S T R E A M # 1 0

-

For the record: I do not own a dog, nor a cat; nor do I grow tomatoes. My neighbors do not grow tomatoes, either. The neighbor to the east owns a very small dog, but I only see it when it is being walked. I do not have a special interest in tomatoes – although I do enjoy ketchup on my burgers and fries and such. And I do enjoy tomato sauce on my pizza and such. I just wanted to be clear here. At least for once. At least, for a handful of sentences. I really need to purchase a new desk lamp because the one I’ve had for years is falling apart. But I like it because it has a little rotating thingy that hold pens and paperclips and such. I haven’t been able to find a lamp like this anywhere. The problem with this lamp is that the metallic inner shell that surrounds the top half of the bulb has detached from its plastic outer shell. If that makes any sense. I don’t have the time to try to make much if any sense here. This isn’t about making sense. It is about making bananas for my strawberry spaghetti juice. The dog doesn’t like it when I talk about tomatoes. The dog is embarrassed by my endless ranting about his tomato fetish. Anyway, the dog and the cat and the tomato and the cow and the juice and the bowl and the cat – the other cat – the cat that meows when it’s cold outside – the hat in the back of the rack is the mack for the sack. Got that, Jack? I don’t believe you when you say that the campaign isn’t long enough. I think you ought to try running. We can have a “perfect” candidate if we changed the rules for robots. But that is neither here nor there. That is Out There – where the Truth is. Ask Chris Carter, that sunbaked surfer hippie. The coffee tastes like salami. No, it doesn’t really. The pizza Pop ordered had salami. I helped myself to a slice and discovered that pepperoni works much better with pizza than salami does. The dog has wanted me to give him a bus ticket to New Orleans for a long time now. How do I know this? The tree told me so. Yes, that’s right, the Tree TOLD ME SO. You may wonder how this is possible. So do I frankly. But it happened. The tree is the dog’s spokes-tree. That’s the latest thing, apparently. Outsource all the speaking to trees. Trees don’t charge half as much as traditional spokespeople do. Trees make terrific speakers because they don’t break under pressure – unless there’s a tornado. I want to dress the tree in a leotard and gold bracelets for tonight’s debate. Yes, the oaks are going to debate the evergreens. I don’t know who I intend to root for yet. (Ha, ha, “root.”) They both have the same issues, really. It’s become little more than a personality contest. As of this writing, I’m leaning toward the oak. But the day is young and the time has come to eat my plumb and such my thumb. Or suck my thumb. Bottom reached. 

17 April 2008 

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