The Hunter Adom Wallace Collection – A Lyme-Brained Rhyme Game #9

Interlude
The
Hunter Adom Wallace
Collection


Hunter Adom Wallace

The following is a poem by Hunter Adom Wallace, a character I made up. Oh yeah, we bringin’ him back.

You may recognize the name Hunter Adom Wallace from the iconic appendix of Running: How To Torture Yourself And Enjoy It |The Unvictimized Edition|. He is essentially a different universe’s version of myself; he has a similar name, similar life, similar experiences, the difference being that he discovered drugs at the ripe young age of twelve, plus, he was only a warehouseman, and aside from his version of Running: How To Torture Yourself And Enjoy It (which is a dreadfully self-serious autobiography, the appendix of which appeared in the real Running), he only wrote two poems in his whole life. Never did anything creatively otherwise.

I wrote this poem because I thought it would be an interesting spin on my experience with Spiraling and my banishing of the Lyme demon. Plus, I get to work the Multiverse into a poetry collection. What’s fuckin’ wit’ ‘dat ?.

I know, I’m trying to make prose out of poetry, but that’s cool. It’s more interesting this way. For me, HOW, Hunter Owens Wallace, the Spiraling just popped in out of nowhere. I randomly figured it out one night. That is boring, there’s no story there. Hunter Adom Wallace, though, had a different experience. The Spiraling came to him in a drug-induced state of pseudo-psychosis, and I think that’s madly interesting. Please enjoy Corkscrew, a poem written by a dude who lived in a different universe than this one.


Corkscrew

Screw putting the cork back into the wine bottle,
I’ll guzzle while you whine
then do the same thing tomorrow.

Then I’ll smoke a pound of weed, take some shots,
snort some speed, shoot crack, still no relief
so now I have to grab some intravenous eL-eSs-Dee.
Or 5-MeO Dee-eM-Tee.
Or your normal Dee-eM-Tee.
Or some Psilocybin mushroom caps
strained into a tea.

Feel free to feed suggestions
that will give me some reprieve from the pain;
I won’t find it elsewhere ‘cause my brain
has Lyme disease.

Well, maybe.
I don’t know,
I haven’t been diagnosed by a doctor who sees me
less than a fat man does his toes.

Had it in fourth grade.
Got treated, told I was clear.
Then why do I feel symptoms after fourteen years?
Brain fog, nerve pain, shaky hands, gut’s clogged;
on the outside I look great,
on the inside I’m a slog.

The fact about Lyme is the corkscrew bacteria
that’ll burrow into anything of the bodily criteria
and hide there and feast
like you’re a fucking cafeteria.

The best part:
lots of doctors don’t even think it’s real;
all they’ll say is,
“Take this pill, let me know how you feel.”

But I haven’t taken pills ever since shit got real.
Truth is, since a week ago,
great is all I feel.
I believe I may have healed myself
thanks to Tee-acHe-Cee
and the practice of a skill
that I learned from El-eSs-Dee.

I call it Spiraling;
what you do is focus on a point
just outside of your perspective
(easier post-joint)
and you bring it in a circle,
ending where you started,
and depending on direction,
you may feel cathartic.

A corkscrew screws a cork
in a clockwise method,
so I countered the clock
feeling wise and intrepid.

I went inside my brain and saw the face of a demon,
a vile looking worm,
more teeth than a behemoth,
and I screamed, “BEGONE LYME!”
like a Lyme-brained heathen;
ever since then, my life’s been at zenith.

It’s kinda like the time I opened my third eye,
or when I came back to life after I was sure I died,
or the time I floated off my bed and literally flied,
or rather flew;
does this kind of stuff ever happen to you?

All my life I’ve had visions, seen my dreams come true,
been able to read minds, no matter how askew.
This entire Lyme thing really threw me for a loop
but now the shaman’s back,
screaming,
“FUCK THE CORKSCREW!”


A Mental Breakdown

What follows this passage is the other poem written by Hunter Adom Wallace.

What can I say, I’m complicated and I know it! I like to mix things up, make them all intricate, give them an overarching story. So, the thing about Hunter Adom Wallace is that he lives a life that’s very similar to my own. The only difference is, he discovered drugs at the ripe young age of twelve, but you knew that from the other Adom poem, Corkscrew.

This one is sort of like the last one in execution, but different in concept. The last one, Corkscrew, was me taking my experience with contracting and curing Lyme disease and performing a thought experiment with it: what if the weird stuff still happened, but I was on drugs when it occurred? In this poem, I go over some other traumas in my life and splice them with drug use; what if, when I cracked my skull open, I was tripping on LSD? What if, when I banished the Lyme demon, I was high on Cannabis? What if, when my foot was sliced, I was so drunk I couldn’t feel it happen?

Well, let me tell you: Hunter Adom Wallace, the guy who had all this stuff happen to him whilst dabbling with drugs, became convinced that drugs are mystical and that they exist for him to use when his life needs to be saved; that doesn’t sound too bad, but what this implies is that Hunter Adom Wallace is convinced that god, or probably God, knowing him, brings drugs into his life specifically in times of crisis, and his taking of the drugs is the only hope for his survival.

You see how that could cause complications in life.

If that sounds ridiculous, the same thing could happen to you and has been happening to humans since time immemorial. Take any terrible circumstance you’ve been in – an accident, family fighting, an eight-hundred-thousand-dollar lawsuit that almost made you homeless – and recount your experience dealing with it. Now, imagine you were smoking Cannabis as you were going through these hard times – you’d probably imagine the Cannabis was the only thing that carried you through it, the only reason things didn’t turn ugly. Or imagine you won the lottery when all that shit was going down, like, you won the lottery three times. You’d probably be convinced the money was the thing that brought your survival, not your basic human quality of smiling in the face of eminent death and damnation.

And even if you don’t think you’d fall victim to the way the human brain works, well, Hunter Adom Wallace is a little more realistic than that. He’s a human who got swept up in Psychedelic mysticism, the greatest metaphysical fool’s gold that exists. It’s a hell of a story; Corkscrew was his first poem, and this one was his last. Why didn’t he write any more poems? Because shortly after he wrote this one, he shot himself in the face in hopes his death would trigger an endogenous DMT trip inside his brain, allowing him to survive it.

Plot twist: he didn’t survive it. Because he blew his fucking brain out with a revolver. Oof.

In closing, this poem is the acting suicide letter of Hunter Adom Wallace, a made-up fictional character who theoretically once lived in a parallel universe.

No, I’m not on the brink of a mental breakdown.

Please, just enjoy the poetry.


I Forgot I Wrote This Too II

I’m all tapped out,
this shower ain’t fuckin’ hot anymore.
The tap water gets cold
by the time it hits the floor.
That’s precisely where I’m sitting.
There’s a tapping at the door.

Wait, no there’s not.
My cat died.
I can’t walk.
So even if someone was there,
and they had a box of sidewalk chalk,
a driveway,
some spray paint,
and mask of Guy Falkes,
I wouldn’t be able to answer
BECAUSE I CAN’T FUCKING WALK.

FUCK!

I wrote a book about running,
now I can’t fucking walk;
I was running by a riverbed
and now I can’t fucking walk…
I tried to step on some shale
and now I can’t fucking walk.
The shale disagreed
and now I can’t fucking walk!

I should really name this poem I Can’t Fucking Walk.
I’m writing it pissed off ‘cause I can’t fucking walk.
I can’t fucking walk and I can’t fucking walk
Because I can’t fuCKING WALK
FUCK I CAN’T FUCKING WALK!

I NEED A FUCKING PAIR OF CRUTCHES
JUST TO FUCKING WALK.
THE UNIVERSE IS A CHEEKY CUNT,
I CAN FEEL HER AS SHE GAWKS
AT THIS SELF-APPOINTED SHAMAN
WHO SHITS WHEN HE TALKS
AND NOW SHE’S FUCKIN’ LAUGHING
BECAUSE I CAN’T FUCKING WALK.

Fuck, now the bandage is falling off.
It won’t stick to my foot.
The cut’s an inch deep,
I’m officially a tenderfoot.
I used to hike barefoot and now I barely move a foot
with each step that I hobble
’cause the gash in my foot.

I’m not gonna lie though,
it could have gone a lot worse.
I probably should have died,
but Uni’s the fucking worst.
And by that I mean the best,
because I haven’t lost my life yet.
I’ve died more times than I can count
and she just be like, “Bet.”

So what happened was
I was drunker than a punk skunk
with a funk in the air
that smells like an elephant’s trunk
when the elephant is drunk too
and feeling some kind of blue
so he smells himself some shit
and says, “Pee-yew!”

So that’s how drunk I was,
and I dashed away from crazed family,
their issues are kind of stunning.
But yeah,
I needed to pee;
on the walk back I wasn’t running
because I was unable,
but seeing through my foot was kinda funny.

I was so drunk
I couldn’t feel
the shale cut through to the bone,
but I fucking felt it when my drunckle
glued the shit closed
and he and my cousin left me outside
to be eaten alive by bugs
while they went inside
and argued
like nuts missing their lugs.


And to think,
all I wanted was
to give my distant family a hug.

It’s like they think they’re the only humans with issues.
Like Jesus fucking Christ,
smoke a bowl and get some tissues.
Y’all have had it so bad
that you can’t stop bitching about it,
while I’ve had it so bad
that I won’t even speak about it
unless it’s in a poem or a book
that nobody will read
because I’m a bird in a cage
with no hope of being freed,
plus I’m an asshole who places blame on my family.

I really hope
the inch-deep gash
in my foot
doesn’t start to bleed.

Again.

This is kind of like the time
I was tripping and hit my head.
I died and came back,
a drug saved me again!
If I wasn’t tripping that night
I would have gone into the light,
and if I wasn’t so drunk
I’d have passed out from seein’
through a fucking inch-deep
fucking gash in the side
of my fucking foot.

No, that didn’t rhyme.
And I didn’t forget that I wrote this.
I don’t know who I am,
Hunter Adom or Hunter Owens?
I need to let some shit out
of the stopped-up inner bottle,
but I can’t do it if you know I’m venting,
letting rip at full throttle.

I’m fucking mad at Existence,
I’m pissed at my fucking parents.
I’m infuriated at my distant family
for their hearts so fucking barren.
I’m fed the fuck up with my cold fucking foot
and I’m disappointed in myself…
I really miss the woods.

I would go to sleep, but I’m addicted to my phone.
That first line was all that existed of this poem
until I stayed up ‘til half one with an ache in my dome
doing therapy writing;
better than reaching for the chrome?

First question: for whom is this written tome?
Real question: have I been dead for long?
Comfortable question: if I’m dead, how’d I write this?
Uncomfortable question: whose body’ve I possessed?

I stay by myself and get mad
over the fact that I’m alone.
Maybe the Dee-eM-Tee beings will visit
and I can read to them this poem.


This has been the interlude of the book Psychephrenia: A Compendium Of Thoughts & Poems Written By A Psychedelic Shaman, which is hidden in the back of the book A Lyme-Brained Rhyme Game. Here is everything you need to know about it:

A Lyme-Brained Rhyme Game

I’ve written a few other books, too. Click here to see the list.

The Hillside Commons has a Facebook page, too. Here’s that.

If you’re there, hypothetical reader, thank you for being there. From this day on, we move forever forward~

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