Bilocate — part six (room number excursions in commemorative prophecy) & oneiric composition One

. . . continued from Bilocate—part five (room number countdown to jingo-time)

(Psssssst! oneiric composition One listens from the bottom . . . )

	Westward! Infinity wasn’t that long ago. Let’s remember:	

7/5:

	Hazard lights & downpours — anxiety gives chase. Pull off & digress onto a suspicious backroad to wait out the storm by searching out a Hound Dog Memorial Cemetery advertised on a local attraction exit marker.

The road narrows. Lining flora deflect the squall except in portions of open sky that dump occasional troughs like sudden fits of slobbery weeping, waning only under full-summer’s branches. About five miles in, still no signage. 

The sky is churning. The region feels historically edgy. Turn around at a crossroad & get the fuck back on the main hwy with the hazard lights again that now seem more approachable — mere rain takes a steady lead. 

The molecules are low to the ground. Cold scents are a professional hobby —  

as are overreactions.

	Wander the frontage road looking for a restaurant/bar with a cheap-enough menu, though sometimes it also takes a few distilled grains to decide which protein to order when the recourses are hard to swallow. 

You see, the drinks let you surrender to the basic options left from your surroundings. 

The bartender enables another when you order the food. By the time the actual meal shows up, you don't care anymore — it’s simply about cuttin' & chewin'. 

Order one more, as you sop up the last of your compromise, just to fill the forever-void & forget how much more you just paid to not remember any of it.

Plus tip . . .

7/6 & 7/7:

	An auto dealer’s full-service customer lounge offers a special on guest-kiosk Frito pie but not filter & drive belt replacements. OK the parts & dwell on the snack. 

Streets here have aliases like Napa Valley Boulevard & Cocoa Beach Esplanade trying to refract from the reality of what & where they actually are — in-between facades / simulated dreams of neither.

Rest up & take whatever delusion you can get. It’s about need, really — wherever you don’t end up after an ill-timed repair to wherever-again . . .  

7/8:

	Laughing in a heat wave sprint towards lesser worth, ponder BBQ, sensing it’s close. 

Also, consider if, at times, you’re possibly rabid — but, just subtly, ya know? 

Anything is likely in the current clime. Please keep in mind, from this late date forward, that your number may’ve almost come-up — unexpectedly already — in a future grand stupor. 

It’s happened . . .

7/9:

	Acquitted by absence, the sun openly arrives. Air laundry by keeping the curtains closed. You did your time — once or twice — or however many. 

Enough wasn’t, then, but now it is. Please continue starting over. 

7/10:

	An irritating 108° to a monsoon 73° swings manically on the way to a depressed crash-pad just off the steaming ribbon to green chilies & grays.

Then, back to 108°, but less annoying in a nineties-rock themed grill under a/c & across the bar from nineties-rock deep-fried expiration dates rocking nineties dos, cranked & lapsing as they wait for their assumed-escorts to 180° from their who-gets-who trip for a bathroom stall chopped-rock confer. 

7/11:

	Return to the scene of an infamous wig fire, awarded with a one-night-only reprieve of shattered glass & a strange blue confusio who’s — no surprise — not in a chatty mood & smoking more than ever . . . 

7/12:

	Kit Carson's bastard ghost roams the motel parking lot while transient ants climb over the majestic national candy. A recreational sidearm stares at the unnatural beasts while they overpay for control of-&-at their leisure & let their bloodline run into various faunas’ ways — including yours. 

You take a stumble too far — nearly in the wrong direction. 

Ironic endings are overrated.

Probably.

oneiric composition One:

	The following oneiric composition began with this initial instrumental variation, then took on words to become a recollected melody called Willow . . . 

( . . . which, if baited with a click above, includes another song derived from these oneiric compositions titled Lost — PLUS! my air of The Cars' Candy-O! — a three-ditty digital seven-inch released by Merge F'n Records in 2012! & still available for purchasing purposes (Vinyl sold out — sorry!)

. . . you may read on with this serial with Bilocate — part seven (lighten-up & go thrifting for subterranean stars) . . .