A very Special place to record the BBB
Beatnix.
Bum trips.
Indiana Jones air.
Mr. Blue crouched in blue-on-blue polka dots,
dust in the seams of the slabs,
massive rock narrowing into throat tunnels.
“This is some Indiana Jones shit.”
Wooden walkway—
percussion.
I start singing with it.
All right, all right, all right.
Cinnamon night.
Choose your aura.
Choose your sword.
Bats in the rafters like
Apex platforms
Sweat baptized the forehead.
Pyramid power.
Graffiti theology:
Everything happens for a reason.
Love you.
Inverted hot tub of stone.
White-lined chamber.
Aligned to something older than Hades.
Heavy emptiness.
Solid vacuum.
How do you make nothing weigh?
Pump energy into it.
E equals MC squared.
A star isn’t solid.
Still massive.
Light shaped like papyrus.
Stack it high enough,
aim it right—
teleport.
Sarcophagus empty.
Maybe it worked.
Heart against feather.
Pass and return.
Fail and crocodile.
Find your body like a video game corpse.
Mask.
Name above the door.
Don’t get lost.
Without the body—
diffuse.
Unbound.
No ego.
No edge.
The body is the focusing tool.
Magnifying glass for the soul.
Native Americans sang their exit song.
Private rehearsal for the final breath.
Arrow, bear, blade—
sing.
Carry the self across.
Belief builds the hallway.
Last thought opens the door.
Ten minutes in,
heavy space in my bones.
Unibrow humming.
Do the bats leave our way
or a secret one?
Maybe teleportation is real
and we’re annoyed about it.
Slide down granite.
Thighs shaking like Half Dome.
Electric lights hum now.
Breeze with no fan.
Dance room.
Just us and our shadows.
Knee twist.
Elbow hinge.
Stone listening.
Inside a hollow geometry
that looks exactly
like you always imagined.
Echo.
Whoo.
That’s how it’s done.
