We seem inundated.
The old, the stupid, the infirm, fat, or worse. Life is a scrambled huffing that we wish to continue.
Those who aren't wealthy or smart, unlike me... they somehow live without the imaginary virtue of self-righteous poverty.
Oh, suckers.
They still drink, and make mistakes, so the dynamic of life continues to confuse.
The rich perplex me in a way that the poor never will. Nobody long questions how anybody ever achieved astonishing poverty.
Yet, the poor seem happy, and tests show that they are. Why not me? What do they know?
How can the wealthy be virtuous and somehow less happy. Shouldn't I also get a chance at disproving that axiom from the other side? I want to be rich, reckless, and happy. It's just math.
It is the middle-class that nobody really gives a fuck about. Some study them, for the purpose of aversion, not attraction. I've checked the stats, I am definitely middle-class. I would need a wife that made as much as me or more to even start to top out that category.
Seems unlikely.
Wifes, might push me above the dark side of the income inequality gap.
Think about that for a moment, I have.
A healthy harem would make me a truly bad guy, in capitalist terms.
Young people might still have a chance. They believe and act as if recognition confers distinction. They might be right, though that rightness has lost some its sparkle in my imaginings.
Perhaps it is why they dress up as Batman, and kill.
Who gives a epileptic bat-winged fuck about a printed biography from Scribners when you can score thousands of hits and attract an online expose from puffington post people's problem page.
It is what we asked for, for what we secretly wished. Titillated by lives that surpass our own, on terms that that we have only partial vision of.
Our own lives, to which we lack adequate access, appear dull in the reflection of such smartness, and fade. To be flooded, drowning. Beyond breathing but before death, the simulacrum of
interest.
My thumb has become the reach of my research. Each night, sooner or later, I get crazy and start to index. It ends up with the middle, or ring. Dear, Pinky.
Media reminds: how needy we are, how little we have to offer, and how fucked up what we have to offer really is. It is the witness of a sickness: the attempt to correct or entertain just might go viral.
I speak a bit for myself, but for others, also. I do not offer this as an advertisement, or an endorsement. It is a criticism, only. If you go viral, then congrats, it seems to be monetized.
To wit, when I was younger, serial killers were portrayed as methodical and calculating, over time.
What happened? The public spotlight somehow lost interest.
Now, we have spree-killers. They prepared, but didn't include self-longevity in those preparations, at least not beyond the idea of explosive profile. Hits.
Young people just don't commit anymore.
I would tell them to get off of my lawn but I don't have one. They never stay on the lawn long enough to listen anyway.
Get out of my basement! seems creepy, because it is.
A man, aging; screaming toward the shade of trees; dull knives flashed in daylight, worse.
Desperation at lack of danger.
I look around and see only fat, hairy-lipped, herpes-infested monsters that wish to be acknowledged and then kissed.
We all get the love that we deserve.
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Okay, I can't write that way any more.
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I dreamed of nuclear explosions the nighttime before last. It was terrible.
In my sleep, I was running with Rachel and looking back. We turned together, as a dream Lot and his unnamed salt-wife. Behind us, there were pillars shaped of monstrous mushrooms in the dark, rising across the San Francisco Bay by murky moonlight. We looked over the mountains as we fled. I could see a number of lightning strikes happening inside the dusty heart of the radioactive demon. Synapses come to dark wonder in dream.
Far away, so close.
It was nuclear annihilation, we both knew it. We rushed to get home. Knowledge of our child, the young boy, was in the dream and between us, driving the unlit course of fear. Alarm mounts quickly, then quicker. As if seconds had seconds.
We somehow could not gather enough fresh water, and I couldn't explain why we were trying. I'm sure it was my suggestion. I awoke just as we were attempting to both carry a beer cooler full of mud towards the hopeful safety of home.
Death for all was certain. It looked like I might be last.
This is what I try to sleep through, in the early morning hours. If you wish to know.
My own indisposition is assumed, barely in the vision.
The trajectory of my life, even in dreams, is still pointed at the purpose of loving others.
My battle is with the weight of mud.
My struggle is against the unbearable shift of dream.
Speaking of floods, we are here enduring biblical evenings and mornings.
Rain is a reminder of the present, gentle or no.
It is also other.
Rain is the mother of nature, or at least the one we love and fear.
No, that metaphor would make rain the "warm sperm of Father Time."
If Mother Earth is to be believed, then "Mommy" is a spraying, asexual hermaphrodite that breeds violent death as her most benevolent gift.
Why can't that be our shared myth?
Some oceans are cold as ice, death just as certain.
That might be true.
When I notice women who align themselves with the concepts of Mother Earth they all seem a bit too testrus in their assertions and behavior.
"Father Sperm" is not a phrase for a god that they would ever worship, most of them.
Sexists, all other sexes.
Any person that claims "earthiness" might better also worship death by natural means, because that is the deepness of nature's nature.
The promise of promises.
Mother Nature has long had herpes, and gives it freely to kissers.
Her unsuspecting qualities are unexpected growth. V. End.
Mother Earth has a scent that is just as bacterial, as it is wind.
Okay, a squirt of male newness:
L.A. idea (new series):
A futuristical world in which rain triggers earthquakes...
Image: boiling water, waves, grenades, robot semen made of pop-rocks
Hollywood, do you hear me calling....?
I am what is known as an Ideal guy... I deal LA.
It's Mexican. It ends with an a.
No Moses's can dissuade me, with powdered stone capsules, offers of perpetual wandering.
I've always been more of a Noah; gathering two copies of favored books, one of each to each of each, herding them across any arc.
My life is like the neck of a giraffe, inexplicable, easily broken.
By whom, weathering floods, dynasores.
I want to run; my life is large and has grown broad branches.
A man can not trot if he can not sprint.
An oak trying to cross wide waters, the sense that downstream will not be a hemisphere of my choosing, nor anybody's soft tug.
A shove in winter, resisting a glove.
Moses, I hardly split the red wine.
Like you, also never birthed.
My covenant, to drink that which did rise upon one side.
Or just the other, other earth.
.
