i am a chicken man/ i have a chicken tan/ from all those hot hot months in mississippi/ the sun burned and ravaged my skin/ everything felt like hot tin/ i did not question the heat i let it be/ i did not hide from the sun under a tree/ i embraced the heat/ covered my burnt chicken skin with a sheet/ my skin felt less and less like felt/ until i felt it no more when i started to melt



 A day, a month, a year, a day.

Everything is there. everything is on my foot’s flat bit on the bottom. All of it. My thoughts and his actions collide. 

I type. I think. I distract. I don’t. I cross my feet. Why do I cross my feet. The illogical creeps up from beneath and calls my attention. I will not type. The illogical calls me again. The illogical. The Illogical types. The illogical thinks and acts. The illogical puts on a shirt and a bow tie and some spiffed up shoes and goes into the podium to on the spot introduce the writings of the caveman. The seat is empty. The illogical was wrong. The sock. The sock. Around the clock. There is a couch in this town. It is much too soft and too bright and too patterned. No one ought to sit on for any reason. It is not a straight nor a curved couch. It is a couch. There is a table. The illogical grabs my foot and pushes me. Everything. I spin around in a circle or some round shape. I become the clock. I am time. I am. I. I type. Are the shoes of the illogical the key?    

        Spiff is the word to use when you want to describe. Why shoes? When you instruct and when you help, you restrict. Nothing “,” is ever.

I make the illogical again. I take my shoe and hit the podium. I Manifest. I manifest. I read what I have written out loud to the people. The ink is green. The ink makes me sick. It is all in my fingernail I swear it is. I pick it out. It’s gone. 

I cross my feet and the illogical was there all along and the illogical grins and spits and puts out the illogical’s cigarette. And now there is a mark on my ankle. I am grounded to the ground. I am ground. I sink.

I fly again to the sewer to avoid what I want. It is. I have shoes that bounce far. My shoes are the kind with green laces but on the inside so that you cannot see them when I turn them on but they also have springs on the side and all along that boost my vertical abilities and allow me. Another day. I am a patient boy. I wait. But then I do not. Because I am I wait. Also. 

The illogical appears I say I do not know you the illogical says the clock has struck. I walk away. I have condemned the illogical to. 

The illogical tells me how to survive. It is. The illogical walks up the bottom part of my foot. This is the part of my foot which is all hardened from walking. It is the part on the back, near where my foot intersects with my leg, but on the bottom. I have dug into the hardened, unfeeling skin many times with a mechanical pencil or tweezers or nail clippers in order to scrape away some of that unfeeling skin in favor of its hidden feeling children deep inside my foot on the back and the bottom. I always reach the feeling skin just in one area, so that it hurts but I do not reach my desired effect, mostly because each time I do this, I realize that the goal for which I am always striving would not be what I expect, a less crusty back of my foot, but would instead be my inability to walk due to the extreme pain caused by the sudden removal of all the protective layers of skin on the part of my body which most needs those protective layers. This is how I think. This in my foot is where the Illogical resides most of time. This part of my foot is shaped. The skin is yellow and covered by a black sock now. But in the story it is hardened and the feet of the Illogical with the spiffed shoes feel hardened concrete under those shoes, the ones whom spiffed are. This imagery of the bottom part of my foot could be seen as a mountain or hill some kind. If you are the type to analyze that type of thing.

Please do not think that I am crazy, because nothing I write is true. Or so I would say if I were that dummy writer. Believe me! I swear! What I say is 100% and is not just the story truth but it is really the happening truth just as it has happened. I have described every possible detail of the events which truly did occur. I’m not a postmodernist scumbag. And that's a fact. You can take it to the bank and check it for authenticity. They will only reinforce my sentiments there. Also all my mistakes are on purpose. That is my defense. 

The illogical has taken off my fingernails in order to inspect them more fully. The illogical has mistrusted what I say in order to make me understand better. It doesn’t work. I do not understand. Another day.

Holy mountain.

Why does the illogical wear shoes if the illogical is really made out of the goo from which they make the shoe. Who is they? Who is they? I think, honestly, that is the one on the TV. You know, the one who goes “XXXXXXX” and then reads the line about weatherman. That is where it is. I know they all know each other and throw parties with cocktails and illogicals of their own except their illogicals are kept on real leashes not just feet. And also their illogicals can help them think. And also this is not all how I think I am editing how the words come out as I go, I cannot help myself. I am not. Of course the weathermen do not have illogicals, that would be illogical. They are THEM. They are. They. They know me.

Another. My couch feels just wrong on my back. It is too kind to allow me to fix myself. But then it is letting me be free? My feet are higher than my self. Also I am not on the couch but on the brown leather chair with my feet below. They are my connection. I am the ground. My phone is to the left. Echochamber.

Holy Mountain.

I swear I’m not crazy.

I manifest you. I manifest me. I had to connect back to the title sometime. Back to the hard part of my feet, just kidding.

I am in the sewer and I search for food, right? And I find a little scrap of bacon with black pepper on the sides. But hear this, it isn’t cooked, right? Yes, so I take the bacon, put it on my shoe with the green and the springs and the oven and the grease, you remember. Right? So I cook the bacon and I eat it and I also see in the cave as I eat a caveman who is drawing on the wall in brown paint and the caveman calls out to me. I ignore of course. He cannot be trusted always, you know that.

The illogical flies. Manifest me. I pick my scabs.

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