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SubscriptionsSites I Read
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| etcetera etcetera
so on and so forth.
cold outside, skies falling down something horrible, clouds forever and stretching;
somber and continually moving from horizon to above to far off infinite horizon.
life's video tape is on constant replay,
distant memories and subconscious urges, dreams and thoughts and
the knick knack and useless tape that holds everything together.
her smile, white teeth, bright eyes that run on and on,
deep as the depths of space and just as silky.
and i'm tired.
mephistopholes is here drinking wine with bacchus,
jehovah is here drawing on the back of his hand with a pen of creation.
and i'm lost within a boundless torrent of misused wisdom.
trapped outside and surrounded by cold, skin hard as rock
face red as a rose,
blood like coulee
fingers like ecydisiasts.
mind wandering the midnight streets.
and
the next time our lips touch?
heaven bursting out of souls.
stars collapsing and exploding like atom bombs
trapped in the sacrosanct tombs of my existence.
moon bursting at her seams and cascading from her
hallowed throne above the earth, kissing my forehead;
tender and supple.
smile and white teeth gleaming underneath god's masterpiece,
skin softer than clouds, eyes like gems,
burnt into the back of my eyelids,
stared at a sun for entirely too long.
i turn around
open a door,
and walk back into warmth.
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| upton sinclair once wrote about the jungle; trees of concrete and steel, men like beasts with blood drenched fangs of deception and dirty claws of greed, cold streets like a labriynth of brush. it seems all too familiar, the uneventful and unprosperous life of the american layman and the american worker and the american youngster pursueing his image of the american dream, whatever it may be; they all run, chasing after their unreachable goals, only to be ambushed by a system too confusing and unrelenting, by blood drenched and thirsty beasts that can view nothing save their own lust; only to run into a seemingly and unbelievably bottomless grave that no man can ever climb out of; only to keep searching, chasing, running ceaselessly until they can run no more, until their legs turn into limp vines hanging lifeless from a used body, until their lungs turn to ash and their hearts' incessant rasping against an emaciated rib cage turns into an explosion of exhaustion and uncermountable stress, until their brains collapse as their foundations of beliefs and prides and ethics get torn to the ground and burned, until they run into blackness, a void, numb, detatched from life in every single way, run into the ground, run into uselessness, run until all is behind you and all you can see is the comforting satin laced capsule at a mortuary. grandiose, epic, peaceful.
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| little tricky finger was sitting atop of a piece of paper tap tap tapping away like a tribal drummer.
already smeared with ink, he awaits mating calls from a ball point pen sitting nearby in the shade on a lazy and awfully hot spring afternoon. window is open, wide and yawning massive breaths of life and happiness. warm winds disturbed the piece of paper; it flutters like a moth in the night summer skies.
sun is endless, eternal, infinite, the backhand of god shining on the rest of us baby birds as we fall out of our nests to certain doom. grass is green, trees are tall, minutes are long and arduous like a death march.
a book was sitting on a desk, feverishly read by a pair of sharp brown eyes; doestevsky. air conditioning rattles on, the power surges.
and at that precise moment, little trick finger flickered on like an old torch lamp. it, along with the rest of its tricky little friends, disturbed the pen from her respite and scratched the fluttering paper with her tip until she bled blue ink.
barbarous and decadent, and throughly beautiful all the same.
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| Jesus is not on drugs but is a member of the ASPCA.
In fact, he is also a member of NWA, NCAA, AAA, HA, AA, PSPCA, WMALS, WWF, WCW, YMCA, YWCA, and the IHOP. He is an active participant in the society for cruelty to babies and likes to spend his time on beaches and in romantic hot spots like Arkansas and North Dakota where he wines and dines locals with a pocket full of paper clips, marbles, and 17 dollars and 32 cents and a half. He came across the half a penny after God got mad and smote a penny with a lightning bolt. He used to have the other half but he spent it on a pack of lemon heads in a Cogo's somewhere in the middle of Iowa. He enjoys puppies with lots of fur and cats that are shaved clean and oiled with the extra virgin stuff; highly caffeinated.
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| we all have our vices;
citizens of countries on mars steal things all the time because it is legal to take what isn't yours,
and of course on the planet Xyzzygr it is not only lawful but encouraged to rape, pillage, and murder sheep. But vices are vices and unstable indeed like crack heroines flying through the cosmos on speed and shared syringes. Me? On Earth these things aren't so lawfully enjoyed as the other planets floating through the Milky Way milkshake galaxy. Drugs and prostitutes (the killing of) and also the simple things like high speed chases and the robbery of snickers bars lead to high raised eyebrows and showering with big, smelly men in a communal shower somewhere in the depths of the American bible belt.
But on Pluto it is perfectly O.K. to throw people off of balconies, and since Pluto's gravitational field isn't really all that existent, when you throw them they really just keep on being thrown until they run into something (another planet perhaps, most often than not they soar through the black and silk depths of eternal sunlessshine).
So, to get away is to never come back,
and to never come back is to get away.
Lets just say I have a plan of action that is really just the absence of action; a plan that I will project to the International House of Earth Pancakes (and senators) that will involve a request for a galactic license for travel and light speed action-jackson-four-on-the-floor-pedal-to-the-aluminum enabled universe ship.
I will draw up the plans myself, lots of coffee makers and sour punch straw dispensers and other accoutrement like double bass drum thumpers so I can play my loud black music (if you live in Japan) and annoy the old grand mothers on Mercury (so warm there. third most popular retirement destination behind Pennsylvania and Florida).
Also in my projection plan to the IHEP(as) is a request for the biggest gun possible. On the planet Parthenon there is a king named Zues and he has a lot of prostitutes and women living there. No men allowed, apparently, but it is perfectly legal to challenge Zues to a duel and he openly invites you to cheat like a Uncle Steve in Las Vegas.
In anycase,
I will run and have my vices be legal and fair and no one will care because I will be living in the land of milk and honey.
Just,
you know,
dig me a ride to D.C. so I can go see the IHEP(as).
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