Best Wishes '07
Dodging bullets is a specialty of mine. It's true. The Gypsy woman told me so. Grasping my hand in a gentle manner, her eyes gleamed, seeming to read the folds in my tired, calloused hands.
"Money will be no issue," she says, all the while running her thumbs down the length of my palm.
"You will live a long life," she adds.
A strange thing to say, I thought, but more chalking it up to the possibility that on average, her curios would like et o know of their own longevity. She made no mention of children. In a desperate attempt to portend my own future, I, then a marketeer for vinyl siding and custom windows, begged the woman to tell me more -
Too bad. Our smoke break was over.
I told myself long ago that cubicles would no longer do as a means to confine me in a "working" atmosphere. I must be a gigolo. I must be a junky for freedom and indolence - Hopelessly depraved in the mid-winter streets - Whimsy and whiskey all a tattered dream in the rotten cloth of my own daydream. Raging with jealousy and amnesty, I shake my fists at the sky in a bitter argument to rival time. All the small creatures beckon to the call that the full moon may not be the solstice of yore.
Where was I? Dodging bullets - Longevity has not proven to be a problem for me. I can feel an ever-tightening knot around the Adam's apple - Monstrous and maniacal at will - Conventional means cannot kill me. I am, after all, a high-powered mutant, bent on my own rage and savage self-destruction. But I am toning it down - Way down. Even lower than I thought I could. Quelling the urge to gnaw on my own flesh and bones. Self-loathing has carried me a long way. And maybe I am a maniac. But I am a gentle maniac. A furious and futile demeanor at times, maybe, but gentle nonetheless. Just like all of you.
It's strange to me now, all these years later, thinking back on all of the grotesque, horrible and macabre that the world at large has subscribed me to. Like a year's worth of newspaper bundles in the time fog, at a lapse for seconds at a time, for cents on the dime. And now safe, in my encrusted layer of filth and weirdness, I stride, knowingly walking a path that only the high would venture. Sleepwalking still, these skyscrapers creep a maze through my brain in a bitter labyrinth and coil. Effervescent, unremarkable, and in a bland waste that has not only become the tide, but a lagging sign in the partial exhale of what has become our time.
It's sad though - All this hell and havoc to wreak and still no time. Beset by our own confusion and angst, teetering on the offset of a mistrial and impeachment of our own hopes and dreams. We all may rally a final war cry - The last dismal scream for our failed revolution. But this failure is yours and mine. With that, the cold wind blows; savage and unbending. But this is not all for naught - As the better angles of our nature tend to lead us down our chosen path. Chosen by those destined to be a washed in capitalist servitude for the briefest of moments in god's guilt-ridden eyes.
I'm not religious. Let the fire marshall deal with Satan.
We have a sky marshall now, too, right? It seems to me that god may be on his turf. Happy new years, kids. From one mad man to the next. The seriousness and sobriety of another year to lay to waste is surely an exciting prospect. Surf the lag and fuel the viod with gloriousness and excess the likes of which man will never see again. What future? Indeed. The past and the prersent are all that exists or is extinguished.
We are all struggling
streaming, billowing like ghosts
swimming in the breeze
We are not caught in a fatal updraft. There is always more to be seen, heard and said. I am long past due for a realignment of my own senses, as it has become ever clearer that I am senseless. Desperate prose from a depraved Southern gentleman who knows: It's good to remember where you came from. Except when you're from here
"Money will be no issue," she says, all the while running her thumbs down the length of my palm.
"You will live a long life," she adds.
A strange thing to say, I thought, but more chalking it up to the possibility that on average, her curios would like et o know of their own longevity. She made no mention of children. In a desperate attempt to portend my own future, I, then a marketeer for vinyl siding and custom windows, begged the woman to tell me more -
Too bad. Our smoke break was over.
I told myself long ago that cubicles would no longer do as a means to confine me in a "working" atmosphere. I must be a gigolo. I must be a junky for freedom and indolence - Hopelessly depraved in the mid-winter streets - Whimsy and whiskey all a tattered dream in the rotten cloth of my own daydream. Raging with jealousy and amnesty, I shake my fists at the sky in a bitter argument to rival time. All the small creatures beckon to the call that the full moon may not be the solstice of yore.
Where was I? Dodging bullets - Longevity has not proven to be a problem for me. I can feel an ever-tightening knot around the Adam's apple - Monstrous and maniacal at will - Conventional means cannot kill me. I am, after all, a high-powered mutant, bent on my own rage and savage self-destruction. But I am toning it down - Way down. Even lower than I thought I could. Quelling the urge to gnaw on my own flesh and bones. Self-loathing has carried me a long way. And maybe I am a maniac. But I am a gentle maniac. A furious and futile demeanor at times, maybe, but gentle nonetheless. Just like all of you.
It's strange to me now, all these years later, thinking back on all of the grotesque, horrible and macabre that the world at large has subscribed me to. Like a year's worth of newspaper bundles in the time fog, at a lapse for seconds at a time, for cents on the dime. And now safe, in my encrusted layer of filth and weirdness, I stride, knowingly walking a path that only the high would venture. Sleepwalking still, these skyscrapers creep a maze through my brain in a bitter labyrinth and coil. Effervescent, unremarkable, and in a bland waste that has not only become the tide, but a lagging sign in the partial exhale of what has become our time.
It's sad though - All this hell and havoc to wreak and still no time. Beset by our own confusion and angst, teetering on the offset of a mistrial and impeachment of our own hopes and dreams. We all may rally a final war cry - The last dismal scream for our failed revolution. But this failure is yours and mine. With that, the cold wind blows; savage and unbending. But this is not all for naught - As the better angles of our nature tend to lead us down our chosen path. Chosen by those destined to be a washed in capitalist servitude for the briefest of moments in god's guilt-ridden eyes.
I'm not religious. Let the fire marshall deal with Satan.
We have a sky marshall now, too, right? It seems to me that god may be on his turf. Happy new years, kids. From one mad man to the next. The seriousness and sobriety of another year to lay to waste is surely an exciting prospect. Surf the lag and fuel the viod with gloriousness and excess the likes of which man will never see again. What future? Indeed. The past and the prersent are all that exists or is extinguished.
We are all struggling
streaming, billowing like ghosts
swimming in the breeze
We are not caught in a fatal updraft. There is always more to be seen, heard and said. I am long past due for a realignment of my own senses, as it has become ever clearer that I am senseless. Desperate prose from a depraved Southern gentleman who knows: It's good to remember where you came from. Except when you're from here