Let Us Now Hearken One Week Prior To The Day When I Did Soar And Shit Over Some 50,000 Lovely Burnouts
Good and fair citizens of Los Angeles I have been travelling, shitting and soaring abroad for a number of months. I have many tales to share: some good, some not so good. A few are downright dull. Such is life, I suppose. But at long last the autumn air, a sporadic lust for cheerios and the scent of Metro 217 diesel call me homeward, their songs growing louder by the day. Believe me when I say that I am now making my way down the coast, at my own pace: Back to the land of milk and honey. I have stopped for the night at truly a gravy of a find near an odd place known as Hearst Castle. The salt of the ocean breeze both flavors my nightly meal and cools the marble of this fortress which, might I add, is rife with tourists. It is here, then, that I recall a mere seven days ago in Golden Gate Park I did soar and shit over some 50,000 lovely burnouts. The Summer of Love, ’twere called. I recall now the meadow filled with wrinkles. Patchouli seared my (wee) eyes. I recall hare krishna, hare rama, the pees of tee, the corona car, the teller of destinies, the dead which many were, for reasons unknown to Chiliburger, grateful. Let us look now even as we prepare for my imminent return.
(Cousin! Take note and please have prepared and waiting upon my arrival a line of safflower seed, manure and lime sprinkled with pizza crumbs (here and there as available) as far as the eye can see. Shall we say 4th and Main? I bid you godspeed.)