Dissonance
It's far too nice a day to be inside but I'm sitting on the sofa right now anyway because I have to listen to these tunes and let it influence the way I write this. My passive aggressive, just beyond reality, I reach for you. Maria Columbia, whore of liberty; blind as always-- blonde in the field in the grass in shadows cast by the pines against the pond... you were so close, and Great Disbelief! just so far away.
You break my heart.
Give me a tree and I'll hug it. Smell the dirt and decomposition in the bark, feel the scratching on my bare arm, and something gets in my hair and I brush it out and whatever right? Watching the sun in the west set beyond glowing mountaintops, and the breeze gets a little colder when the earth's shadow grows.
And when will the mountains begin belching-farting great pyroclastic oil flows. When will the owls be sticky-covered in tar or the pine martins slick with black shimmering death. Then bombastica! that chain of controlled burns that got out of hand and then consumed whole resort towns. Somehow that would feel so... just, you know? That would feel so just.
Sunset tonight in the Gulf? Eh--
That's what they fight and die for, isn't it? What they go to protect; not us but our way of life. Black shimmering death. Well, fine. Wave your flag today. Throw candy out for the young at your parades. Who's this year's marshall: a local news anchor, the fire chief, or the high school varsity football team? Give me a tree-- I'll have a picnic, too. I'll bring the camera and the guacamole, you bring the enhanced interrogation techniques. A holiday weekend to remember.
The exhaustive list an exhausting repetition-- there are so many throats to slit.
Ladies and gentlemen, I just wanted to thank all you baby boomers out there. And all you greatest generation folks who voted for Nixon, well, we'll keep a special place for you in our hearts. When men women and children have to strip naked before they can board their flights, and mute adolescent boys struggle to keep it in check when they see the brunette sitting across the aisle from them; when the Atlantic swallows New York City for what makes the sixth or seventh 9/11 part duax or whateverthehell down the line this is; when suburban white girls who once drove pink plastic Barbie themed jeeps in driveways sit moaning in doorways singing the blues giving Robert Johnson a chase for his soul, we'll remember the heady time after Reagan died and we'll toast to FM radio from back when it was still playing the whole side of the record-- however many eons that was before the magnetic poles went awry and opened up the atmosphere and California died all at once from one big skin cancer. A special tip of the hat to you, Peggy Noonan, for summing it up so nicely for us.
Happy Memorial Day, you internets. You who fought so bravely so that I may smoke legal pot. All ye who made love in the sunlight, these songs of praise are yours. Unwrap the rubberband from around her, and hike up a tie-dyed rag of Ol' Glory high enough for all to see. Singing dancing under your freak flag, a grateful nation extends its soggy swollen screaming bleeding heart to you, and we all die laughing.
You break my heart.
Give me a tree and I'll hug it. Smell the dirt and decomposition in the bark, feel the scratching on my bare arm, and something gets in my hair and I brush it out and whatever right? Watching the sun in the west set beyond glowing mountaintops, and the breeze gets a little colder when the earth's shadow grows.
And when will the mountains begin belching-farting great pyroclastic oil flows. When will the owls be sticky-covered in tar or the pine martins slick with black shimmering death. Then bombastica! that chain of controlled burns that got out of hand and then consumed whole resort towns. Somehow that would feel so... just, you know? That would feel so just.
Sunset tonight in the Gulf? Eh--
That's what they fight and die for, isn't it? What they go to protect; not us but our way of life. Black shimmering death. Well, fine. Wave your flag today. Throw candy out for the young at your parades. Who's this year's marshall: a local news anchor, the fire chief, or the high school varsity football team? Give me a tree-- I'll have a picnic, too. I'll bring the camera and the guacamole, you bring the enhanced interrogation techniques. A holiday weekend to remember.
The exhaustive list an exhausting repetition-- there are so many throats to slit.
Ladies and gentlemen, I just wanted to thank all you baby boomers out there. And all you greatest generation folks who voted for Nixon, well, we'll keep a special place for you in our hearts. When men women and children have to strip naked before they can board their flights, and mute adolescent boys struggle to keep it in check when they see the brunette sitting across the aisle from them; when the Atlantic swallows New York City for what makes the sixth or seventh 9/11 part duax or whateverthehell down the line this is; when suburban white girls who once drove pink plastic Barbie themed jeeps in driveways sit moaning in doorways singing the blues giving Robert Johnson a chase for his soul, we'll remember the heady time after Reagan died and we'll toast to FM radio from back when it was still playing the whole side of the record-- however many eons that was before the magnetic poles went awry and opened up the atmosphere and California died all at once from one big skin cancer. A special tip of the hat to you, Peggy Noonan, for summing it up so nicely for us.
Happy Memorial Day, you internets. You who fought so bravely so that I may smoke legal pot. All ye who made love in the sunlight, these songs of praise are yours. Unwrap the rubberband from around her, and hike up a tie-dyed rag of Ol' Glory high enough for all to see. Singing dancing under your freak flag, a grateful nation extends its soggy swollen screaming bleeding heart to you, and we all die laughing.