The Honorable
Funny thing about the square, that house is crooked.
Leaning and swampy and somebody threw paint on the roof.
Do you think people still live in there?
This one will not leave my mind.
You don’t have to read the entire works of Thomas Jefferson in one day. But today is the day. Shoe polish is good enough for your hair, especially when you are on a major fault line, and we could sink in any day, any day. You don’t have to sing every single Grateful Dead song, standing outside, waiting for people to leave the church. But at least you brought us some canned goods. To search and annoy is that a fine art or is that just fine?
We ate the cranberry sauce and slept in bathtubs, kept our socks in the microwave. You don’t have to have running water, but you must have coffee in the morning. Times are tight, and the Baby in Me needs to walk around back and throw rocks at your window. Let’s rock it down to the YMCA and talk of the guy who invented the corn dog. Remember that wearing cotton only and smoking organic cigarettes just isn’t gonna do it for me everyday! We are out to shake it up, we are out to represent. Brit out! There we sit, with some leftover codeine and the stacks of books outnumber our friends and all of the important pages have been marked with wooden skewers. Let’s make some patches, let’s sew them on each other. Shooting up is one thing, but rubber tubing and a razor blade, that takes some preparation and some care to work. In the end, a hair dye bottle is not just that. These existential ideas, they aren’t what the academics want you to know. Their examples are trees, and ours are scabs and trash. To get from point A to point B, first you have to bake a chocolate cake. To do that, you must steal the mix. And the mix, well, that is another problem altogether. Somehow, things happen, when you are determined, and there is the cake, cooked to perfection in a spitoon. Spatial relationships are a little tougher, than the ideas you grab at in the air. Its to big, and even though it looked possible, that heavy old thing will not fit inside, and that, my friend is much more important than the food rotting on the floor. We must figure that out. I feed my children with ideas that we learned in a few short weeks. They are still examined, the Who’s Who in America. There it is, sitting on the rug that Momar Kadafi gave your mother, thinking about the riots, fixated on the ceiling and up there is a sticker and some bubble gum. Debris falls, the glass is in the basement, and we are gonna dance, dance, dance.
Add comment November 11th, 2007