S T R E A M # 3

-

I chew a lot of gum at night when the rain pours down the chimney and the tomatoes don’t sing their happy little song to me. This credit card will not eat my juice because it is not liquid Jell-O that I have not served in a Tupperware container from 1982. I must pause now to pick my nose. The noise sounds shaper this week to my right ear. All noise sounds shaper. The noise shows daller in my left ear this week. All noise to the left sounds daller. Or duller. And sharper. No. It’s either or. It’s either daller or shaper. The dogs won’t drink the water that is set out for them at night. Why does everything have to happen during the day when the sky isn’t blue and my car won’t start eating pooh? The sound of the sound isn’t the sound at all. Instead, it’s the sound of noise. You know the sound of noise. If you don’t, tune your TV to a cableless, station-less broadcast station, if you can. You want good, ole fashion broadcast “snow.” Dat there’s noise, pure and simple. Or, or, or, visit your nearest waterfall. A tall one. One that’s taller than most lampposts. Twice as tall. That’ll do. Dat there’s even purer and simpler. The birds wake me every morning with their chirps and tweets. Birds are pleasant until they shit on my Daewoo Leganza. Even though it’s their shit, I don’t wanna hold them accountable. How would they know any better? How could you possibly expect a wild bird to demonstrate manners or consideration? Besides, I’m the one polluting their air with the flumes from my car. The fumes, too. Turns out I’m the ill-mannered and inconsiderate one. Otherwise, it’s ridiculous. A bird doesn’t give a shit where its shit lands. I want to believe that these birds — these in particular — aren’t here to torment me. But when they wake me up and/or they shit on my car, I begin to wonder. In sooth, I am in no way meaningful to the birds. I am as meaningful to the birds as I am to the grass. That said, in times of drought, the grass depends on me to water it. It nonetheless refuses to recognize or appreciate me. Wouldn’t it be nice if it did, though? Too often those who need the most help are too proud to seek or accept it. Like the silently drying grass. Or so it seems. Mayhap pride, not hope, dies last. But then to have pride is to have hope in oneself or one’s cause, no? Bottom line: I am not meaningful and I am not full of meaning and meaning is fashion anyway. And besides, the cat walked out of the house and dreamt she was going to the bathroom on a gold-plated floor in front of the silver dish full of dice from the bookshelf. “Tommy,” she said, “why don’t you eat that? It’ll spoil if you don’t.” And Tommy replied, “Silly kitty, dice don’t spoil.” And then the cat grew and grew and burst because her body couldn’t take all of that growth. Tommy, splattered with the cat’s remains, shook his head. He said, “Should’ve taken your blood-pressure medication this morning.” Then added, “Poor, silly kitty. Maybe she’ll take this lesson to heart when she wakes up from her sleep walk.” After that, the cat woke up and promptly ate a big bowl of tomato soup. (Why do tomatoes keep sprouting up in all this ridiculousness? If there are reasons, then they are all illogical.) The cat forgot her dream, as do we all, and ‘twas doomed to meet her fate.* Poor silly kitty. Always take the apple with the rock salt that you originally intended to spread on the driveway to melt the ice. Yes, because somewhere beets are used to melt the ice. Somewhere down South. Everything seems to happen somewhere down South, first, or wherever it is warmer. Seems they have more fun and/or get into more trouble. Why? It is too bright for ‘em? I don’t care for the bright. Makes me squint. Gimme the dim. It’s cooler. That’s the impression. Put me in the cooler because I get hot under the collar. It is not time for the good bear to have a bite of his chocolate milkshake because it is still frozen and it will hurt his teeth. Silly bear. I tried to have a long, hard talk with the good albeit silly bear; but the bear, as good as he is, doesn’t understand English. He doesn’t even understand that he’s a bear! Can you believe that? I try to explain to the bear, the good albeit silly bear, that he’s a bear, not a walrus. Does it stop him from acting like a walrus? It does not. How does a walrus act, you ask? As I am not an expert (on walrus behavior, nor anything else, other than drivel-making), I would direct you to the good/silly bear, then to the good albeit serious walrus (the one wearing the monocle). You might want to check in with the naughty bear and the naughty walrus, too. That’ll even things out (in theory). But they (the naughty ones) may/might eat you. It’s why we call them “naughty.” I know they’re naughty because they ate my potato. My potato did nothing to them. And I ask you, “What does a potato do, other than grow? And then rot? As do we all.” But they nevertheless felt justified in eating it. They didn’t even bake it. Nor did they fry it. Or scallop it. They ate the poor potato raw! At least they shared it. Who, in their right mind, eats a raw potato. Who in their wrong mind would. What wouldn’t Who do?† But the first mention of Who, here, was originally intended as a question. The good/silly bear and the good/serious walrus would never, ever. (Eat a potato raw.) At least not in public, they wouldn’t. At night I wash the dishes because the ghost will make them rattle if I don’t. The ghost doesn’t like dirty dishes. I don’t know Why. What makes you think I would know Why? She’s a perfect stranger to me. Do you think I’d still be here if I knew Why? It’s all about connections. It’s all about Who you know. And I know perhaps one thing and one thing only: “Who’s on first.” But it’s hard to reason with a ghost – particularly when you don’t believe in ghosts. And besides, I’ve reached the bottom. (04/08/2008)‡ 

*[09/12/21: Please consider making “‘twas” an essential part of your daily argot.] 

†[09/12/21: Note that “Who,” in this context, identifies as nonbinary. It is of the utmost importance that we clarify to each other how we “identify,” before the planet roasts us alive.] 

‡[09/12/21: Bastardized throughout the first week of September 2021.]

Popular posts from this blog

SHUSH

-
Along with the stomping freak who uses the flipside of my ceiling as a floor, the folks with whom I share walls cannot tolerate silence. No, they must blast on repeat any of Billboard’s Year-End Hot 100 singles of 2000 through their respective stereo’s speakers. This, in turn, forces me to blast all of my much less popular music to drown theirs out. It becomes a vicious circle of escalating sound. And perhaps the very point of loud music is to drown out all thought, fear, and pain. These days, who can bear to sit quietly and ponder life—let alone read a book? Indeed, the folks in this city—and perhaps the folks in every city—seemingly do whatever they can to stifle the natural inclination to think. At least, that is my impression. After all, the act of thought —the very act of reflection —necessarily slows production and consumption. And we mustn’t have that, no, no. Besides, we need not contemplate our lack of fulfillment or our actual worthlessness if we are too busy playing video ...
Read more

Ginny

-
10/24/2001 : Would you believe I was standing beneath the lit marquee of the Music Box Theater this evening, reading an Emily Dickinson chapbook? I was, but I was doing a poor job of it. And, no, I wasn’t there specifically to read poetry. But I might’ve been the first dude to read Dickinson at that particular location. And, no, I wasn’t reading it aloud. * In fairness (to me), I hadn’t thought to read it aloud. I bring a book or a magazine along wherever I go, just in case it rains. Gotta have something to hold open over my head. Can’t have a sudden shower muck up my carefully sculpted helmet of hair. And if I want something to read, I’ll take an umbrella. But seriously, it’s all about the waiting. If city life doesn’t cultivate patience, then it definitely cultivates insanity. If I find myself waiting (anywhere) beyond the walls of my apartment without something to read, I’ll end up gazing at the passersby, instead. They might gaze back. They won’t smile, though. Never mind if ...
Read more

S T R E A M # 3 0

-
Start: The dog did not enjoy the tuna casserole, and by “dog” I do not mean Sally’s pet collie, I means Sally’s husband, Al. When we stop to think about the things that do not matter – which is something we often do – then, when the time comes, we check our watches and eat our respective tuna casseroles. We eat the tuna casseroles because we know Grandma would be sad if we did not. Thus, or hence, or hence-thus, the problem becomes one of consumption. Finally, the problem is ALWAYS one of consumption. What do you think about Al’s dilemma with the tuna casserole? Beets are enjoyed by cats in the winter when strawberries are not in bloom. DO strawberries bloom? No. Yes? No. I wouldn’t know. I am not a strawberry farmer. Who told you otherwise? Who led you astray? And why would you believe his or hers or their words over mine? What I feel the next time we meet when you are not sad with happiness in the tuna casserole. I haven’t – I couldn’t tell you about the last time I ate apple sauce i...
Read more