A Lyme-Brained Rhyme Game

|Front Cover|Introduction|I|II|Interlude|III|IV|Conclusion|
|Psychephrenia|I|Interlude|II|Back Cover|


Interlude
The
Hunter Adom Wallace
Collection


Hunter Adom Wallace

The following is a work of poetry written by Hunter Adom Wallace, a character that I made up. Oh yeah, we bringin’ him back.

You may recognize the name Hunter Adom Wallace from the appendix of Running: How To Torture Yourself And Enjoy It |The Unvictimized Edition|. He’s essentially a different universe’s version of myself; similar name, similar life, similar experiences; the only difference is that he discovered drugs at the ripe young age of twelve, plus, he’s just a warehouse worker, and aside from his version of Running: How To Torture Yourself And Enjoy It (which is a dreadfully self-serious auto-biography, the appendix of which appeared in the real Running), he’s only written two poems in his entire 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 mean, I get to work the Multiverse into a poetry collection. What’s fuckin’ wit’ ‘dat ?.

Yes, I’m trying to make prose out of poetry, but that’s okay. It’s more interesting this way – for me, HOW, Hunter Owens Wallace, the Spiraling just popped in out of nowhere. I just randomly figured it out one night; that’s boring, there’s no story there. For Hunter Adom Wallace though, it came to him in a drug-induced state of pseudo-psychosis, and I think that’s madly interesting.

So please enjoy Corkscrew, a poem written by a dude who lives 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-MeOh 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 still 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 on
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;
and ever since then, my life’s been at zenith.

It’s kinda like the time that I opened my third eye,
or when I came back to life after I was sure I had 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 one 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 very strange experience with contracting and curing Lyme disease and performing a thought experiment with it: what if the weird stuff had happened, but I was on drugs when it occurred? In this poem, I go over some other traumatic events 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 that I couldn’t feel it happen?

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

Yeah, you see how that could cause some complications in life.

But if that sounds ridiculous, well, the same thing could happen to you, and has been happening to humans since time immemorial. Take any terrible circumstance you’ve been in – a car accident, family fighting, an eight-hundred-thousand-dollar lawsuit that almost made you homeless – and recount your experience dealing with it. Now, imagine that you were able to smoke Cannabis while 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 out ugly. Or, imagine that you won the lottery when all that shit was going down, like, you won the lottery three times. You’d probably be convinced that 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 that 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 is 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 that his death would trigger an endogenous DMT trip inside of his brain, allowing him to survive it.

Pot twist: he didn’t survive it. Because he blew his fucking brains 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 on the door.

Wait, no there’s not,
my cat died and I can’t fucking walk.
So even if there was someone 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 thing 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, 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 lacerated
gash in my foot.

I’m not gonna lie,
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’s just 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,
I Naruto ran away from crazed family,
their issues are kind of stunning.
But yeah,
I needed to pee and on the walk back I wasn’t running
because I was unable,
but seeing through my foot was kinda funny.

I was so drunk
that 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 & my cousin left me outside
to be eaten alive by bugs.
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 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 that 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?

The first question is:
for whom is this written tome?
The real question is:
have I been dead for long?
The comfortable question is:
if I was dead, how could I write this?
The uncomfortable question is:
whose body have 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.