Monthly Archives: May 2012
White and blank…
Drip like slobber
From mouth of
from scuff – to fluff
1. Life is lived
So serene from
Slumped and slouched.
2. The foundation
Is the cell
3. All things
But these stems too
Needs no expertise
When it can be Googled.
4. The screen
Is a feeling
That is reeling
Us from what
Start with the premise:
It’s all been done
End with the conclusion:
To innovate is delusion.
The brain of Twain
Developed the maxim,
A historical axiom,
That the recurrence of time
Does not repeat but rhyme.
Slant rhymes, I presume, must be included
In history’s wrappings, riddled and clued.
Perfect rhymes are written and glued
By the victors of war –
Or maybe history doesn’t
Rhyme at all,
Nor does it have a Dal segno.
Rather, history is an echo
Off the walls of Plato’s cave.
He led me to a room.
Behind he closed the door.
He asked if I take off my shirt,
And bring my pants down to the floor.
He looked me up and down,
And brought his hands upon my chest.
He told me to bend over,
And then to take a breath.
(It was then I knew I had no escape;
I was trapped inside his nest)
My eyes bounced nervously around the room
And landed on his toys.
He picked one up and got behind me
Making an unfamiliar noise.
I stood up straight and dropped my drawers.
He placed his hand where light gets lost.
I did exactly what he said
And turned my head and coughed…
It wasn’t Randy’s short stature that made him an interesting man, nor was it his dirty, unruly moustache or his pathetic demeanor. It wasn’t even his livercidal drinking tendencies. Rather, It was his ability to appear outwardly happy – despite circumstances – using the blank smile and the “how ya do’en chief?” that keep his perpetual pessimism under bondage. How could anyone who is forced to work on a janitor’s salary be happy, ever? They all knew it, and they all felt sorry for him, because they are us, and how would we feel for a man in such circumstances? Pity.
Every day, Randy would stop by the convenient store on his clockwork-car ride from work to pick up beer and smokes. I see him a few times a week while on my lunch break from my good, college-earned job. I’m on break, and he’s just getting off. Those kinds of people always work lousy shifts. I go to the store to pick up some family staples and our paths are aligned to where he is always a person or two in front of me at checkout. I also see him at the mall on weekends. He sweeps floors and cleans bathrooms. Poor guy. His name is Randy. That is what his crooked nametag says: RANDY. He probably never graduated high school, so he doesn’t understand the correlation between appearance and professionalism. That’s why he’s a janitor. No aspirations in life. Poor guy. I feel bad for him; I really do.
With my toilet paper, Kleenex and paper towels in hand, I look ahead at Randy’s inventory he lays on the counter: Four tall-boys of Milwaukie’s and a pack of L&M menthol. Every day. He is an odd one. You know what’s really weird? Whenever he buys his daily pack of L&M menthols, he also purchases a lighter. Every time.
“What does he do with all those lighters?” we think, “He must be either losing them in drunken folly or using them up real quick. He might even be freebasing the nasties. I hear that requires a long flame to lick a bent spoon for a good while, and he’s probably into that stuff too. Or maybe he has obsessive compulsive habits that make him feel the need for new lighters with new cigs. These kinds of people usually have some mental abnormalities.”
He always laughs when he asks for the lighter, because we know he’s going to ask, and he knows that we know he’s going to ask, and this makes him uncomfortable (laughing is rarely a comfortable act). “Yes, yes. A lighter again today Chief. Thank you,” he says. We want to ask what happened to the lighter from the day before, but it isn’t any of our business, because he isn’t any of our business.
He smiles and carries on, repeating the same jokes and phrases every day. He must program his mind to only think on one track, because if his mind wanders to the point of analyzing his situation, he might just kill himself. He must be so miserable, wearing smiles as disguises. We know how he really must feel. Must feel. Must. If people could be happy working as janitors, everyone would do it. Not me – I have a good job – I am happy. I don’t drink and smoke every day. Poor guy. I feel bad for him. He’s been wearing the same clothes for years too. That faded, green jacket. Why doesn’t he just get some new clothes ? Doesn’t he care what people think of him? Where is his self respect?
I feel bad for him.
I am happy.
Chemistry is everything, nothing isn’t chemistry,
Bonds bounce through our brain.
Making us laugh, sniffle, sigh, cry, fuck, eat, wonder, act, react, this, that, on, and on
Making us go insane.
Chemicals are everywhere, housed in matter,
But it doesn’t matter.
No matter what we know,
All is the same.
We know only of making things
As means to know more about making more things.
There are no ends, only means.
Everything is mean!
An eventual regression to the mean.
“I thought she was a great person… until we hung out more.
I then realized that she was a waste of time.”
That’s because you didn’t collect enough samples at the beginning.
You needed more data.
Only then could all her qualities collapse into average.
Everything is average.
Outliers are only there to make you question:
But in the mean-time, ordinarily, I’m usually typically average,