Friday, March 26, 2010

Happy Kuhio Day. Not much to say. Won’t let that stop me. Hurm. Still tryin to be the shepherd. The sheep, they jostle, they play, they don’t understand the severity, the needle upon which they walk. Silly sheep. Tread, sheep, tread. Tread on me at your peril. Bah. Shepherding is for those with sore cheeks. I turn and see the sun, it would blind me if not for blue-blockers. Yet, the UV spectrum still presents a danger. Sounds. They soothe. Make one forget. Make one remember. Make one one with oneness. So true it’s false. So false it becomes a phantom. So phantasmagoric they make a Disneyland ride out of it. Up the track, then down into the soup, sweet cantaloupe bath waiting metaphorical catchers mitt, Captain Happy Cow ready to moo on arrival. Honeysuckle, grass, milkweed, make a shake for a dollar, extra fifty for the commemorative cup.

Hey, you got your peanut butter on my chocolate, no man, you got your chocolate on my peanut butter, uh, hurm, that ain't bad. no in fact it is good. thank you for this accident. you're most welcome, don't mention it, seriously, at peril of your disintegration. gratzi.

Thursday, March 25, 2010

Jehovah sat in the center of the drab yet well lit room, thinking on the last half hour. His life would never be the same. The darkness that had irrevocably seemed to be descending on him at an exponential pace had suddenly been eradicated. Trust was not his forte, though. The other shoe lurked, ready assuredly to fall on his head heel first. She was simply unbelievable. How could someone like her love him. How could she even feign to love him? Yet she did, apparently. Even in this drab yet well lit room, she saw something in him he’d never dared to see in himself, or at least pretended to.

He got up off his ass and walked to the bathroom. He didn’t even look in the mirror to find his faults. Jehovah didn’t need to isolate the wrong because so much had suddenly had become right. Rebecca was real, not some ephemeral creation of awkward fantasy. She touched him, she listened, she laughed at things he found funny. She was impossible.

Tom the Dancing Bug

Reverent hat tip to The Hurting

Wednesday, March 24, 2010

ok I need to unload some good ol fashioned brain batter. I’m trying real hard to be the shepherd, but sometimes I wonder if these people are addicted to the valley of darkness, and if those chains they be dragging, the ones on my patience, if they want to swing em up against the walls despite my power. But what is power if not exerted, and like I said, the shepherd. Trying to be. Why? Good question Sally. Forthwith I’d explain if an answer was poppin from the bubble. Problem is, it ain’t. so here I lie, in state, but it’s the aloha kind, so complaining shall be kept to a dull roar, lions, tigers, bears, my oh my they’d bask in the sun if these were their only problems. Just eat the ones that botha and move on, or don’t, or just bask, man, bask. Life is too short. And too damn good. Yup, I got it nice, don’t even want you to think I don’t. back to, eh, no need to say it. My CD collection is getting so unbelievably ridiculous, I don’t even know what to do with it, except just keep listening. Maybe that’s the secret, little more listening, little less yappin, even in the brain, keep that cosmic volume down and the treble and bass up, and then before you know it, the noggin’s getting kick-started to a degree that which it could never have achieved with pouring gas down its throat and twisting turning wrenches and nobs and levers and being all logical and shit. Fuck logic. Ain’t never done nothing but cause problems. Well, aside from being the basis of my favorite philosophies and the cornerstone of society and the one thing that keeps us from falling off the cliff into the soup of anarchy. Aside from that, it’s relatively useless. And you know what they say about relativity and all its phonetic associates. Yup. Einstein coulda diatribed a sonnet before heading down to the bear pit what with all the snakes and ropes and hidden eyes what where and when coulda led to the dark alley of anyone’s soul with that trip. But he didn't, did he? So we’ll leave it all alone and assume that I’m the only one that understands a goddamm word, and even I don’t know what the fuck, so the 11 oclock film should be safe, no stress, do it like a beatnik, write a shitty poem and contemplate, or don’t, think I covered that already. If I didn’t, I didn’t, who am I the professor? Nah, just a student, but with the answer key. Yeah it’s the wrong one, but it’s thinking you’re right, not necessarily being right, that usually leads to the top of the hill and being the one carrying the flag while others salute, right? Eh, maybe. Don’t ask me, just please don’t ask me. I don’t know. Green slime and zapping wizards be damned.