[Response to: I miss apostrophes and commas…]
Category Archives: is interpretation about something else
[Response to: Sometimes I wish for Steve]
One could not wish for Steve, you must dream of Steve. For Steve is not a person, he is the on going ever all stuck in the ass prison, the hexagon bars of time. Steve in the summer was a free wheeling bird, and as bird his wings were extensions of his horned rim hair brush that held the powers of Old Crow kentucky Straight Bourbon Whiskey, the most affordable for one of Steve’s nature.
Steve ventured on a beach, but since everything for him was the opposite, as it is for us, all he saw was snow and frozen water, and lobsters with wings, and birds with gills, and time moving ever so slowly. slow, slow slowed down, like cheetah in his world. He had never seen one but had often grown fond of them from watching animal planet videos on his IPad2, which was essentially the bong of knowledge that he carried around with him.
Steve saw everything in deep hypnotic waves. Colors that gyrated towards him from the frozen ocean. glowing spirals constantly washing over him. He dreamed of expression, and wondered if there was a creature that could guide him on his journey. One to be reborn, in a world where the beach was a significant possibility to him. Did steve imagine the creature, or was it the creatures job to come find him?
[Response to: BAM!!! The New Year, so much to fear]
One day while gazing at moonbushes, my attorney ringed me on the jellyfone.
“As your attorney, I advise you not to miffle, and please parsellate the torquat.”
My attorney rarely makes sense yet charges an arm and a leg for services rendered. I would never have learned the definitions of words like rendered if it wasn’t for my attorney.
My attorney has a killer instinct.
Kill! Kill! BAM!
My attorney also reads books.
I cannot trust my attorney because my attorney is not my friend. My attorney is my lover.
I’m tired of hearing, “As your attorney, I advise you to pick up some groceries.” I find it violently unprofessional.
[Response to: He thought he was made of meat]
July 3: When I returned to the wicked city of my dreams and sat by a fountain (murmuring) on an overcast day, I finally began to feel the peace I had come so far to find. I had known fear once, as the silhouette of a dog standing silent and motionless on a lonely road. I had imagined myself warm and alive as waves rose up and broke around me, while the outstretched hand of death welcomed me to a cool and inviting sea. The silence was complete at times; at other times the cacophony of voices became a texture as soft as prairie grass, rippling. And everywhere I went, cats followed me. But I grew to understand them, and learned to see the loneliness in their crafty elegance. And as I prepared to step up to a new beginning, I saw that it had already begun, one night in a garden as the triumphal strains of an orchestra heralded victory, a victory that will not define me. There was a long stretch of road between these places, one where details popped with dizzying clarity. As I traveled, tapestries unraveling into threads, I remembered myself. I learned to tie my shoelaces. Now I had returned to the wicked city, but it was not the same place. The streets were no longer tinted gray or yellow depending on the weather. They had texture and shadows, and color too, but they were just streets, unmoved by my motion and indifferent to my desires. A forgettable place, now. And though the sun never shone so brightly, the city had lost the shimmering, mesmerizing hold it had once had on me. An end and a beginning, a pause and a memory, and all of it destined to leech into the groundwater and lose itself in caverns under the fields. I knew then that my journey was finally over.
[Response to: Those awful necks]
– A Poem About a Garden –
Slugs squelch across the spatulated salad greens
Shards of liquid crystal splatter the page
A big violet flower, face-down among the spiky stems
Soon the raindrops falling from the trees will smudge these inky moseys, wash them away so the words fall to earth, and become plants, and suffer their demise as a vegetable stew eaten by a great Author while he is contemplating his Muse, and make dirty streaks across the pristine pages of his leather-bound notebook, til he dare not open it in a crowdy elevator (it rocketing skywards to the glassy observation deck of the Tower of Babel) out of fear that a young mother who was once a devoted fan of his books should peek over his shoulder and see those filthy lines smeared across the page, and thereafter forbid her children from reading one single sentence from the Illustrious Canon of his works out of a crawling, predatory fear they might be corrupted by the sheer literary power of the Author’s odious imagination, and when they grew up her little cherubs would be so damaged they would commit all sorts of heinous gymnastic buggery and be fated to a hapless life of serial faux-pas at society gatherings (indeed, she needn’t have worried, for all her children would grow up to be Surgeons General and Chief Officers Financial and Chess Grand Masters and would abstain from buggery of all kinds – except, of course, to fuck the Little Man, hard, in the ass – and who showed an almost supernatural ability to gently woo the media, and their legions of admirers, and even their occasional detractors, as delicately but assuredly as any enlightened monk folding a fabulously complex origami butterfly out of tissue paper – and who managed to retire from long and distinguished careers after a surprising dearth of faux-pas or offenses to any race, creed, culture, or religion whatsoever). But back to our esteemed Author, racing heavenward while he felt his critics peering hungrily like awful rubber-necked vultures awaiting any reeking morsel, any carrion from a once-promising project left cracked and oozing like roadkill to feed their insatiable avarice. He knew they would rip his life’s work into succulent, putrid slivers with their snarky intellectual talons and, savoring the taste of carnage under a withering Sonoran sun and thinking of the columns they would write in the morning, fly home to disgorge the foetid meat to their clamoring young. It was the Author’s literary mind that conceived of this metaphor, and his rampant paranoia that warped it into a disgusting scene from one of those bleak post-Apocalyptic horror films; he wasn’t entirely sure he got the anatomy and feeding behavior of the vultures quite right, however, being (as he was) no expert on birds of prey or carnivorous scavengers. His interest and knowledge in the avian realm was confined to Willow Tweets and Tulip Warblers such as might be found in the garden described at the beginning of this chapter. And so, dear friends, our poem ends here.