You find yourself walking along a tightrope, but balance is perverted by multiple gravities that pull every-which-way but down. You thrust and shift a hip. You throw your head around, trying with a sneer to maintain your position on your path. Life has many gravities and many paths. And there are many other people on the wires and on the beams and on the trampolines. They are calling to you to follow them. They speak to you with their gravity breath. "THIS is the way to go," they say, and you see them rock and sway. But they keep producing their speak. Each and all at the same time, until you feel like you are on a boat full of auctioneers. You left a foot to take a step...
McCready was thumping the bass and I was swaying as I approached the microphone. I grabbed it with my right hand, then my left. Closed my eyes about half way as Louis-the-Smith began his soft percussion flurry. As I opened my lips to sing, the lights shifted from red to green and a patron opened the door by the bar to get some fresh air. "I'm in a good place for sadness," I sang, and meant it. "Now I just need some time and love, to shape this sadness into something beautiful," I continued with less sincerity. Sadness ain't beautiful. It just isn't. Louis-the-Smith crashed a high-hat as McCready rubbed a deep note down the long neck.
Anniversaries spill out of the memory calendars like candy corn from the discount plastic bowls of Halloween endorsing families. I'm counting down the days to the next relevant day. I'm marking up the page like a lost dog tracking his way. Scenes are plentiful and cheap. But some bubble up in value more than others. Some scenes are precious, and we feel like they are eternal. We want to go back to them to warm our drafty souls. We want to cling to them in the middle of our tumultuous storms. We mark them on our calendar page and count down the days. They're gone, though, and they ain't ever coming back. They spill out of our brains like voodoo dolls from a busted barge. They lay there before us; cheap imitations of the real thing. Haunted caricatures of precious scenes. We want to smile and we want to cry.
I pick the crust from the dusk. I thrust the smudge of the falling busts. Busted beeper slinky sleepr. I have not bound the beast. No woman dances, slinking glances. The beast is loose in the streets. Anxious helpers scream in the echoing streets. Doctors toss their woe. Peace-keepers shrug their hope. Nothing changes in the mean scenes of this abandoned world. This city of need. Fists of wrong punch cheeks of weak. The sun sets the sun rises. I'm sleeping on the outskirts of the night. I'm dreaming in the chaos. Red tinted scenes from deep down dreaming. The people scurry like mice. The children don't know what to do.
It was an early morning melody, tapping the keys on my Sunday tractor. I was pulling heavy burdens through a slosh of snow and resentment. It was an early morning coffee, doused in cream and caramel. A good coffee doesn't taste like coffee at all. When the snowplows came around to my block, I was standing in the porch with my robe and my cup of morning-beverage. I was angry at that snowplow for existing. I was angry at the winter for hurting my face every time I exited my place. I poured my coffee-concoction out into the sink and rinsed my cup. "I need to start drinking healthier morning-beverages," I told myself, then went up to put on 9 layers of clothes so I could go out to start my truck. It was colder than a snowman's tit outside and all I wanted to do was curl up with a hot coffee-concoction and hide.
Snoring doggies curl up on grandma's blankets. Fatigued employees scour the web for vacation packages. Saltless spirits pervade our crumbling mansions, while simplistic ministers preach simplistic sermons to fatigued employees filled with hope... hope that they will live long enough to take fantastic voyages to far off places. Vacation packages dance in their fatigued little heads. Here comes the offering plate. Nope. Sorry. Saving for a vacation. Empty offering plates slice through God's atmosphere like deadly UFO's, cutting up resistance fields, letting the evil energies slip in. Empty offering plates made of steel tumble from the pulpit, crushing unsuspecting congregants, distracted by their pending vacation packages. Distracted by their fatigued imaginations.
Barbara is rubbing elbows with aging celebrities, while Beth is climbing the political ladder of post-christian politics, in a world that is increasingly hostile towards compromise and sacrifice. I'm tapping the keys in a high ceilinged room with a view of the street. Cars come to-and-fro with urgency to meet whomever they're going to meet. I'm tapping the keys with sweet music massaging my ears, and deep pain emanating towards my surface. I'm fatigued and my defenses are weak, so every little loose association triggers personal pain that I could never explain. So I'm tapping the keys and Barbara is at an event with a friend and some clients. I am in a store that I am trying to sell, but nobody knows it's for sale, and I can't seem to catch a break. When I was a boy I thought I would be an aging celebrity by now. When I was a boy I thought I would be an aging superhero by now.
What is wrong with you people? You furnish your dwellings with NASA level technologies and port your gadgets around that would make Batman blush. You have 9 different kinds of bacon to choose from and power windows in your automobiles. Your whole damn life is on cruise control. You rush to your keyboard and console every time your struck with a clever quip, and type it all out in your social media boxes for all your connections to absorb. You frolicking people. I'm not absorbing your top 10 lists anymore. I'm not considering the 9 best ways to save money on a vacation. I'm not watching the 8 best vomit scenes from hollywood movies in the 90s. I'm no longer interested in your 7 principles to earn 6% more on your savings accounts. What's wrong with you people? Don't you have a clue? Don't you know what a clue even is?
A young woman drives an old van full of new books with old ideas. She is lost in thought, but tracked on her gps map. Back and forth her van sways in the boredom of the day. She knows she is loved, but she is safely isolated from the expectation that comes with it. She is isolated in the cab of the van, manipulating her hands upon the oversized steering wheel. The large circle that descends to her belly button and gives her fine-tuned control. She drives through the newborn air of winter, swaying to subconscious music and enduring leftover moods triggered by last night's shows and yesterday's cartoons.
There are strange energies that pop and charge us. They come from every direction. From an affirmation to a good parking spot. Euphoric portions scattered across the earth from the hand of God in the parade of creation. I take my portion. Someone likes your created thing, and you squeal. Someone taps their foot to your melody song and you could almost cry. We try our darndest to make good choices so we can procure our euphoric portions. Sometimes people cheat, and seek it out on the street, with drugs and sex and a thousand forms of folly. But that's just cheap candy in the parade of creation. It's just empty calories and we're back on the curb watching God's floats roll down the street, eyes peeled and on the tips of our feet.
Hello weary scholar-star tapping on your writing unit. I'm a wayward thought up above your reading lamp - NO! I'm behind your thinking chair -NO! I'm behind your occipital lobe and I'm whispering promises of groundbreaking genius while you are frantically tapping your keys, trying to draw me down into your screen. But I am slippery and fast and you tap away while I crash into your frontal lobe and back out into the darkness of your writing room. Now I'm out behind the curtain -NO! Now I'm slipping through your beaded door and into your long cool hallway -NO! Now I'm out through a crack under the door and into the chaos of your infinite city. But I hear your desperate inhale and I sense your clenched fist as your frantic typing comes to rest. Try again tomorrow, huh?
People pushing past the street corner peddlers tapping text declerations into their miracle pads. I'm walking backwards into my significance trance. Top ten tips are contradicting one another. Top ten lists in rank conflict. People pushing content to the masses on their jesus tablets. I'm hanging upside down to let the bad blood leak out. Interactive people resisting their geriatric gravities, rubbing ointments on their facial spaces. I'm reclining on a modern chair considering my favorite places. I have magic scars on my outer shell. Enchanted people interacting with their rounded screens, rubbing fingers across the magic glass. I'm pushing my face against my knuckles and imagining simpler tasks.
There were Child protective services creeping around the weekend corners. Party goers reached for higher levels of euphoria while young mothers fretted over lost youth and a lack of experiences necessary, so they think, for normal development. There are many whiplash perspectives that scratch across your consciousness, striving to get a peak. There are twice as many ditches as there are roads. There are trapped ambitions with no place to go. The world is an incubator of waste. This human species is a facilitator of great futility and fancy bureaucracy. I don't need no social services. I don't need no protective services. I need a new perspective and a road on which to ride my ambitions.
Satellites surround my planet and transfer documents between our citizens. I'm sitting in my tea shop counting my customers, transferring caffeine between my patrons. Life is a series of transfers, where energy squeaks between the seams and surrounds atomic things with animation and vitality. Even clouds, the blackest and the loudest, simply transfer one energy source to an energy recipient. But one day, physicists tell us, the satellites will fall and the clouds will not rise. And all the caffeine in the universe will not arouse a molecule to move. And my planet will grow cold. And my tea store will close. And all our citizens' memories will disappear between the seams.
There is a chorus rising from the horizon zones. There is a nagging feeling in my paranoia realms. The zeitgiest is shifting. The world is rejiggering. The resource pool is shrinking. One hundred ants toppling down the anthill. Sixteen monkeys tumbling down the jungle branches. Mother nature is one sick bitch. But positivity and hope don’t do much. Keep the government out of it. Keep the power brokers powerless. Keep the socialism scenarios from darkening our dreams. I voted for change, but I also voted for liberty. I awoke from a dream and did not recognize my surroundings. Scriptures tattered. Burning conscience. Cast-back politician shaking off the teleprompter. Wealth-pampered anger-addict sneering out the plasma screens, seethes: “Where is that singing coming from?”