Junky Yoga | GARETH McCONNELL

Each moment breeds a new universe, we walk around blindly singing our future into being with every action we take or run from, isn’t that great? Relax, there’s no escape. Let me explain. So I’m in solitary at the San Quentin psychiatric wing, I got a nice little cell to myself with a slot I can look through and see the ferries coming from San Fran to Sausalito, I can see the seagulls flying in the wind and watch the mud coming up from the floor of the bay in circles when the tide is full, I’ve got a copy of Hemingway’s Death In The Afternoon and a wired jaw and two broken ribs I gotta shackle up backwards two times a week for my shower when I get to see my neighbours for a heartbeat. On the left some fat guy with long black hair and a beard is chained lying on a metal table inside a glass cell for maximum observation, he smiles as I’m led by. On the right is wolf boy who bangs his head and eats his own shit, they have to tear gas him and strap him to a pole by his wrists and feet like a stuck pig to take him for medical cos he’s not complying, not one little bit, stay down wolf boy. So its ok in here, like some bad dream were your not afraid but I’m hungry, in fact I’m starving and this liquid diet of pureed potatoes and water sucked threw a straw is not hitting the spot and when the cops bring me chow they laugh and make slurping sounds cos that’s what they hear coming out of my cell. My jaw is wired tight sealed shut and I’m in that post kicking phase were you just gotta eat anything that’s not nailed down and I gotta get out of here and get some fucking chow. San Quentin is a medieval castle, its a Palaeolithic cave, its old school and you know your in a fucking prison not some pc dorm with Nintendo and social workers. I’m just here waiting transportation to Norco again but I was so fucking dope sick I took a swan dive of the third tier to get some relief and they don’t believe me, they think I’ve been pushed and there’s some little gang affiliation drama to be had but I’m not in any gang, I’m solo and always have been.

— Chris Wilson.

Excerpt from Horse Latitudes

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Spiritual beauty, 2005

Each moment breeds a new universe, we walk around blindly singing our future into being with every action we take or run from, isn’t that great? Relax, there’s no escape. Let me explain. So I’m in solitary at the San Quentin psychiatric wing, I got a nice little cell to myself with a slot I can look through and see the ferries coming from San Fran to Sausalito, I can see the seagulls flying in the wind and watch the mud coming up from the floor of the bay in circles when the tide is full, I’ve got a copy of Hemingway’s Death In The Afternoon and a wired jaw and two broken ribs I gotta shackle up backwards two times a week for my shower when I get to see my neighbours for a heartbeat. On the left some fat guy with long black hair and a beard is chained lying on a metal table inside a glass cell for maximum observation, he smiles as I’m led by. On the right is wolf boy who bangs his head and eats his own shit, they have to tear gas him and strap him to a pole by his wrists and feet like a stuck pig to take him for medical cos he’s not complying, not one little bit, stay down wolf boy. So its ok in here, like some bad dream were your not afraid but I’m hungry, in fact I’m starving and this liquid diet of pureed potatoes and water sucked threw a straw is not hitting the spot and when the cops bring me chow they laugh and make slurping sounds cos that’s what they hear coming out of my cell. My jaw is wired tight sealed shut and I’m in that post kicking phase were you just gotta eat anything that’s not nailed down and I gotta get out of here and get some fucking chow. San Quentin is a medieval castle, its a Palaeolithic cave, its old school and you know your in a fucking prison not some pc dorm with Nintendo and social workers. I’m just here waiting transportation to Norco again but I was so fucking dope sick I took a swan dive of the third tier to get some relief and they don’t believe me, they think I’ve been pushed and there’s some little gang affiliation drama to be had but I’m not in any gang, I’m solo and always have been.

— Chris Wilson.

Excerpt from Horse Latitudes

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Count time, 2005

Each moment breeds a new universe, we walk around blindly singing our future into being with every action we take or run from, isn’t that great? Relax, there’s no escape. Let me explain. So I’m in solitary at the San Quentin psychiatric wing, I got a nice little cell to myself with a slot I can look through and see the ferries coming from San Fran to Sausalito, I can see the seagulls flying in the wind and watch the mud coming up from the floor of the bay in circles when the tide is full, I’ve got a copy of Hemingway’s Death In The Afternoon and a wired jaw and two broken ribs I gotta shackle up backwards two times a week for my shower when I get to see my neighbours for a heartbeat. On the left some fat guy with long black hair and a beard is chained lying on a metal table inside a glass cell for maximum observation, he smiles as I’m led by. On the right is wolf boy who bangs his head and eats his own shit, they have to tear gas him and strap him to a pole by his wrists and feet like a stuck pig to take him for medical cos he’s not complying, not one little bit, stay down wolf boy. So its ok in here, like some bad dream were your not afraid but I’m hungry, in fact I’m starving and this liquid diet of pureed potatoes and water sucked threw a straw is not hitting the spot and when the cops bring me chow they laugh and make slurping sounds cos that’s what they hear coming out of my cell. My jaw is wired tight sealed shut and I’m in that post kicking phase were you just gotta eat anything that’s not nailed down and I gotta get out of here and get some fucking chow. San Quentin is a medieval castle, its a Palaeolithic cave, its old school and you know your in a fucking prison not some pc dorm with Nintendo and social workers. I’m just here waiting transportation to Norco again but I was so fucking dope sick I took a swan dive of the third tier to get some relief and they don’t believe me, they think I’ve been pushed and there’s some little gang affiliation drama to be had but I’m not in any gang, I’m solo and always have been.

— Chris Wilson.

Excerpt from Horse Latitudes

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Idiot reversal, 2005

Each moment breeds a new universe, we walk around blindly singing our future into being with every action we take or run from, isn’t that great? Relax, there’s no escape. Let me explain. So I’m in solitary at the San Quentin psychiatric wing, I got a nice little cell to myself with a slot I can look through and see the ferries coming from San Fran to Sausalito, I can see the seagulls flying in the wind and watch the mud coming up from the floor of the bay in circles when the tide is full, I’ve got a copy of Hemingway’s Death In The Afternoon and a wired jaw and two broken ribs I gotta shackle up backwards two times a week for my shower when I get to see my neighbours for a heartbeat. On the left some fat guy with long black hair and a beard is chained lying on a metal table inside a glass cell for maximum observation, he smiles as I’m led by. On the right is wolf boy who bangs his head and eats his own shit, they have to tear gas him and strap him to a pole by his wrists and feet like a stuck pig to take him for medical cos he’s not complying, not one little bit, stay down wolf boy. So its ok in here, like some bad dream were your not afraid but I’m hungry, in fact I’m starving and this liquid diet of pureed potatoes and water sucked threw a straw is not hitting the spot and when the cops bring me chow they laugh and make slurping sounds cos that’s what they hear coming out of my cell. My jaw is wired tight sealed shut and I’m in that post kicking phase were you just gotta eat anything that’s not nailed down and I gotta get out of here and get some fucking chow. San Quentin is a medieval castle, its a Palaeolithic cave, its old school and you know your in a fucking prison not some pc dorm with Nintendo and social workers. I’m just here waiting transportation to Norco again but I was so fucking dope sick I took a swan dive of the third tier to get some relief and they don’t believe me, they think I’ve been pushed and there’s some little gang affiliation drama to be had but I’m not in any gang, I’m solo and always have been.

— Chris Wilson.

Excerpt from Horse Latitudes

close

Epicurean sweat, 2011

Each moment breeds a new universe, we walk around blindly singing our future into being with every action we take or run from, isn’t that great? Relax, there’s no escape. Let me explain. So I’m in solitary at the San Quentin psychiatric wing, I got a nice little cell to myself with a slot I can look through and see the ferries coming from San Fran to Sausalito, I can see the seagulls flying in the wind and watch the mud coming up from the floor of the bay in circles when the tide is full, I’ve got a copy of Hemingway’s Death In The Afternoon and a wired jaw and two broken ribs I gotta shackle up backwards two times a week for my shower when I get to see my neighbours for a heartbeat. On the left some fat guy with long black hair and a beard is chained lying on a metal table inside a glass cell for maximum observation, he smiles as I’m led by. On the right is wolf boy who bangs his head and eats his own shit, they have to tear gas him and strap him to a pole by his wrists and feet like a stuck pig to take him for medical cos he’s not complying, not one little bit, stay down wolf boy. So its ok in here, like some bad dream were your not afraid but I’m hungry, in fact I’m starving and this liquid diet of pureed potatoes and water sucked threw a straw is not hitting the spot and when the cops bring me chow they laugh and make slurping sounds cos that’s what they hear coming out of my cell. My jaw is wired tight sealed shut and I’m in that post kicking phase were you just gotta eat anything that’s not nailed down and I gotta get out of here and get some fucking chow. San Quentin is a medieval castle, its a Palaeolithic cave, its old school and you know your in a fucking prison not some pc dorm with Nintendo and social workers. I’m just here waiting transportation to Norco again but I was so fucking dope sick I took a swan dive of the third tier to get some relief and they don’t believe me, they think I’ve been pushed and there’s some little gang affiliation drama to be had but I’m not in any gang, I’m solo and always have been.

— Chris Wilson.

Excerpt from Horse Latitudes

close

Ruin, 2005

Each moment breeds a new universe, we walk around blindly singing our future into being with every action we take or run from, isn’t that great? Relax, there’s no escape. Let me explain. So I’m in solitary at the San Quentin psychiatric wing, I got a nice little cell to myself with a slot I can look through and see the ferries coming from San Fran to Sausalito, I can see the seagulls flying in the wind and watch the mud coming up from the floor of the bay in circles when the tide is full, I’ve got a copy of Hemingway’s Death In The Afternoon and a wired jaw and two broken ribs I gotta shackle up backwards two times a week for my shower when I get to see my neighbours for a heartbeat. On the left some fat guy with long black hair and a beard is chained lying on a metal table inside a glass cell for maximum observation, he smiles as I’m led by. On the right is wolf boy who bangs his head and eats his own shit, they have to tear gas him and strap him to a pole by his wrists and feet like a stuck pig to take him for medical cos he’s not complying, not one little bit, stay down wolf boy. So its ok in here, like some bad dream were your not afraid but I’m hungry, in fact I’m starving and this liquid diet of pureed potatoes and water sucked threw a straw is not hitting the spot and when the cops bring me chow they laugh and make slurping sounds cos that’s what they hear coming out of my cell. My jaw is wired tight sealed shut and I’m in that post kicking phase were you just gotta eat anything that’s not nailed down and I gotta get out of here and get some fucking chow. San Quentin is a medieval castle, its a Palaeolithic cave, its old school and you know your in a fucking prison not some pc dorm with Nintendo and social workers. I’m just here waiting transportation to Norco again but I was so fucking dope sick I took a swan dive of the third tier to get some relief and they don’t believe me, they think I’ve been pushed and there’s some little gang affiliation drama to be had but I’m not in any gang, I’m solo and always have been.

— Chris Wilson.

Excerpt from Horse Latitudes

close

Empire of Lies, 2004

Each moment breeds a new universe, we walk around blindly singing our future into being with every action we take or run from, isn’t that great? Relax, there’s no escape. Let me explain. So I’m in solitary at the San Quentin psychiatric wing, I got a nice little cell to myself with a slot I can look through and see the ferries coming from San Fran to Sausalito, I can see the seagulls flying in the wind and watch the mud coming up from the floor of the bay in circles when the tide is full, I’ve got a copy of Hemingway’s Death In The Afternoon and a wired jaw and two broken ribs I gotta shackle up backwards two times a week for my shower when I get to see my neighbours for a heartbeat. On the left some fat guy with long black hair and a beard is chained lying on a metal table inside a glass cell for maximum observation, he smiles as I’m led by. On the right is wolf boy who bangs his head and eats his own shit, they have to tear gas him and strap him to a pole by his wrists and feet like a stuck pig to take him for medical cos he’s not complying, not one little bit, stay down wolf boy. So its ok in here, like some bad dream were your not afraid but I’m hungry, in fact I’m starving and this liquid diet of pureed potatoes and water sucked threw a straw is not hitting the spot and when the cops bring me chow they laugh and make slurping sounds cos that’s what they hear coming out of my cell. My jaw is wired tight sealed shut and I’m in that post kicking phase were you just gotta eat anything that’s not nailed down and I gotta get out of here and get some fucking chow. San Quentin is a medieval castle, its a Palaeolithic cave, its old school and you know your in a fucking prison not some pc dorm with Nintendo and social workers. I’m just here waiting transportation to Norco again but I was so fucking dope sick I took a swan dive of the third tier to get some relief and they don’t believe me, they think I’ve been pushed and there’s some little gang affiliation drama to be had but I’m not in any gang, I’m solo and always have been.

— Chris Wilson.

Excerpt from Horse Latitudes

close

Pure art pure crime, 2011

Each moment breeds a new universe, we walk around blindly singing our future into being with every action we take or run from, isn’t that great? Relax, there’s no escape. Let me explain. So I’m in solitary at the San Quentin psychiatric wing, I got a nice little cell to myself with a slot I can look through and see the ferries coming from San Fran to Sausalito, I can see the seagulls flying in the wind and watch the mud coming up from the floor of the bay in circles when the tide is full, I’ve got a copy of Hemingway’s Death In The Afternoon and a wired jaw and two broken ribs I gotta shackle up backwards two times a week for my shower when I get to see my neighbours for a heartbeat. On the left some fat guy with long black hair and a beard is chained lying on a metal table inside a glass cell for maximum observation, he smiles as I’m led by. On the right is wolf boy who bangs his head and eats his own shit, they have to tear gas him and strap him to a pole by his wrists and feet like a stuck pig to take him for medical cos he’s not complying, not one little bit, stay down wolf boy. So its ok in here, like some bad dream were your not afraid but I’m hungry, in fact I’m starving and this liquid diet of pureed potatoes and water sucked threw a straw is not hitting the spot and when the cops bring me chow they laugh and make slurping sounds cos that’s what they hear coming out of my cell. My jaw is wired tight sealed shut and I’m in that post kicking phase were you just gotta eat anything that’s not nailed down and I gotta get out of here and get some fucking chow. San Quentin is a medieval castle, its a Palaeolithic cave, its old school and you know your in a fucking prison not some pc dorm with Nintendo and social workers. I’m just here waiting transportation to Norco again but I was so fucking dope sick I took a swan dive of the third tier to get some relief and they don’t believe me, they think I’ve been pushed and there’s some little gang affiliation drama to be had but I’m not in any gang, I’m solo and always have been.

— Chris Wilson.

Excerpt from Horse Latitudes

close

Swine for pearls, 2005

Each moment breeds a new universe, we walk around blindly singing our future into being with every action we take or run from, isn’t that great? Relax, there’s no escape. Let me explain. So I’m in solitary at the San Quentin psychiatric wing, I got a nice little cell to myself with a slot I can look through and see the ferries coming from San Fran to Sausalito, I can see the seagulls flying in the wind and watch the mud coming up from the floor of the bay in circles when the tide is full, I’ve got a copy of Hemingway’s Death In The Afternoon and a wired jaw and two broken ribs I gotta shackle up backwards two times a week for my shower when I get to see my neighbours for a heartbeat. On the left some fat guy with long black hair and a beard is chained lying on a metal table inside a glass cell for maximum observation, he smiles as I’m led by. On the right is wolf boy who bangs his head and eats his own shit, they have to tear gas him and strap him to a pole by his wrists and feet like a stuck pig to take him for medical cos he’s not complying, not one little bit, stay down wolf boy. So its ok in here, like some bad dream were your not afraid but I’m hungry, in fact I’m starving and this liquid diet of pureed potatoes and water sucked threw a straw is not hitting the spot and when the cops bring me chow they laugh and make slurping sounds cos that’s what they hear coming out of my cell. My jaw is wired tight sealed shut and I’m in that post kicking phase were you just gotta eat anything that’s not nailed down and I gotta get out of here and get some fucking chow. San Quentin is a medieval castle, its a Palaeolithic cave, its old school and you know your in a fucking prison not some pc dorm with Nintendo and social workers. I’m just here waiting transportation to Norco again but I was so fucking dope sick I took a swan dive of the third tier to get some relief and they don’t believe me, they think I’ve been pushed and there’s some little gang affiliation drama to be had but I’m not in any gang, I’m solo and always have been.

— Chris Wilson.

Excerpt from Horse Latitudes

close

What America wants, 2004

Each moment breeds a new universe, we walk around blindly singing our future into being with every action we take or run from, isn’t that great? Relax, there’s no escape. Let me explain. So I’m in solitary at the San Quentin psychiatric wing, I got a nice little cell to myself with a slot I can look through and see the ferries coming from San Fran to Sausalito, I can see the seagulls flying in the wind and watch the mud coming up from the floor of the bay in circles when the tide is full, I’ve got a copy of Hemingway’s Death In The Afternoon and a wired jaw and two broken ribs I gotta shackle up backwards two times a week for my shower when I get to see my neighbours for a heartbeat. On the left some fat guy with long black hair and a beard is chained lying on a metal table inside a glass cell for maximum observation, he smiles as I’m led by. On the right is wolf boy who bangs his head and eats his own shit, they have to tear gas him and strap him to a pole by his wrists and feet like a stuck pig to take him for medical cos he’s not complying, not one little bit, stay down wolf boy. So its ok in here, like some bad dream were your not afraid but I’m hungry, in fact I’m starving and this liquid diet of pureed potatoes and water sucked threw a straw is not hitting the spot and when the cops bring me chow they laugh and make slurping sounds cos that’s what they hear coming out of my cell. My jaw is wired tight sealed shut and I’m in that post kicking phase were you just gotta eat anything that’s not nailed down and I gotta get out of here and get some fucking chow. San Quentin is a medieval castle, its a Palaeolithic cave, its old school and you know your in a fucking prison not some pc dorm with Nintendo and social workers. I’m just here waiting transportation to Norco again but I was so fucking dope sick I took a swan dive of the third tier to get some relief and they don’t believe me, they think I’ve been pushed and there’s some little gang affiliation drama to be had but I’m not in any gang, I’m solo and always have been.

— Chris Wilson.

Excerpt from Horse Latitudes

close

Jewels, 2004

Each moment breeds a new universe, we walk around blindly singing our future into being with every action we take or run from, isn’t that great? Relax, there’s no escape. Let me explain. So I’m in solitary at the San Quentin psychiatric wing, I got a nice little cell to myself with a slot I can look through and see the ferries coming from San Fran to Sausalito, I can see the seagulls flying in the wind and watch the mud coming up from the floor of the bay in circles when the tide is full, I’ve got a copy of Hemingway’s Death In The Afternoon and a wired jaw and two broken ribs I gotta shackle up backwards two times a week for my shower when I get to see my neighbours for a heartbeat. On the left some fat guy with long black hair and a beard is chained lying on a metal table inside a glass cell for maximum observation, he smiles as I’m led by. On the right is wolf boy who bangs his head and eats his own shit, they have to tear gas him and strap him to a pole by his wrists and feet like a stuck pig to take him for medical cos he’s not complying, not one little bit, stay down wolf boy. So its ok in here, like some bad dream were your not afraid but I’m hungry, in fact I’m starving and this liquid diet of pureed potatoes and water sucked threw a straw is not hitting the spot and when the cops bring me chow they laugh and make slurping sounds cos that’s what they hear coming out of my cell. My jaw is wired tight sealed shut and I’m in that post kicking phase were you just gotta eat anything that’s not nailed down and I gotta get out of here and get some fucking chow. San Quentin is a medieval castle, its a Palaeolithic cave, its old school and you know your in a fucking prison not some pc dorm with Nintendo and social workers. I’m just here waiting transportation to Norco again but I was so fucking dope sick I took a swan dive of the third tier to get some relief and they don’t believe me, they think I’ve been pushed and there’s some little gang affiliation drama to be had but I’m not in any gang, I’m solo and always have been.

— Chris Wilson.

Excerpt from Horse Latitudes

close

Salon Apocalypse, 2004

Each moment breeds a new universe, we walk around blindly singing our future into being with every action we take or run from, isn’t that great? Relax, there’s no escape. Let me explain. So I’m in solitary at the San Quentin psychiatric wing, I got a nice little cell to myself with a slot I can look through and see the ferries coming from San Fran to Sausalito, I can see the seagulls flying in the wind and watch the mud coming up from the floor of the bay in circles when the tide is full, I’ve got a copy of Hemingway’s Death In The Afternoon and a wired jaw and two broken ribs I gotta shackle up backwards two times a week for my shower when I get to see my neighbours for a heartbeat. On the left some fat guy with long black hair and a beard is chained lying on a metal table inside a glass cell for maximum observation, he smiles as I’m led by. On the right is wolf boy who bangs his head and eats his own shit, they have to tear gas him and strap him to a pole by his wrists and feet like a stuck pig to take him for medical cos he’s not complying, not one little bit, stay down wolf boy. So its ok in here, like some bad dream were your not afraid but I’m hungry, in fact I’m starving and this liquid diet of pureed potatoes and water sucked threw a straw is not hitting the spot and when the cops bring me chow they laugh and make slurping sounds cos that’s what they hear coming out of my cell. My jaw is wired tight sealed shut and I’m in that post kicking phase were you just gotta eat anything that’s not nailed down and I gotta get out of here and get some fucking chow. San Quentin is a medieval castle, its a Palaeolithic cave, its old school and you know your in a fucking prison not some pc dorm with Nintendo and social workers. I’m just here waiting transportation to Norco again but I was so fucking dope sick I took a swan dive of the third tier to get some relief and they don’t believe me, they think I’ve been pushed and there’s some little gang affiliation drama to be had but I’m not in any gang, I’m solo and always have been.

— Chris Wilson.

Excerpt from Horse Latitudes

close

Chaos never died, 2011

Each moment breeds a new universe, we walk around blindly singing our future into being with every action we take or run from, isn’t that great? Relax, there’s no escape. Let me explain. So I’m in solitary at the San Quentin psychiatric wing, I got a nice little cell to myself with a slot I can look through and see the ferries coming from San Fran to Sausalito, I can see the seagulls flying in the wind and watch the mud coming up from the floor of the bay in circles when the tide is full, I’ve got a copy of Hemingway’s Death In The Afternoon and a wired jaw and two broken ribs I gotta shackle up backwards two times a week for my shower when I get to see my neighbours for a heartbeat. On the left some fat guy with long black hair and a beard is chained lying on a metal table inside a glass cell for maximum observation, he smiles as I’m led by. On the right is wolf boy who bangs his head and eats his own shit, they have to tear gas him and strap him to a pole by his wrists and feet like a stuck pig to take him for medical cos he’s not complying, not one little bit, stay down wolf boy. So its ok in here, like some bad dream were your not afraid but I’m hungry, in fact I’m starving and this liquid diet of pureed potatoes and water sucked threw a straw is not hitting the spot and when the cops bring me chow they laugh and make slurping sounds cos that’s what they hear coming out of my cell. My jaw is wired tight sealed shut and I’m in that post kicking phase were you just gotta eat anything that’s not nailed down and I gotta get out of here and get some fucking chow. San Quentin is a medieval castle, its a Palaeolithic cave, its old school and you know your in a fucking prison not some pc dorm with Nintendo and social workers. I’m just here waiting transportation to Norco again but I was so fucking dope sick I took a swan dive of the third tier to get some relief and they don’t believe me, they think I’ve been pushed and there’s some little gang affiliation drama to be had but I’m not in any gang, I’m solo and always have been.

— Chris Wilson.

Excerpt from Horse Latitudes

close

The last place I found a vein, 2004

Each moment breeds a new universe, we walk around blindly singing our future into being with every action we take or run from, isn’t that great? Relax, there’s no escape. Let me explain. So I’m in solitary at the San Quentin psychiatric wing, I got a nice little cell to myself with a slot I can look through and see the ferries coming from San Fran to Sausalito, I can see the seagulls flying in the wind and watch the mud coming up from the floor of the bay in circles when the tide is full, I’ve got a copy of Hemingway’s Death In The Afternoon and a wired jaw and two broken ribs I gotta shackle up backwards two times a week for my shower when I get to see my neighbours for a heartbeat. On the left some fat guy with long black hair and a beard is chained lying on a metal table inside a glass cell for maximum observation, he smiles as I’m led by. On the right is wolf boy who bangs his head and eats his own shit, they have to tear gas him and strap him to a pole by his wrists and feet like a stuck pig to take him for medical cos he’s not complying, not one little bit, stay down wolf boy. So its ok in here, like some bad dream were your not afraid but I’m hungry, in fact I’m starving and this liquid diet of pureed potatoes and water sucked threw a straw is not hitting the spot and when the cops bring me chow they laugh and make slurping sounds cos that’s what they hear coming out of my cell. My jaw is wired tight sealed shut and I’m in that post kicking phase were you just gotta eat anything that’s not nailed down and I gotta get out of here and get some fucking chow. San Quentin is a medieval castle, its a Palaeolithic cave, its old school and you know your in a fucking prison not some pc dorm with Nintendo and social workers. I’m just here waiting transportation to Norco again but I was so fucking dope sick I took a swan dive of the third tier to get some relief and they don’t believe me, they think I’ve been pushed and there’s some little gang affiliation drama to be had but I’m not in any gang, I’m solo and always have been.

— Chris Wilson.

Excerpt from Horse Latitudes

close

The old San Quentin dip king, 2004

Each moment breeds a new universe, we walk around blindly singing our future into being with every action we take or run from, isn’t that great? Relax, there’s no escape. Let me explain. So I’m in solitary at the San Quentin psychiatric wing, I got a nice little cell to myself with a slot I can look through and see the ferries coming from San Fran to Sausalito, I can see the seagulls flying in the wind and watch the mud coming up from the floor of the bay in circles when the tide is full, I’ve got a copy of Hemingway’s Death In The Afternoon and a wired jaw and two broken ribs I gotta shackle up backwards two times a week for my shower when I get to see my neighbours for a heartbeat. On the left some fat guy with long black hair and a beard is chained lying on a metal table inside a glass cell for maximum observation, he smiles as I’m led by. On the right is wolf boy who bangs his head and eats his own shit, they have to tear gas him and strap him to a pole by his wrists and feet like a stuck pig to take him for medical cos he’s not complying, not one little bit, stay down wolf boy. So its ok in here, like some bad dream were your not afraid but I’m hungry, in fact I’m starving and this liquid diet of pureed potatoes and water sucked threw a straw is not hitting the spot and when the cops bring me chow they laugh and make slurping sounds cos that’s what they hear coming out of my cell. My jaw is wired tight sealed shut and I’m in that post kicking phase were you just gotta eat anything that’s not nailed down and I gotta get out of here and get some fucking chow. San Quentin is a medieval castle, its a Palaeolithic cave, its old school and you know your in a fucking prison not some pc dorm with Nintendo and social workers. I’m just here waiting transportation to Norco again but I was so fucking dope sick I took a swan dive of the third tier to get some relief and they don’t believe me, they think I’ve been pushed and there’s some little gang affiliation drama to be had but I’m not in any gang, I’m solo and always have been.

— Chris Wilson.

Excerpt from Horse Latitudes

close

Carnitas Burrito, 2004