Before Any Greatness Lies This Mess

Orig. published ’06 @ AHA

The Masters of the world, when they aren’t sucking your spirit dry, chain you to other pathetic souls. You’re your brother’s keeper they say, but your strength really makes you his servant. By the time you realize this for yourself the honey of your youth is a dry crust and you are branded. Herds of cattle all tied together by the neck and balls…


Neck and balls is how I wade through. Pain is a black silk curtain always parting before I can rip it with payback. The enemy is subtle. The greatest lies burst through megaphones while evil truths thrust with mosquito barbs so thin they slide between your cells to where nothing has feeling.


All day he complains. I mostly listen but sometimes vainly try to fight back and tell him how to solve x or y. Of course, it’s futile: he’s as in love with his pain as anyone, a born complainer. He can’t get ahead, he can’t find The woman, the burdens stack upon him like cinder blocks.

Is he a fool? No. A true fool is happy with his fate because he knows he’s screwed and a slave and can enjoy the little gifts sometimes lain across the struggle. (Who would love an iPod more than Sisyphus)? But the Complainer won’t change a thing, never will, it’s Misery as the title track forever, until the wrong tombstone ordered for his grave is delivered by silver mannequins and the final drab curtains settle over the grave-soil.


Rain sounds like a solid slurring ocean smashing the pavement. It smells like dinosaurs wearing old coats. I missed it more than I knew.


When women have big tits everything changes, their stories seem more important. I like to smoke cigars and pretend trees are women. I like the way the smoke curls off my breath like silver-gray evil. I am rich with smoke.


Two xmas trees lay on top of one another, not copulating but dead. One of the trees still had its lights wrapped around it. Are we that wealthy now to just throw out the lights with the tree? I was too lazy to take the lights for myself, I didn’t need them, they were like a prom dress wrapped around dead tree #2.


No one knows who’s the most surpised when a product works as advertised. I like informercials; they do such a professional job of telling me what I don’t need.


I hate the new library. The library is a tomb, the books are collected shit. The self-checkout scanner hides the sex books I borrow. I hate the new library. It’s too rich and new, it towers over the patrons, all of them assholes but me. The internet in the library is like a mistress living with the married couple. The books are glossy and unread. The CDs for checkout are all foreign trash. Dog food dog food dog food. I hate the new library, it bends the sunlight until it gives up. It makes me feel like an intruder. The spacious many-windowed ‘quiet rooms’ are filled with liars. No one has stuck gum under the chairs. The library is that new. All the girls are older than the library but are too young for me.


Before you are famous you fart and vomit, curse and change stations. Quite average. Fame sits somewhere in the distance, a clever pot-bellied mirage with scalped tickets in hand. Look sharp, here it comes!


The best part of any book is not having to smell the author. A book is a collection of offal, words lined up like whores in the bordello. Who would rather hold a book than a woman, even if the latter isn’t breathing?


Nighttime, the trampoline of reflection. Muscles lounge like old tigers. Bump keys tap the brain, trying doors better left unsaid. You can’t beat your own brains at any game, the illusions and delusions. When thoughts fail something makes them strap on bombs.


I love how smoke erupts and follows murdered matchsticks. I hate the beach but love the smell of suntan lotion. When there’s fish I eat the scales. I wait for the index to the illusion. I wait forever to see how it’s done.


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