosaurus Rex.

        My eyes are marker-blue, and child-like, too.  They have no prophetic, dot-plotted, arcing point-of-view.  But, nonetheless, I use them to find my wallet and keys, as well as my super-nova dark sunglasses, and just as importantly to read Life, Time, Stone, and other sundry Sunday magazines, and also to watch fleshed-out human Mics who like Ike reap-and-sweep the perpetually stormy megatropolis of news in real-time, each of countless dope-box "talking heads" always  ornately made-up and powdered-and-detailed, not scrawled like Guernica or myself; I do confess some passing envy.  

       But think now, he-who-spins-the-news-man, could you even in dreams lose that nightmare-diamond-pinned-tie, or flip-back back your crazed crayon-green locks and leap from flipping sketch-white page to page to page?, in ecstacy switching roles, now crying dots of baby-blue, then vintagely yet dangerously new: melodically deranged under a bright yellow top-hat doing the Dick Tracy-tango with a stiletto-barrelled tommy-gun to background Dracula-B jazz, and your own sparkly-baritone flashing a sonic search-light in a now 3rd world Gotham where flooding gasoline gifts the only rainbows and deep-freeze-hate-labels are assigned like grinning-glow-kool-aid red-skull-targets and dreary-sworded war emblems, which entice a sordid etherized smile just in time for a still-life hospital race.

     My sparking but plugged-in psyche now provides the natural grapes, bananas, candles, oranges, green star fruits, etc.: the 'snow-white' hymen-red-apple offers its sweet flame to the gasping, frozen grecian urn for long and languid lease of some curving inches' space on her sanctified, canonized contours, where we could pacifically co-exist and charm new Keats, Sutcliffes, Klauses, Byrons, and Shelleys with our neo-romantic green-bolts and noir-fever lesions.  Interest is growing in this deal, and I for one am much relieved.    

      But even outside freak museums and death's head glow clubs, in this zooming blue lotus-flower cosmopolis, there must be sanctuaries from the constant-cutting machine-noise and tangled crossings of fires.  There must be somewhere love-calmed tantric flames and productive, (no fang-work required) career opportunities for claw-drawn stick men like myself.  After all, we're not so much devious as corruption's contrary; merely needing to occasionally-enchanted slip through sulfur-bath-cracks at times to find Xanadu-trances.  We're drawn and raised by fantasy-fired children, not yet monks of 3-D and HD, also by the sometimes sweet-and-sensitive citizens of psych wards, sometimes by insecure monsters looking to be feral and multiply.

     Me, you could call Al Africa or Sean Nelson, energy-dreaming stick-man.  No, I don't see all the angles like Jonny Depp,  Kurt Cobain, or wild-eyed Agassi. But sometimes, Orpheus blesses me with just one unique-angle, or allows me to dance a shimmering tango with art-dreamt or life-flush, warm-blooded 3d women again.

     But cold Dr. Kali in her short red-trench coat(whose heel-prints briefly flame the new-black carpets as she scolds me,) says I'm not ready for Shivaaic stimulation.  Even so, she's lovely loyal to such languid-loyal stick-men, round-toothed were-wolves, tower-dreamers, and shiny-stillettoed lime-light-lounge dance-oracles, as she takes under her magic-red-umbrella for a cosmic-cruise on the warm-oceaned card-hall-decks of the labyrinthian steel Mothership S. S. Karma.