by Tomorrow's Man
There will be no texticity today. I am highly frustrated that I can rhyme 'potato' with 'tomato,' 'frugal' with 'Google,' and 'garment' with 'varmint,' but nothing with 'orange.' This shall plague me forever.
I've found that, on a warm day, a red metal windchime with reverberate each of its tones toward space for close to three hours before they decay; my apartment, right now, with the 80-degree gusts blowing through, sounds like the infinite soundtrack of the Bright Path to Heaven as written by a caffeinated Brian Eno.
It will be a shame to shut the door.
Replace every fingertip with a pen, pencil, calligraphy stylus, stick of chalk, charcoal brush, paint brush, hilighter, chisel, thorn, and whistle. Edward Artisthands. I could be him, despite the oddity of scratching an itch.
I was writing a metaphorical treatise on 'every wall a man climbs being the height of his erect penis,' but lost track due to, er, distraction and limitations of matter over mind. But, I'm man enough to admit it.
26 days left to December, 25 thirsts left to quench, 24 red reels of twine, 23 young lesbians skip-skop, 22 rushing puppies to love, 21 queer angles to brush, 20 unique material thoughts, 19 numbers counted on one foot, 18 needs being daily met, 17 is my lucky number and height, 16 strikes from the Series away, 15 youth movements enrolled in today, 14 violent viable dances, 13 times 10 is 130.1, 12 Mig fighter planes crocheted from lamé, 11 good horses parading through Spain, 10 kings diamonds choke in the sea, 9 ingrates with mud on their faces, 8 pairs of underwear called panties at noon, 7 Jacks went home jumping, 6 cormorants disguised as wool, 5 astounding fleas in a fair, 4 frugal fairies fighting over Frodo, 3 wee feet hopscotching toward mom, 2 dreary days give weay to sun, and one everyone is everywhere.
No more frogs or pants or chutney, no more dangling silver things from my extra elbow skin, no more churlish flinging comments, no more laughing yellow men's teeth, no more wondering after the whale, no more watching the wheel fly aligned, or the the flies wheeling through the honey, no more wishing for a wish-washy wish, just fish upon fish and a week of warm rain.
Today was the first day in thirty-seven straight days that I did not use that little frog who visits me as a musical instrument; today, instead, I let him use me as one.
"If I could dance better, Mr. Trump, I wouldn't have to wear these corrective clow shoes!! If you don't like it, you fly the helicopter!!"
The calendar and I have made an agreement to shorten January, February, and March by twodays each, and April by one, then add the extra week to June, between the 14th and the 21st. This week will be called, henceforth, "Fun Week." It will make Mardi Gras, Cinquo de Mayo, and St. Patrick's Day look like full Catholic masses. It will be mandatory -- anyone caught working toward capital gain in any way will be subdued, restrained, and filled with tequila and/or Skittles.
Be prepared.
Water water everywhere, and not a drop to rub between my toes and make the big one shout out, "Whooogah that is what I like to call FROSTING!"
I made some noise, baked it at 375 for 45 minutes in a cinnamon girl pie (a crustacean crust), then lifted it with mince to the apple-ledge, where the crows made a quick canasta of the party.
Baby, this ain't yer momma's Bill Laswell.
BOOBOO REDDA
NO BOOB BEDDA
DEN MY REDDA
WITH HIS BIG BODY
AND HIS HUGE HEDDA
IF I HAD A STAMP
I'D SEND HIM A LEDDA
TELLIN HIM HE'S BEDDA
THAN GREEK SALAD WITH FEDDA
MY BOOBOO REDDA
BIG AS AN IRISH SEDDA
IS THE BEST BOOB
OOB
EVA.
Quon ti dao, no shoin-ti ké, was nah hao, HAO! Eskeh na hamni dahno, sheeshkeh noi som ka; eesheyeh no som kom no da, no shoin-ti ké -- was nah hao.
She traveled red lines down over the white she'd laid, then there in the grey she made my sight go 3D, it was a clapboard throwaway, a black-and-white chapbook thought that she made come alive, and my eyes got to dance to her sweep and her beat.
What I saw last night was the viscous, frantic display of slugs on speed in a mating frenzy to bad music. I have to say, I don't blame the music or the slugs; the speakers were cross-wired, and the resulatant sound was the equivalent of a mating call. It was off-center, the night.
Epiphany tonight.
Driving close to 60 down Highway 18, six cars were zippered close to each other as we sped: my red one; and a blue, and a yellow, and another yellow, and another blue, and another red like mine, six cars, two couples each of the primary colors.
I smiled wider and wider as our speed crept up in tandem, over 65, to 68, close to 70, tickling the ribs of 71MPH and making it giggle.
I imagined us accelerating faster and faster, a constant growing velocity moving us down an infinite highway until we reached the speed of light and blended together into a brilliant, bright white ribbon of light, moving at the speed of the universe, Tom Petty or Chubawumba or Brian Eno's "Taking Tiger Mountain" or whatever they and I might have been playing on our car stereos left far far behind us as our cranked, bass-heavy speakers exhaled years behind us.
I have figured it out.
It isn't evolution.
We simply are not done being born yet.
In the end, when we all have been born, all of our faces will be the links between each other, next to next, forming a single, linked face that, when spun on a top, will blend into the face of God.
It is then that this crazy journey will end.
Don't you feel better now?
Chemtrails? I do not have time to worry about chemtrails, like so many do. Know why? Because, I need to worry about other things for the rest of you.
Like:
The detergent being used on the glasses at bars where people regularly get drugged senseless.
The soporific additives that are being put in automobile gasoline, hair sprays, and room deodorizers.
The chemicals in the water in the spray nozzles that keep the vegetables moist in the grocery store.
The "natural ingredients" contained in the large bottles of "spring" water in our business offices.
The skin-permeating drugs that are in the ink that they use to print our dollar bills.
The hidden cameras in every hard-wired fire detector installed in a public place, apartment complex, or condominium.
The even increasing doses of paroxetine that they have been putting in the water supply of every farm that slaughters animals and/or harvests irrigated crops for human consumption.
The GPS locators that are standard but secret installation in every electronic key for car doors manufactured since 1997.
The HIV infected needles being hidden in gas pump handles at hundreds of self-service pumps at gas stations across America.
Razor blades, needles, and shards of glass inserted into the produce at grocery stores.
The increasing incidents of suicide after a person consumes a certain amount of beer, cola, reconstituted juice and juice mixes, or processed "spring" waters manufactured with water supplies west of the Mississippi River.
And many other situations just like this about which we need to be much, much more vigilant.
I am doing my part.
Oh no. No no no.
I have had Pabst Blue Ribbon and cheese curls for dinner.
Something alarming is happening.
Oh.
I just called my cat "Doublewide."
uh....
Dear Jesus,
Hey, man, how's it hanging? Good, good. Just wanted to give you an update on things down here. Seems that whole 'slaughter thy neighbor' attitude has really caught on as a trend. Everyone is killing everyone, basically. And I'm sure you're going to just love this -- some of them are doing it in your name. Yeah, no kidding. I guess that 'peace and love and forgiveness' stuff just didn't, you know, have legs. Heck, even our own President of the USA is murdering people every day in your name. And not just our enemies (who are murdering for their own insanities), but also many Americans.
Jesus, man, I don't get it. Aren't we supposed to be progressing toward enlightenment? How does daily mass murder get us closer to Heaven? Did your Daddy-O really tell them all to do this, to kill incessantly? Seems to me your Dad's engine's running, but there's no one at the wheel. I mean, how does He expect us to have faith, when those who engage in deadly sins every minute of every day are the leaders, the elite, and -- according to them -- the only ones with hot tickets to Heaven? Doesn't Daddy-O realize that, frankly, he's a Deadbeat God?
I'd like to think I'm being hard on Him, that He's had a pretty tough job Himself, but it's getting pretty ridiculous down here. We can't have solar power. We don't have an honest government. We can't survive a day without worldwide mass murder. We can't speak our minds, share our views, or simply try to move the race toward an evolution into pure art. Imagine how nice that would be, a race of people dedicated to artistry. Imagine how beautiful the world would be.
Eh, what am I saying -- you know exactly what I'm babbling about. You did not preach murder, industry, chastity, anger. You preached peace on Earth and love thy neighbor. And maybe the fact that you were murdered, and so many have fallen since you, is the perfect evidence everyone has been looking for to support creationism over evolution. Because, let's face it -- this human race has not evolved one iota since the day we opened our first murdering eye. Sure, we've had a couple of high points, but even Hitler liked Vivaldi. Even Atilla the Hun wrote a children's book. Even George W. Bush likes baseball. Specks of enamel showing through a cavity does not mean a healthy tooth; if anything, we're still decaying.
Well, Happy Resurrection Day and all that, and I hope someone brings ham rolls to your party. They're delicious.
Talk to you next year.
Peace,
Chris
P.S.: Can you do me a favor, hm? Before your Dad immolates the entire human race in a senseless bloodbath, could you ask Him to just let the Red Sox play the Cubs in the World Series this year? I mean, it really is the least He could do. Thanks, Jesus.
I took the penguin out today. Not too much, just me and him sauntering over to the Muskie for a Leinenkugel's and a bit of deep fried grouper with fries. He didn't eat much, though he did manage to belt down three Leinie's. I tell ya, there's nothing funnier than seeing a penguin recovering from a bad skydiving accident trying to walk on his cane tipsy and hiccuping beer burps. Well, okay, maybe it was a little funnier when his chute didn't open and the way he was flapping his wings right before he landed in the hay field, but you know, that funny didn't last very long.
The grouper was dry anyway, so, you know...who can blame him.
It's 2:07AM, it's 17 degrees, it might be snowing, and it's approaching mid-April. Good Friday? Aaaaah, what's so good about it?
When Jesus returns, I bet he's going to move to Miami.
Take a hat a nice hat the kind with a feather and not covered in too much cat hair, and take that nice felt hat and roll it around the third to the innermost ring of Saturn, not too quickly, just fast enough to circumnavigate the planet twice in thirty years, then, at the end of the thirtieth year, grab the hat as it finishes its second revolution and twirl it straight up onto your head in one fluid motion. The specks and sparkles of dist and ice that glitter off into space from the hat-halo atop your head are real, real pretty.
Water water everywhere, and not a drop to fuse with a molecule or two of chlorine so I can dissolve my way out of this blasted prison. Damn you, Nemo!!!
I let my fingers dangle in the touch tank, but not long enough to get stubbed by a piranha; I like wearing my helmet sideways, but I'm not that crazy.
Did...did he just mention Joe, the goldfish in the beer with the eypatch? I've met him!!
The only sober bartender I ever met was the one I woke up in confessional today; he was thankful for reminding him of existence and offered me two free shots, one of them right there. I accepted, of course; it was his bar.
I went ass-backwards onto the floor again, ass-backwards into a concrete kiss, but I can accept it was a kiss same as the fist that put me there, so why not see love in everything and return the love love love the favor?
I spoke to each highway cone on the way home today. I got in trouble with a po-lice officer for causing blockage in traffic. I tried to explain, I did not put them there; I was just trying to make their long, boring stay along the highway comfortable. The po-lice officer, he didn't seem to understand communication, but hey, my taxes put him and the cones out there, so I'll talk to whomever I want.
It is April 2004, I can smoke 14 cigarettes in 91 minutes and not be proud of the mess I make of myself at all unless a poem's been written, a sovereign right has been defended, or a loved one knows I love them; I'll rape your ass if you try to hijack a plane I'm on. Got me? New World Order. April Fool's Day, world -- don't underestimate the Quiet Multitudes.