the common reactor
I'll present you 100 proofs of the human condition. The ground will crack beneath the weight of our needs and dreams yet we expect to withstand the pressure. We won't. We will all fail this task. Some more spectacularly than others; some more tragically. Every step yields a scar. Every misstep yields mama's broken back.
Fortunately the box office doesn't care which route got you to the show. They just want your $10 for admission ($6 if you're a crying baby), your ass in a seat (with no personal belongings in the aisle), and your mouth shut (until it's time for the good word to slither into open ears). It's a touching narrative from farmer-sage-old-man-river. Backstage you'll find him with two wine-glasses gripped by a left hand. Bottle to his lips with the right. Why dirty up dishes if you're not entertaining guests?
He chose this. He chose this life to avoid absenteeism. Not married to the job but it's the built-in excuse. Obligation is his leash. Unfounded, unrecognized, unwavering obligation. That's the only thing that kept him from getting a head full of bourbon and steam and charming the dress off her the first night he saw her. So a pillow took her job of holding down the covers when he kicks.
And I'll remember days when rain meant sleeping in. The time when you could roll away from the window and force your eyes extra shut. Only so many seconds stood between the thunderclaps that demand lucidity. Now my alarm hollers regardless of they day's forecast. I scurry the twelve strides from screen door to truck door. The trails and specks on my windshield forge an untimely magic-eye mosaic. In the mist of my wake I spy children walking balance beams on the tracks. Herds envelope the road--expecting the ice-cream man's chime. I won't ring it and I won't stop. Had to raise prices so I could afford to quit my day job. Kids just don't keep that kind of cash lying around. But their parents do.
Mamas get a card now every first. A little gift from the government to show its appreciation for all the thorough-breeding. Just enough to keep the stables hungry for success. Fat and happy does nobody any good. Someone needs to be ridden when brighter minds are better suited elsewhere. Lead us in the race for cures that break the bank and leave us too po' to 'nunciate. Take us back to times of bleeding out sickness and poisons. When sweating out death was all we could do.
Alotta things was beyond our control back then. It either rained'r harvest wudn't nec'ssary. Th'ol' folks had a pocket full of tricks 'n tells on th'weather. So when I killt thet snake on m'porch--thet big, black mafucker--I turnt him on his back 'cause we needed a rain. God willin', we'd git it but He wudn't willin' thet summer though. Since He wudn't watchin', I juked 'til th'money ran out. Then I found me a pickin' job two towns over. Ain't been back since neither.
Fortunately the box office doesn't care which route got you to the show. They just want your $10 for admission ($6 if you're a crying baby), your ass in a seat (with no personal belongings in the aisle), and your mouth shut (until it's time for the good word to slither into open ears). It's a touching narrative from farmer-sage-old-man-river. Backstage you'll find him with two wine-glasses gripped by a left hand. Bottle to his lips with the right. Why dirty up dishes if you're not entertaining guests?
He chose this. He chose this life to avoid absenteeism. Not married to the job but it's the built-in excuse. Obligation is his leash. Unfounded, unrecognized, unwavering obligation. That's the only thing that kept him from getting a head full of bourbon and steam and charming the dress off her the first night he saw her. So a pillow took her job of holding down the covers when he kicks.
And I'll remember days when rain meant sleeping in. The time when you could roll away from the window and force your eyes extra shut. Only so many seconds stood between the thunderclaps that demand lucidity. Now my alarm hollers regardless of they day's forecast. I scurry the twelve strides from screen door to truck door. The trails and specks on my windshield forge an untimely magic-eye mosaic. In the mist of my wake I spy children walking balance beams on the tracks. Herds envelope the road--expecting the ice-cream man's chime. I won't ring it and I won't stop. Had to raise prices so I could afford to quit my day job. Kids just don't keep that kind of cash lying around. But their parents do.
Mamas get a card now every first. A little gift from the government to show its appreciation for all the thorough-breeding. Just enough to keep the stables hungry for success. Fat and happy does nobody any good. Someone needs to be ridden when brighter minds are better suited elsewhere. Lead us in the race for cures that break the bank and leave us too po' to 'nunciate. Take us back to times of bleeding out sickness and poisons. When sweating out death was all we could do.
Alotta things was beyond our control back then. It either rained'r harvest wudn't nec'ssary. Th'ol' folks had a pocket full of tricks 'n tells on th'weather. So when I killt thet snake on m'porch--thet big, black mafucker--I turnt him on his back 'cause we needed a rain. God willin', we'd git it but He wudn't willin' thet summer though. Since He wudn't watchin', I juked 'til th'money ran out. Then I found me a pickin' job two towns over. Ain't been back since neither.