by Tomorrow's Man
[sic]
Confusius say:
"Sure, everbody poops, but can you make sure first the baggie put in my mouth has no holes, please?"
[sic]
Confusius say:
"If one has pork chop but no apple sauce, one must find seed, plant tree, watch tree grow, watch tree bloom, pick fruit, and smoosh apple; but if one has apple sauce and no pork chop, one really should just go to Kentucky Fried Chicken."
Today, he fears God. The powerful smirk in the new moon. The semi that did not see him this morning and nearly crushed him into another truck. The crying of his cats as he left the apartment, as if they were screaming don't go, don't go. He fears Karma, that he thought had been on his side. The dark stones encircling nothing. The coming cold. His coworker's duplicity. He fears sleeping alone. Awaking alone. Exisitng, alone.
He does not fear bombs. He does not fear flying. He does not fear high speed and his brakes that seem to be slipping. He does not fear fire, or infestation, or cancer.
He fears the mirror: He sees him, and he knows what he does best is fail.
He fears that he hates him; and in the mirror, there is nowhere left to go...but out of the picture.
Blondes have more fun, hah! not when they're underwater they don't, but that doesn't mean Keanu should've climbed my monkey puzzle without permission, the leaves are shaped like that not to pat his ass but to keep the ants out of my phone for Christmas' sake, why can't anyone jump that donkey down, man? Fine, fine, I'll relax, get over the brouhaha in the brothel that kept me wrapped in prosciutto for three hours, fine fine, I'll be fine out in the boiling sun 'cos blondes ain't having more fun, not more than me!
Nothing smells better than meatpants.
It followed back faster and swallowed again this computer cuts my lines and it
cuts my lines and follows back faster this computer cuts it follows back this computer cuts my lines faster as it swallows itself again it cuts my back faster as it follows back and swallows my back it lines my cuts faster swallows this computer swallows faster than my lines.
Today I was stabbed in the heart by the Statue of Liberty. I'll admit, it wasn't her fault, though; she was just standing there doing her thing, and I roughed her up.
As usual, it was the fault of tequila, but no one was truly hurt; I just earned a bruise where my third tit would be, which is better than one in my third eye.
[sic]
Confusius say:
"Having split personality is just fine; having spilt personality is what is bad, since spilt personality hard to clean up, even with extra strength Bounty, the quicker picker-upper."
Early off-moods can storm and swell into crashingly off-days, the black butterfly wings of a tiny bruise on the morning causing coma by sunset.
So paint the butterfly bright metallic sapphire blue. After the blue dries, dip the butterfly in silver. Then handle it, gently but all over, sealing your fingerprints in the paint, making the blue show through the silver where your prints and whorls create patterns owned only by you.
Now take that butterfly and throw it back into the Congo, let it flap flap flap away. This way, if a storm comes, you can lay claim to its power.
One can not control chaos - the idea is contradictory - but one can control how big an umbrella they carry, and how much they wish for lightning to fall from the sky in dazzling and deadly blue and silver whorls.
And so this guy, like, he was in all black cos you had to be? But like his pants with all the safetly pins weren't even the same black as, like, his ripped wumpscut shirt? And like, whatever, so he barely made dress code and still like tried to talk to me? So like, I'm like whatever, guy, dude, go talk to someone who you can see their roots showing, right? But he kept talking to me and like looking at my chest? And like, whatever, I know the rips all like show everything but that's no reason to like stare at my tits, right? So he like gets all, like, "whatever," when I tell him to go try to match his blacks better and he like kissed me!? Like, oh my god he just turned me around and kissed me and then grabbed my purse, the cool one that looks like a coffin, right, and like opens it like he had a right to? And then like oh my god he bent over and puked in it! I am so not even kidding! It was so gross and it was all like taco-bell smell and oh my god like my stuff was all like covered in enchilada puke and it was so gross!! Yeah, but like the next time he was there he apologized and his new Funker Vogt shirt that he tore up matched his pants so like whatever, I'm letting him take me to the Stromkern show. I mean, whatever, it's not even a date but he can buy me drinks and stuff.
I'll probably wear that same dress cos I think I look good in it, right?
Whatever.
[sic]
Confusius say:
"Life teaches that small things should be forgotten as one will always have bigger fish to fry; however, one must remember to bring their own big skillet, cos life has only very small hibachi."
[sic]
Confusius say:
"Once one eats a Dorito, one must eschew their coffee; otherwise, one risks the mouth of very bad tongue."
Learn the lesson here. Live the lesson.
Especially if it's cold coffee. Trust me.
Here. Here's a poem. A tale. A fable, parable, parabola. Take it. Roll it up. If you smoke, smoke it; if you do not, then wet the end, weave it into the pull-tab on a soda or beer can and light it like incense. You will inhale enough.
This story is about hope in smoke. Why, you wonder, hope in smoke? Because that is where it is. In smoke, in sky, in water, in mind, in head and heart. Hope, it is in french fries. It is in stuffed animals and sunflowers. It curls inside a jelly bracelet, and whispers between the gasps of friends' laughter. It's your pillow.
Hope is the road and the miles the road crosses. Hope is what keeps time off of those miles while you travel them. Hope is in your glove compartment, your knapsack, behind your ear. It is a bit dogged and bent, but it's still so viable. Light it up and inhale. Or put a dry pinch between your cheek and gum. Ah, that taste! So good, so fulfilling.
You can't beat something that tastes like tomorrow.
You can't beat anything that fills you with the taste of tomorrow.
Road Notes: I-90 Illinois
Illinois, the land of Billie Holiday in the middle of nowhere serving ten-dollar tuna melts, the road to traffic and East Coast attitude, the place where 40 cents hangs like a winking joke to every driver, the road that laughs like New Jersey, the land of red hots in the form of overheating cars, Illinois, the place where the dry grass sighs across the lake and rivers walk haphazardly and green-brown like pinstripes on the suit of New York's runt brother, Chicago, Illinois, where empty stars can be found in shoe heels and an empty head can make the same mistakes despite its haircut; Chicago, Illinois; just like everywhere.
Chicago Notes: Kaleidoscope
I showered hot, stripped naked and walked to the flashing telly, threw my wet towel over its babbling happy face, and sat to drink a cold one and two and three.
I smiled, smiled at the amorphousness caused by my moist filter, my bit of effort thast changed everything the world was trying to sell me into accidental art.
I felt the fullness of the one, the two, the three, and I releived, I peed, and my pee smelled like peace, just something that happens sometimes when you know who and where and what you are.
I am never helpless as long as I blink.
As long as I twitch my fingers.
There is a solution to all strife, a way to make risks seem like milky soda crackers to the teeth; I know, I know, if I can just get all of these rutting rabbits out of my tattered top hat I can return my pomegranate head to a state ruddy with art.
This is the first step: don't stare at those parts of that man wearing the loose sarong, just look here at the hands, at the teeth, at the first fur of long ears appearing from the felt mouth.
Look here, into my eyes opened wide; they're the pip-hue of art and love; they're ready to build Icarus a helicopter and still be home in time for Vindaloo chicken.
Sidle, shake, smack the sun, run run, run, don't get burned, creep creep, back to HOME, collect a gnome with orange hair, kiss her forehead, wish away despair, slide and sidle back to the moon, a blood beat above coming soon, there is an eye or three on me now, wonder where I'll run to now, maybe just a trot back to the gnome, who promises me I have found HOME, kiss her grin, sit back down, kiss and kiss a furry clown, shed his fur from my face, smile into keyboard space, know this wish is more a prayer too, the gnome tole me I am HOME, the gnome tole me I AM HOME.
Ever feel like you have the shell of a sunflower seed, protection that can be bitten right through, splintered and used to rend your meat for the swallow?
That's one idea. Maybe the lesson is in protection not having to be so suffocating; after all, walnuts are ugly.
You can prove yourself 1,000 times
but your faith is a tissue
in a twister
if they'll only let
their bell be rung
at 1,001.
Dreaming of drowning. As the car slid into the swamp, I gave in, sighed as the thick water closed over the sunroof, blotting the moon to a shiver. I wasn't that far down. I had oxygen enough to rise. It wasn't the seatbelt. It wasn't the water, the water was warm. I just gave in.
I just gave in, and died eyes open.
[sic]
Confusius say:
"Staple remover may have mouth of Dragon, but man not become hero for slaying it; man must slay real Dragon, even if very little one."
At see level sure everyone's got eyes to write back to you, but no one really knows what alphabet we're each other using now do we? Tap tap tap and at sixty words per minute I'm zooming at 88 potential characters per second as my tongue launches a missive to you letting you know maybe about the fire or the flood, or the truth and the crossed fingers of God, or the frying pan and the rhythm of hunger, or the cracked bell jar and the soul leaking out, or the desire of the good man inside who just wishes he could get 88 thoughts per second all firing down the same lane of his love highway in order to write a simple letter.
[sic]
Confusius say:
"The early bird sure does get the worm, and early to bed, early to rise is fine for them birds, but gimmie a Bloody Mary and Tylenol at noon instead of a cotton-pickin' worm any day."
[sic]
Confusius say:
"Seeds small to eat, nourish life, even for bird like chicken; however, seed can also choke the throat to death, especially if inside the whole chicken."
The Famous Mistake
Think God got it right?
Nope.
Made one mistake. Never saw it coming.
Love.
Are you in love? This time? Again?
Of course you are.
Now.
What have you expended? Have you had faith? Have you offered trust? Was it not enough?
Of course.
It was love.
Last time you were happy in love -- before this time -- what ended it? You're in love now -- have you offered this relationship your faith yet? Or, did the last one poison this one? Well, of course it did. You're human, after all.
All that fucking.
All that fucking.
Plenty of fucking. We're built for it.
Love is a side effect, maybe?
Maybe. Maybe Ma Nature's most famous mistake. She mixed one part of this, two parts of that, and a dash of this with a jigger of that and poof! She got reproduction, attraction, survival. But like the way a pickle in peanut butter tastes like fillet mignon, chemicals are crazy things. Ma N. never saw Love coming.
But now it's here. A side effect.
Around like oxygen.
And yes, we're stuck with it. Welcome to the world's punchlineless joke, God's famous mistake. God, Mother Nature, Allah, Shiva, Zeus, Molly Hatchet, Ronald McDonald, Barry Manilow, whomever: "Oops." Done spilt an extra egg in the human omelette -- and we've got love.
Any wonder why God's gotta show up just in movies and drugs? There you go. It's called being abashed. It's how you would feel if you'd invented love and did this to everyone. It's saying, "Sorry, folks; my bad."
Infamy in error.
Our job? To prove everything wrong, and make it work.
That's it.
Make it work:
Love.
Bouncy Betty bought breasts because Balloony Bobbi became "Boston's Breastiest" before Betty became 'Bouncy.'
[sic]
Confusius say:
"One should enjoy life to fullest, even eating jalapeno, pepperoni, and refried bean gumbo jambalaya until belly bursting full; however, one should remember they are out of toilet paper before enjoying life so fully."
[sic]
Confusius say:
"When turning other cheek, make sure goat not gotten while looking other way."
Texticity would like to introduce an interim writer who will take over for your author on the days he needs a break from his musings. He comes to us from the South-Eastern part of a far Northern place, a place West of Topeka (but then what isn't). His name is Confusius (pronounced Con-'fyooz-us (the 'i' is silent)), and he will take the opportunities of my silence to impart his wisdom upon you in a way similar to stapling a parrot to your head and calling yourself a cockatoo.
And now, Confusius.
"When favorite pen die, bury it good, and give eulogy to its many words; however, sure to not bring new pen to funeral, for this is true bad taste."