by Tomorrow's Man
I am not carrying a three-headed book,
Nor am I with a three-fingered crook,
And sure I know many places to imbibe in,
but there does not be the psylocybin;
Bitters I've spilled and spoilt many a garment,
and sometimes I'm sure my hand is a varmint,
though four times I may have felt narwahls,
I do stop groping when my mommy calls,
also!
Of purple scrimpatches I have no plethora,
though I do possess one Chinese menorah,
which I filter through my brain like coffee
a feeling, quite frankly, that's not always comfy,
so instead I buy beer for a ruble a day,
a cost that is 'double-vay-uh-double-vay'
in French a language that is spoken by fries,
and curious persons with Eiffel Towers for eyes
who leap from my microwave each night with a holler,
"Long live your Rod, for ever' Shag's more taller!"
And though these persons are not quite quotable,
They deserve the attention when their words are notable;
So I'll wrap up this story I began to regale,
(before your interest completely sets sail),
of a three-headed book not in my possession,
along a winding path of Seussian digression.
Take the erosion of this doubt and 10,000 square feet of trust, add one desk in the brightest area of sunlight, just below the window that makes rainbows each day with the morning dew, add a machine that turns tap tap tap tap tap into w-o-r-d-s, put a blooming rose in a small crystal vase in the upper left corner of the desk -- not too far away from an occasional waft of its scent to the nose of the person who sits in the comfortable swivel-chair that is pulled away from the desk, lowered into as if into a lover's embrace, then pulled forward to face the machine -- then enjoy the smile on the face that blooms with the flower as the words begin turning tap tap tap tap tap into m-a-g-i-c.
What do I hope I had done before I died?
Should I have been taller? Longer? Thinner and buff? A whiter smile, a thicker wallet? More patience, more control, less fear? Should I have ventured into the pure release of faith? Did I care enough? Did I emit enough love, as much as I received? Should I have regretted my cruelty, my selfishness, my crass impatience, my humanity? Should I have had more style, more grace? Jumped further, landed more softly, sung my songs more clearly, wrote my poems for a more complacent crowd? Should I have danced the way the world taught me to dance? Should I have shed my armor, showed every cell of my heart? Should I have quit smoking sooner, switched to only one glass of white wine a night? Should I have been an Odysseus who rubbed Penelope's feet more often? Did I read enough, talk too much? Why didn't I dream more, and live them? Am I good? At my core, will I be good when I go? Did I try hard enough?
Did I fail? Did I try? Did I try before I died? Do people tell you that they like how hard you try? Goals seem to be to succeed; what if you failed failed failed, but never stopped trying, does that count, does that count?
Did I have faith in me? Is it faith that matters, if it only faith in me -- and in the end it only matters to me? What is it to die faithful to the core when no one know it before your last breath?
What do I hope to have done before I died? I hope I'll be remembered for one thing; I hope it is remembered that I tried.
Why haven't I told you?
For about three weeks I have had dizzy spells, chest pains, I've been graying out, and daily I get sharp, severe headaches. I had my first migraine in months just a week or so ago. I feel my second - or something like it - coming on.
Why haven't I told you?
I have lost weight due to lack of appetite. I can't manage to put weight on. I can no longer sleep, unless alcohol holds the velvet bag of dust.
Why haven't I told you?
What could I tell you? A big back has a big front, just listen to the Rice Texas drawl, and even big leaves can't kill a hard luck story.
Some things are like rain, Mars, the things that make you go 'ooh,' and taxes. Some things are just like that.
Being sporadic is as life-like as just being. This is me, and why I don't try to find the spelling of the Husky race from Alaska south (Ididierade?) that I've only ever heard of in dreams.
*I dreamt last night that I killed a man, and that I was being deceived by a friend.*
I appear, then disappear, then leave a scent that wafts in from the back porch at exactly the moment you'd hoped I was gone. But sometimes there's no wind, and we all feel lucky.
*If you don't tell what you feel in dreams, is it deception?*
I once dreamt I had no scent. I was devastated. I usually stink to at least low Heaven; not a hippie thing, I just like my odor, and do try to keep it in check for others. But it was gone. I was scentless. Where was my definition? Where was I? How could I be felt, tasted? It was a nightmare.
*Are dreams fears, or realizations? Are dreams planted to help us learn, or seeds of destruction? Are we sowing our own downfalls? Are dreams the key to entropy and change, the realization, the purpose of life, or do they simply burp out of a non-digested bit of meat in the small intestine and into our minds when the cat licks our faces?*
Right now, I must put on deodorant. I will smell like something, but not me. But something. This change from me to perfume, me to acceptable, it's challenging. It's sporadic, my acceptance of this. Sometimes, I like being a thick funk in Degree's clothing. Mostly, I prefer to be judged on my scent more than anything else about me. I know it's the most honest I can possibly be.
Ask the wolves.
Ask the wolves.
Migraine '03: Day 2
I Am the Hippy Hippy Shake - on the Stairway to Heaven
People are such songs. So many new ones we crave; and even of our favorites we grow old. Songs attract our attention in many ways, by speed and rhythm, by popularity, and of course by length. This leads me to a thought. Even our favorite songs we don't want to go on forever; often, the ones we love the most we love for the very reason of what they give to us in their brief time.
It is not shameful to want to be number one; as long as you don't mind being number one for just a little while. And some songs, hey, you're happy when they finally end -- even if you've loved them forever.
I am haunted by one endless snore, without beginning or end, echoing from between his teeth and shaking one brown lesbian pubic hair, of Lou Diamond Philips. This snore is my sentence construction. This snore is my waking life. I hear it everywhere.
If I were a color, my color would be this snore.
The last time I woke up after having a party in my pants and everyone was invited I noticed nothing but onion dip. No more of that, I'll tell you.
Common Usage, Minute Terror, Ant Crack, Chicken Porn
I came back to work from five days off. I sat at my desk. I began my computer ministrations. I scratched an itch on my left arm. Then another. Then looked at the itchy. Then jumped up and made noises like the soundtrack to a chicken porn. I had dozens of tiny red ants crawling on my skin. Which wasn't bad, considering there were thousands on my desk, making a hell-bent-for-leather effort to get the Tootsie Roll that had been sitting on it for a week while I was away. I proceeded to practice a tiny, sad version of genocide. My quote aloud when done was, "This goes against every fiber of what is in my Buddhist nature! I mean a life is a life is a life, but Jesus Christ there were a fucking million of them!"
I'm not sure how many contradictory blasphemies were in that sentence, but at least I have learned that Tootsie Rolls are apparently Ant Crack.
Road Notes: Somewhere Over America
Don't know when this plane will fly again or if it will with me in it; one never knows a thing until it's been done, and nothing is ever done before someone else has laughed about it. A trip can be made without drugs, though I could have used them this time, as my mind, despite finding open doors wider than ever, found others that I had no choice but to close.
Everybody's got to have someplace they call home. I think mine is somewhere in this airplane.
Boston Notes: Salem, MA.
I'll trade goths for gays any day, heat and sunshine are skippy fun, yay! I like my smiles when others wear black, To laugh at them's the best reason to come back; I may have been the worse for wear, but I felt like gold lamé in pink cashmere, and hot lemon donuts are a delish treat, a shame the "witches" are too goth to eat.
Boston - New Hampshire Notes: Day 3
I apologize in advance for feeding the mosquito nation. I am afraid that by this time next month the East coast will be swarming with these surly, man-sized vampires, due to the fact that they have withdrawn close to three pints of my blood in the last 24 hours.
Now, I must move into the kitchen and beg for coffee. I am swollen like a strawberry that's allergic to strawberries. The air alone makes me itch.
Come on, December.
Boston Notes: Day 2: Independence Day (USA)
(It is ugly to be human; but at least it is also human to be ugly. As an ugly American, I feel like the punchline to God's most misunderstood joke.)
"Tequila times arrive in Icarus' eye, time to let the sun burn me to bacon, Happy Something everybody, let's just worship the 909 at 120BPM and hope we find out, somewhere, someway, what the joke was."
--The Ugly American, 7/4/2003
Boston Notes: Day 1
Stranger in a Stranger Land
Out of place in my own footsteps, walking strange pavements where I've pissed, puked, cried and wailed epics to the sky, this used to be me, this used to be mine, now it is a strange town with a curiously bleak skyline, all money and no gain, I'm taking bullets every moment to my pride, where am I? Where am I from and why? Where do I belong?
I am somewhere, but it is only because I have to be; as thin as I can make myself, I still take up space somewhere.