Days are strange and so are we. Sometimes I like to write whatever comes to mind, no editing involved. Those who have read anything I’ve written would probably like to argue that I do that now, but I don’t. The following seasoned rambling is what it’s like to be in my head most days. No strange daze needed, it’s all-natural, flowing like the bowels of the muse . . .
Lettuce not forget nor cantaloupe remember, I halve and halve knots, quartering with wild abandon. Never joyful, I sing the song of Spam, disintegrating Ethel and her Viagrously included highlights. Stumbling tumbling fumbling for the words, forsooth and foresworn, the weasel lives. I am the ice-king, kneeling for my daily breadfruits and barking like a loon. The birds sing, acapella light rock with just a twist of lemon and rye.
Bach, to front and back again forlorn, singing for melamine like so many master-gadgetry in a sea of this, that I hear their cries “Melamine Melamine woe is my Melamine?” Et tu, brute? A swift boot and the stench of chlorine surrounds me, diving, climbing swimming falling through the cloud of consciousness. We swarm, bespoke of nevermore and happy things we’ve never seen before the lights and love and taste and sighs oh my it’s been too long you see I’m pleasing me so please don’t bite me there.
A wedge, in time inserted vertically does not please, nor rectally infuse the trust of our elders. Is this thing veneer of reason enough, or should we expect more? If reality is a framework we hang our empty dreams upon, why not strive for less? All or nothing, a question of vision and belief. Was it the chicken or the egg? Did the beatings create the comic, or the comic provoke the beatings? Art breeds madness, or madness art? Society and norms a common thread, or the thread society and norms? It does not matter as we unravel at the seams: Hatred rules everything. The loving farther drowns his children blissfully. Dreams of Dobson, protecting us from sloth and sin through death. Think or die devolves: Think and die shall guide you down the Shining Path of America the Faithful. Do not fear, faith is here, the science of deception and destitution. God defrauds, so welcome Him in the name of the Father and of the Son and of the Holy Bush. My lord, my word, imagination. Lock it in, shut it out, burn it down. Think of nothing giving all. To speak is Treason if reason is cast out. Where is my thought? It has not life, no will to speak or dream of dance and many fancy things that shine like liberty equality and sense of right. Is that so wrong, to want to love to live in peace and think of when and how and why? What would you want if there is where you found your shoe in less than perfect happenstance?
Madness then and madness now: How I long for shuttered eyes and open dreams and things that aren’t but should be. Free at least to feel my nose to wiggle my toes and scratch my ass at last. It’s not so dark I can’t make out the disappointment on my face, spreading slowly to my limbs and reaching over all that breathes. It is too dark to be. Don’t bark for me; I am not your dog fetching slippers or fish without strings. Unraveling, traveling gloom. It is hot, so very hot and not a bit like yesterday. So far away they say to laugh at worms asleep in play. Still I cannot find the shoe.
Is it reason or reason enough to ask for more? I cannot share, I know not how or where you want to go today. Indeed in deed I do not care if last or not you lick me, there it is not time to go so stay and find my other shoe.
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