Let’s not be candid in our talk of “Enlightenment” or “getting it.” For I have a friend, weary in spirit, suffering bouts of omniscient grooviness from which he has no control. Touched by an angel at an early age, my friend revisits his malady at each full moon: he is the Awarewolf, painfully transforming from man into pure energy beneath the pale moon light, simultaneously aware of everything, everywhere: A weeping Internet of the Spirit tragically lacking divine capacity to order, to ingest, to fathom, to search itself as “I or Everything?”: He is drunken, paralyzed, electrified by full-spectrum knowledge and stimulation; becoming one with the electric chair: His nails turn to prismatic laser, his hair doth shine like a color changing Christmas tree: uber-fiber optically, as light rips from his back, beginning to vibrate so furiously, humming like a proton-pack, he shines a light, from inside-out, into being just as the ether surrounds. For every full moon, he retreats to the 5th floor of the Sunsphere, the sole attendee to his malady’s reception, dancing harder, and harder, until electrolytes electrify, and light he becomes, self-contained by his own reflection, finding truly for himself, “a place in the sun.”


The Old Lady ages backwards in my brain, oscillating between Time and Space, with every crease of her smile, every roll of the brow, a chameleon of eras giggling like a wet cake: the Amoeba of Brunch, primordially voguing like an acrylic butterfly: striking the airspace of one arbitrary and epoch Life’s Royal Pond, flapping wings of archaic, yet hauntingly familiar, vernacular: The churn of her wingspan beating a vision of Time and Place long-gone, of Light throat-sang through a box fan, that remains the foundation of where I stand, resting just beneath where she hovers and whirs: Somewhere in between Old and Young, where age has no meaning, and Awareness’ fingers play cat’s cradle with strings of gut, where Fairness wrote no score, and Justice held no tune, plucking a drone of whale-song, a sonic lighthouse of nautical stealth: The One, that warms my Core, that threatens Its absence, that burns like hot coins beneath the skin, that kills like wet socks, that is blasted in the Lobby of the Womb, that was my Number that spelt my Name, that was called that caught my attention, that I can not yet understand, but glacially cruise through Lots and Life, humming in step, between the blades of the fan, strutting toward the guillotine with an apple on my head, proud as “I Am.”




Somewhere between the Scopes trial and the Golden Corral, I lost my mind, yet found it again between the pages of the New American Journal of Phrenology: as a man of letters, I seek to know myself, so know thyself, as the present is concerned, and jump from there: call me Dr. Know, Dr. K-en-O. According to the claw, the inside of my mind is just a fetus in utero, kicking and floating, in a reservoir of amniotic tears, fed through the umbilical cords running from my eyeballs, thriving on stimuli, until one day, crunching, squirting, and sliding out of my mouth after my teeth fall out, like they do every night as I dream, to walk the Earth in search of Bacon. Perhaps she was right, perhaps this world really is just, “School For Babies,” but in what other world could a man such as I attain, and violently cling to, a 4.0?