| ZYGOTE IN MY COFFEE.COM |
| ***BIO*** Bradley Mason Hamlin lives in Sacramento, California. His poetry, short stories, and articles have appeared in several small press books, magazines, and literary journals in print and on line. Brad & his wife Nicky own Mystery Island Publications and publish an ongoing in-print literary pop culture magazine called: Mystery Island Magazine. Recent work includes the editing and formatting of Tough Company by singer/songwriter Tom Russell, featuring: Charles Bukowski. Brad is also the creator of the metaphysical crime series: Monster Zipper, featuring the Intoxicated Detective. For more information about Hamlin and other wild things—visit: www.mysteryisland.net |
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| CAPTAIN CRUNCH ON MUSHROOMS |
| by Bradley Mason Hamlin |
| Getting buzzed and getting into a fight with my own shadow ghost, but never wanna hurt anybody—other than perverts. Listenin to Iggy sing about skull rings, fast cars, and hot chicks … Drinkin Jack La Lane juice & vodka iced and checkin out all my wicked swag; G.I. Joe with the Kung fu grip, Major Matt Mason & the Outer Space Men, Gumby, Robot from Lost In Space, a Hong Kong Phooey lunchbox, and a crazy-looking stuffed Bozo.
I won Bozo on the Santa Monica pier for my girlfriend Nicky. We got drunk and laughed and had a swell time, even though the bumper cars had already fallen into the sea from a storm I hadn’t caused. Bob’s got to hold that hamburger up high all the time, that ain’t my fault either. Whatever. Drinkin cuz wuz brought up stupid. My brother said I should buy a gun. Yeah. Maybe let nature work it out. But my favorite knife is made out of Chinese surgical steel. Gonna chop some pineapples, baby. Bust some ice. Can you hear them? The evil pink Heffalumps that lurk behind the refrigerator poke out their snouts and whisper … you’ll never make it cuz you’re too damned drunk … Edgar Allen Poe drunk-dead in a cold Boston gutter and no one could really understand most of his shit anyway and Charles Henry Bukowski dead from corporate tobacco and drunk drunken ghosts haunting and no one in Santa Barbara knows who the fuck he is/was/will be and Stephen King quit drinking just before the mask of madness became permanent. The squeaky demons laugh, but they have always laughed. Ignore them. They say no one knows who the fuck you are. But they say that to a lot of people. You have to disregard them or you’ll go barmy. I ain’t no alcoholic. Alcoholics are assholes. Betta ast sumbuddy. My wife just offered me a shirt and a drink of water. She wants me to live 100 years—even when the world is dark and pitiful, but she is super hot in bed. Fiction is pigeon shit for the blind. I bleed from my third eye. I’m fuckin hyped on juice and mushroomed memories. And Edgar Rice Burroughs is a badass mother fucker. But all I really need is that Bozo staring at me from the display cabinet to keep me rooted in this reality, might not be the reality or even your reality, but it’s a good one. Links me to her and she is better than I. I once ate mushrooms in Santa Cruz on the top of a mountain at night and stared up at the crazy dome of the universe, felt the awesomeness of creation, felt small but important and overwhelmingly lonely. Secret things happen when we’re not looking. The underworld could take it all away while you’re at work selling zapatos or making coffee. I felt despair because we didn’t evolve into nicer people. The republicans got it wrong. The democrats got it wrong. The communist and the hippies don’t know what the fuck they’re doing. Anarchy is a waste of time and energy. But Bozo made me laugh and Nicky made me love, not just from heart but from gut, where the kahunas know the real magic comes from. Laughter. Love. Water and a clean shirt. I will kiss her now and the angels with ray guns with sing again. |
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| Sept. 2006 |
| 67 |