A stop-gap posting
I'm so tired. I was so tired and dreaming of sleeping all day, then finally got home and slept and slept. I woke up and wondered if, having sent myself to bed without dinner, I was punishing myself as if I were my own insolent child, which I suppose I am. Still, I felt it behooved me to eat a sandwich before sleeping more. Such are the fast times at the long, dark Ridgemont High of my mind.
For a more detailed analysis of my fascinating escapades through this great rhythm nation, the world will have to wait, like the eager suitor of a famed coquette. But in the meantime, I thought I would post a quasi-poetical exercise I did several weeks hence, as a way of synthesizing my journal keywords into a summary of my first autumn/winter combo in the Twin Cities.
I don't really think I'll be a big producer of poesy anytime in the next few decades, especially as I no longer have a band or a reliable source of marijuana. While I continue to be sad about the two causes, I can't say I'm necessarily that bothered by their effect. Anyhoo, here we go:
"I have every confidence that when I'm old I'll be watching Tom Cruise's grandson in a movie" - Dr. Jake Halpern
A moment on the lips, thirty years in debtors prison.
Crusading around the barley patch in long woolen bloomers,
all for the salvation of the average cranberry-pinching zombie
Debating with the chairman of the bees in the grand plaza of the hooverville
in your most professional beef blazer,
Finest grade A beef stitched together with extension cords
-- a fantasy balmy as a hot GDP baked in rum, while,
in actuality, martyred in the sports bar among the gasping light
of the old macaroni jukebox, long the last and lonely joy of the cashiers
til it was ceremonially broken just in time for new year’s
Deader than a stegosaurus from the eyebrows up and down
Tangling through thickets of tentacles deep in the Michelob blackout grotto,
armed with only a rain check for a machete
A moustache found abandoned in a waiting room
peppered with tobacco molecules,
The rules were simple enough: Pay less for oxygen, wake up in the laundry!
Begging lepers to quit their night jobs and speed away in taxis
as if struggling to arrange a manwich while strapped into two defective mittens
downwind of the kitten disassembly plant
Refugees seeking asylum in a little crater filled with mud,
maybe winning a chance at a rehab medallion
to one day eat lava porridge in perfect comfort with the whole
cast of every “Air Bud” installment and sequel
Snow miracle, snow emergency, then no snow
for the rest of recorded history.
If this unseasonably long Lent would ever end.
For a more detailed analysis of my fascinating escapades through this great rhythm nation, the world will have to wait, like the eager suitor of a famed coquette. But in the meantime, I thought I would post a quasi-poetical exercise I did several weeks hence, as a way of synthesizing my journal keywords into a summary of my first autumn/winter combo in the Twin Cities.
I don't really think I'll be a big producer of poesy anytime in the next few decades, especially as I no longer have a band or a reliable source of marijuana. While I continue to be sad about the two causes, I can't say I'm necessarily that bothered by their effect. Anyhoo, here we go:
"I have every confidence that when I'm old I'll be watching Tom Cruise's grandson in a movie" - Dr. Jake Halpern
A moment on the lips, thirty years in debtors prison.
Crusading around the barley patch in long woolen bloomers,
all for the salvation of the average cranberry-pinching zombie
Debating with the chairman of the bees in the grand plaza of the hooverville
in your most professional beef blazer,
Finest grade A beef stitched together with extension cords
-- a fantasy balmy as a hot GDP baked in rum, while,
in actuality, martyred in the sports bar among the gasping light
of the old macaroni jukebox, long the last and lonely joy of the cashiers
til it was ceremonially broken just in time for new year’s
Deader than a stegosaurus from the eyebrows up and down
Tangling through thickets of tentacles deep in the Michelob blackout grotto,
armed with only a rain check for a machete
A moustache found abandoned in a waiting room
peppered with tobacco molecules,
The rules were simple enough: Pay less for oxygen, wake up in the laundry!
Begging lepers to quit their night jobs and speed away in taxis
as if struggling to arrange a manwich while strapped into two defective mittens
downwind of the kitten disassembly plant
Refugees seeking asylum in a little crater filled with mud,
maybe winning a chance at a rehab medallion
to one day eat lava porridge in perfect comfort with the whole
cast of every “Air Bud” installment and sequel
Snow miracle, snow emergency, then no snow
for the rest of recorded history.
If this unseasonably long Lent would ever end.