Raymond in Saigon #1
133
Section 1
ego in thousand piecesthe Beagle trying to chewbut it ain’t tastin’ good
trying to pick them up, and sort them by color, best I canbut it’s hard as they’re all white
so I sweep them under the Persian rugamong all the other piecesfrom all the other years
Tristan Tzara comes by, suggesting we should burn them in the furnaceI argue that ego pieces cannot be burned by ordinary means.It requires special handling, only known by the Mythical Guru in the Southern Mountain.We, including the pissing Beagle (Raymond is his name today), set out to seek and find.
Packing a blanket, some bread, and wine (Raymond is in AA, so no-no for him).Walking, far, it is, very tired, very tired. We are all VERY tired.So deciding to take off our boots and camp.
Under the blanket I dream about forgotten days in sun & wind & green eyed girls.Tristan brings out his chess board, trying to beat Fischer in his sleep.Raymond dreaming of his drinking days sniffing all empty bottles in hot pursuit.
Next morning, wonderingwhere we are, where we wereThe days we were so sure, and certain
Bread is soggy and Tristan tries to shave in the reflection from a puddle of dirty water.Not working in an optimal way, more of a sub optimal way, or rather stupid, some say,
I check my hour glass I found in Saigon just after the war. It is in French, so I am never sure.Tristan brings out his last piece of Belgian Chocolate, for him to consume in typical snob fashion
We three - on the mountain - no clue - what a farce!The alcoholic dog leads the way, a scent driving the poor creature, Up and Up!There is a house there, an actual house, kind of boring looking
And there is a guy inside the house, kind of sad looking, an actual sad guy sitting in his sad house, not doing much.Dirty dishes, empty dog food cans, Reader’s Digest, fuzzy dice, paintings of unicorns, cheap shoes.He is sipping on a beer with ice.His name is Pyle, a very quiet guy.We all look at each other in silence.
the guy had his walls covered by black and white photos depicting the same Asian woman‘Lustprinzip’ was a word that came out from his mouth, repeatedlywe were offered to stay overnightRaymond slept under the old Grand Piano, dust thick as the Arctic ice shell before global warmingTristan & I played poker, a few missing cards, few missing points, no big dealfire place cozy light, that crackling soundwarm beer and too old sardine sandwiches (poor guys on Cannery Row - no laughing any night soon - Verboten)
next day we were reborn skeptical - is this the Guru, really?Tristan walked back and forth like a copper on the beat. just needing some donuts to complete that picture.
Section 2
dreamy clouds passing by dirty windowstemple bells can be heardold donut boxes on the groundwater falling distant
chopping woodcleaning ricemorning gruel
black robeschanting Chinesebells and incense
morning drum swirls its tones deep in echocloth touching floortraces of turbulent flickering smoke
Section 3
Raymond sniffing the groundsomething is there?
the team enters grid search by the booksquare by squarethey sieve the groundled by this disastrous Hound
they only find old riceand remains of some Ancient Spice
this is disturbing as Tristan gets thirsty, hot day up in the cloudswe bring out the guy for a silent picnic on these majestic grounds
no one gets the wisercrack up my Man!
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