all is well. all is wonderful. not without knowing.
which is why it works.
its 4:37 a.m. and somewhere, someplace,
someone is drawing a comic strip.
and it has taken me a long time
to learn not to care to the point
of being crippled but enough
to remain aghast.
4:37. i’m wide awake.
thinking of graffiti and pubs
and other bullshit
where tough words were scribbled
on some plastic in a pisser
for all the triangle toothed grumple-pussed cowards
stroking their tongues with their divine little fingers
until they came – quite ordinarily – magnanimous
and rotten.
in spite of my protestations – there was yes, and i would
publicly like to thank the world for turning to shit.
because, all is well. all is wonderful. not without
knowing. which is why it works.
(trix are for kids. you bet.)
i wish that i couldn’t see the underbelly of the hazards
of living in public. i do not like how the rot invades
the arrival.
from memory. from reality. from the way we know each other.
the flip side of under-dog-ism. where what made you love us
and coach us to see “the blossom” – takes on something filthy
and laughable like a photo documentary with
before and after pics -
a trackable alchemy
that goes from the rootin-tootin
puppy wag of creation to the castration of
the curtain where master’s thumbprint starts to dematerialize
as the furniture – in the room – is rearranged
and all the little bitches go,
“there’s no place like home.”
i have seen this scheme supported by a
crack team of deep sea divers (part fish – part
salesmen) who feed the beast by slinging rings
burnt from the brass of dr. titanic.
the good doctor says, “mind. behave. sit down. do what i tell you.
let me tell you how your happiness is a lie to me.
you’re fucking up the plan.”
it is in times like these, i ask – are you fucking serious?
shut the fuck up. you fucking dick. I don’t want to see
you in this light because in this light you look . . .
i opt for the word hilarious but am prone to use others.
i often want to drop the bomb on everything but have come
to love the butter knife suicide king in me.
he’s cute. saturday mornings are his friend and he watches the box
with eyes, like equus.
(a story i have forgotten, but not. nor, remember having ever read. nor, am i certain it who wrote it.)
but it is written, nonetheless.
it is very easy to doubt the human race.
and i am fortunate in everything.
it is just as easy to laugh my god damn ass at everything
as it is to be concerned with everything.
my life is not a comic strip. and yours is not without reflection.
like anything.
(the sun is rising. as i edit. 6:19. sweet bread is in the bed.)
(here comes the finish)
both brats and rats. snails and tortoises. bunny and bloom.
your ache is not mine. your failures are not mine. i have my
own. the way you gird your world is not my concern.
and to tell you the truth i hate saviors. or people who say
– “we’ve been praying for you” (or used to) because i see
everything and am not without.
i know the way the jerk circle is bankrupt – like loving a black
hole mecha-schism in a small home in beachwood canyon –
where little rodney perrywinkle would soon get up close and
personal with a lesson in the more fantastic points of a strong
sense of self and authorship.
war. with no. amnesia. my friend.
relative. with. no. claim.
begin.
wicked men. wicked women. wicked hom-ononists heroes.
angry unarticulated self loathing unsatisfied sandwiches groupies.
thwarted lovers. of unfinished business. beautiful cowards
with flat irons and thought crafted hair. short order sophisticates
who blast everything with scrambled grace in the name of
smooth sailing, i say:
thank you.
i love you.
i wonder, in a pinch would it be breakfast meats or breakfast sweets.
this is bigger than me.
this is bigger than you.
your teeth look like wieners.
and the litmus test wins,
with no mind for
wishes and light
stretching.
a pause in tonight’s programming:
i don’t know where anybody was when my
father was dying. save the ones i give true
merit.
now, back to the show . . .
the litmus test has no mind.
and in the end i have a picture in my head.
it involves crumbs from a cookie and a shoelace flopping about
like a snake with no spoon and huge god damn
bowl of cold milk and cereal.
in my hand, i hold a balloon animal.
its car lot advertisement sized and
makes the home commute better.
and i find it laughable.
because, i have to.
as it dances.
guts, man.
guts, man.
gift.
which is why it works.
its 4:37 a.m. and somewhere, someplace,
someone is drawing a comic strip.
and it has taken me a long time
to learn not to care to the point
of being crippled but enough
to remain aghast.
4:37. i’m wide awake.
thinking of graffiti and pubs
and other bullshit
where tough words were scribbled
on some plastic in a pisser
for all the triangle toothed grumple-pussed cowards
stroking their tongues with their divine little fingers
until they came – quite ordinarily – magnanimous
and rotten.
in spite of my protestations – there was yes, and i would
publicly like to thank the world for turning to shit.
because, all is well. all is wonderful. not without
knowing. which is why it works.
(trix are for kids. you bet.)
i wish that i couldn’t see the underbelly of the hazards
of living in public. i do not like how the rot invades
the arrival.
from memory. from reality. from the way we know each other.
the flip side of under-dog-ism. where what made you love us
and coach us to see “the blossom” – takes on something filthy
and laughable like a photo documentary with
before and after pics -
a trackable alchemy
that goes from the rootin-tootin
puppy wag of creation to the castration of
the curtain where master’s thumbprint starts to dematerialize
as the furniture – in the room – is rearranged
and all the little bitches go,
“there’s no place like home.”
i have seen this scheme supported by a
crack team of deep sea divers (part fish – part
salesmen) who feed the beast by slinging rings
burnt from the brass of dr. titanic.
the good doctor says, “mind. behave. sit down. do what i tell you.
let me tell you how your happiness is a lie to me.
you’re fucking up the plan.”
it is in times like these, i ask – are you fucking serious?
shut the fuck up. you fucking dick. I don’t want to see
you in this light because in this light you look . . .
i opt for the word hilarious but am prone to use others.
i often want to drop the bomb on everything but have come
to love the butter knife suicide king in me.
he’s cute. saturday mornings are his friend and he watches the box
with eyes, like equus.
(a story i have forgotten, but not. nor, remember having ever read. nor, am i certain it who wrote it.)
but it is written, nonetheless.
it is very easy to doubt the human race.
and i am fortunate in everything.
it is just as easy to laugh my god damn ass at everything
as it is to be concerned with everything.
my life is not a comic strip. and yours is not without reflection.
like anything.
(the sun is rising. as i edit. 6:19. sweet bread is in the bed.)
(here comes the finish)
both brats and rats. snails and tortoises. bunny and bloom.
your ache is not mine. your failures are not mine. i have my
own. the way you gird your world is not my concern.
and to tell you the truth i hate saviors. or people who say
– “we’ve been praying for you” (or used to) because i see
everything and am not without.
i know the way the jerk circle is bankrupt – like loving a black
hole mecha-schism in a small home in beachwood canyon –
where little rodney perrywinkle would soon get up close and
personal with a lesson in the more fantastic points of a strong
sense of self and authorship.
war. with no. amnesia. my friend.
relative. with. no. claim.
begin.
wicked men. wicked women. wicked hom-ononists heroes.
angry unarticulated self loathing unsatisfied sandwiches groupies.
thwarted lovers. of unfinished business. beautiful cowards
with flat irons and thought crafted hair. short order sophisticates
who blast everything with scrambled grace in the name of
smooth sailing, i say:
thank you.
i love you.
i wonder, in a pinch would it be breakfast meats or breakfast sweets.
this is bigger than me.
this is bigger than you.
your teeth look like wieners.
and the litmus test wins,
with no mind for
wishes and light
stretching.
a pause in tonight’s programming:
i don’t know where anybody was when my
father was dying. save the ones i give true
merit.
now, back to the show . . .
the litmus test has no mind.
and in the end i have a picture in my head.
it involves crumbs from a cookie and a shoelace flopping about
like a snake with no spoon and huge god damn
bowl of cold milk and cereal.
in my hand, i hold a balloon animal.
its car lot advertisement sized and
makes the home commute better.
and i find it laughable.
because, i have to.
as it dances.
guts, man.
guts, man.
gift.
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