(no subject)
My brain tries to stretch out and touch both sides of my skull at the same time, then collapses inward from the effort. A frustrating need to produce some work of art, and my only tool lies bloated and fat inside my cranium. A man made of mostly beer-gut, sitting in a room with the blinds drawn eating Cheetos and sipping from a Budweiser balanced on his bloated body. I prod my brain for a thought, a logical argument, and it burps in my face and returns to watching Maury Povich.
Japan - a giant hotel with neon lights that scald the sky with their intensity. Please stay, it beckoned. Please come, feel your senses return - feel something, feel how soft our terry cloth robes are. Before I've settled my head firmly on the cushion, natural sunlight has intruded to my room and room-service is knocking impatiently at my door. "It's checkout time. You've had your stay, get on with it". Oh me, oh my. The road, the stupid, stupid, stupid road, empty and dusty and stretching out forever. A tumbleweed drifts by, specifically drifts by to mock me.
Senses dull and blighted, I try to concentrate on a single note, to hum it loudly and constantly, but vocal chords turn traitorous and shift it into another key, or note, or something else entirely. I stamp my foot in the dust, kick at another tumbleweed that sails by then settles at the edge of the road, watching in amusement. One note. My brain, struggling to its feet announces "Art is dead" before settling back onto the couch.
Is this what old people fear? The moment when their self turns against them? When they go out and acquire fat paperbacks with 1000 New York Crossword Puzzles? I need, want, pray for...something. What? What? WHAT?
The fat man falls asleep. The note slides into something unrecognizable. The tumbleweed gets up and drits somewhere else, disinterested in my plight. Sigh...
Japan - a giant hotel with neon lights that scald the sky with their intensity. Please stay, it beckoned. Please come, feel your senses return - feel something, feel how soft our terry cloth robes are. Before I've settled my head firmly on the cushion, natural sunlight has intruded to my room and room-service is knocking impatiently at my door. "It's checkout time. You've had your stay, get on with it". Oh me, oh my. The road, the stupid, stupid, stupid road, empty and dusty and stretching out forever. A tumbleweed drifts by, specifically drifts by to mock me.
Senses dull and blighted, I try to concentrate on a single note, to hum it loudly and constantly, but vocal chords turn traitorous and shift it into another key, or note, or something else entirely. I stamp my foot in the dust, kick at another tumbleweed that sails by then settles at the edge of the road, watching in amusement. One note. My brain, struggling to its feet announces "Art is dead" before settling back onto the couch.
Is this what old people fear? The moment when their self turns against them? When they go out and acquire fat paperbacks with 1000 New York Crossword Puzzles? I need, want, pray for...something. What? What? WHAT?
The fat man falls asleep. The note slides into something unrecognizable. The tumbleweed gets up and drits somewhere else, disinterested in my plight. Sigh...