Saturday, June 6, 2009

Journal 23 - Cute Dichotomies

The soaked wind was a falsetto as it stormed down
the cute little street with children's push toys
abandoned in mechanical yards. Manicured yards
are okay in their clean lego-land look. There is a
poor standard where manicured is uppity but un-
manicured is lazy and dirty. I'll settle for being
whatever they label me. I have no time for their
projections and wish-fulfillment atrophies. The solution
to Beauty and Love eludes me. And yet I hear Phish
with Slave to the Traffic Light and I know that the
mistress Beauty is resting with a full soul tonight.
Two opposing realms of faulty lore? Perhaps this
cute dichotomy is resisting a sensible resolution.
Both could be constructed as the yin to the other's
yang. But I'm still a loving slave to the Slave of
a Traffic light. My toes scrunch in my attempt
to close the sonnet. No more sonnets. They aren't
dead except when I try to complete one. Harry
Hood could do a better job. Sometimes I regret
not being a poet. Perhaps.... the ending to the multi-
tudinous endings to the effervescent Perhaps is an
arm grasping dream – the ending could be trite in its
accusations of an improper environment or praising
in its selective favorable reminiscing of singular moments
where Beauty showed herself behind Love's flamboyant
gyrations. Excuses are like assholes, or something like
that. My back hurts and my wine glass is empty and
purple-streaked – like my dry lips. I'm not sure it's obvious
but I have nothing to say. Yeah, it's probably pretty
obvious. The drool leaks out of my drunken mouth like
the thick slobber of my teething two year old (18-mo).
I wear, or should, a surgeon's mask to collect the
refuse of my wet mouth. Each micro-second that
passes I become geometrically more stupid. I blame
T.V. - but the wine may be more culpable – I
of course am innocent. I could be a sample in a jar.
Discarded and left as an exhibit in a court house
somewhere as a sobering example of how not to spend
one's lonely days – use '93 gas, not '87. It matters.


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