by Tomorrow's Man
The last time I was this sore, two days after four hours of volleyball, is the same as how I felt the last time it was two days after I'd had five hours of sex.
I need to invest in Tylenol or Trojan, I'm just not sure yet which.
I just extracted my cat, but don't worry, we're both out of the hospital and feelin' fine.
Smelling the Reek of Dr. Fill...
I established a goal, but it made me itch, so I established another one that releived the itch but it made me break out in boils, so I established another one that assuaged the boils but made me pick all of the skin off of my fingers, so I established another one and my fingers stopped being pink and bloody but I began grinding chips of my tooth enamel off in my sleep, so I established another goal and most of my hair fell out but for a ring of wispy rind around my skull; so I established one last goal: to stop being fucking pressured into establshing and meeting goals--to stop being driven headlong by a bullshit attitude that every moment of every life must have something measurable to show for it--some fucking DELIVERABLE on your AGENDA--otherwise it is wasted time in the wasted life of a person not worth more than TOUGH LOVE, tough love, a bullshit doctor's version of peer pressure designed to get people barreling back down that fear-of-death track, designed to keep people productive for--of course--their own good.
I have a smoke.
I have a drink.
I have a mind, and an attitude.
I have the ability to take myself off the tracks, take a moment out of my life, take a drag, take a sip, and take a middle finger and point it straight up at you, Doc.
Remember, Doc -- you tell people to look in the mirror. Well, these people who you've got barreling down the tracks, driven driven driven by your ham-handed, "tough love" disguise for forcing upon them the fear of failure as a reason to live, these people are staring at a train headed right at them.
All aboard.
Today I was ordained an electrochemical guru, my zen the sound of one pill popping.
Welcome to the paisley.
Tak.
Okay, I Need You to Imagine
Chewing a piece of gum.
Slicing a cucumber into 1/8" thick discs.
OINY2I:
Chewing on a piece of gum for seven hours feels exactly like chewing on a 1/8" thick slice of cucumber for seven hours, except it isn't a slice of cucumber, it is a slice of a big rubber dildo (probably in one of those obnoxiously popular soccer-mom colors like teal; or 'deep magenta' (ha ha, double entendre)).
Time to Move to Florida
Dear Wisconsin,
I wrote you a poem:
"I would have expected to fart
a kilo of cocaine
before the day I saw
a snowflake
in May."
Bite it.
Love 'n kisses,
TM
Tossed like torn silk and milked of my ghee,
I fell to soft state with the buzz of a bee,
The neighbor demands I turn down the TV,
But no bitch can quiet what's happened to me,
Her thighs parted wide as 9:17,
and I sailed them as a Triscuit on the Caspian Sea,
procellous and slishy, concurrently,
I danced to the thrum of her ovary.
Time bows to me now (it's 8:23),
doves coo to my style (of iniquity),
procellous and slishy, concurrently,
I am once again the old man of the sea.
The sky gets plashy and so do
I
right side this sidereal, down your sides
slipping
the sky slipping steady slide slishy and tied between
your tye/die skislope sighs where my
eyes
a white ball
or two plash into your wet I the
high shot into
your sidereal
slide pearly
I'm a snail down my thigh and butterflies might be just
bugs but oh, oh, oh! do they flutter,
oh! do they flutter,
here drawn on my thigh oh! do they flutter, oh!
do they flutter
and fly.
Why all the question of thievery? A rash of action by those who fear no karma, nor care for life in balance. Koyaanisqatsi, these thieves' engines run on this one fuel, and in the moment they've got plenty as much as oil is lacking.
Exercise leaves one feeling aerobic.
Steroids leave one feeling anabolic.
Sex leaves both feeling symbiotic.
Humming makes one feel onomatopaeic.
Boredom makes everything robotic.
Young girls make me feel anachronistic.
Young boys make me sarcastic.
Fools my age make me vitriolic.
A beer and a ball game feel homeostatic
(though too much of the former is diuretic
and too much the latter can be sadistic).
A bj makes a worthy receiver ecstatic,
but reciprocating makes all involved happily spastic).
And though returning to school was to graduate my eponomy to rubric,
I will first spend twenty more months anabiotic
and eating my own brains.