Here's something you might be interested in.
I'm the new tenant in the Ocean Beach nest. In the sky, a flock of white t-shirts are flying to Fluff and Fold Launderland. On my kitchen table, also in a fishbowl, my goldfish Hafiz, who has helped me through many a bad night while sipping a light spirited gin.
I'm waiting for the sunrise. I'm waiting for the turquiose earth swell. Looking to find waves where their are none. That's my life now I've told the Thesaurus on my desk. The OB World beyond my window has quickly grown illegible for this full time window washer and partly part time writer.
Mr. Landlord, boss of all bosses of the Universe. Mr. Know-It-All, wheeler-dealer, wire-puller and the shuffler of zeroes later tonight failed to mention all of the amenities. All the porno sloppy screams during the 17 minute gaz dashes, the wall to wall concrete, the smokers weezy hacking, the flurry of lies, the stink of deep fry, the silhoutted sneezing, that little shake after, and the hiding of a heart. All of it, behind a stained white curtain breathing out and in a hole in a structure suffering from asthma.
A lion roars through a jungle alley, opens its ravenous jaws and consumes a dumpster filled with the shame of consumption. The steel box returns to the hard concrete and echoes throughout the jungle. The lion roars away.
The shadows lengthen as my windowpanes begin to blaze. Our Grass City is sifting into view. The muffled drumroll... A slow, stony-minded striptease, she's blowing kisses over blurred white gloves that crawl up her skinny arms like a caterpillar shimmying along rationale. It's still early but her sun burnt shoulders are already undraped and so is one of her sagging, wrongly tattooed breast. Glass pieces get stuffed and hit with precision as she opens her legs, a salty ditch in the ocean air orchard teeming with green foul-mouthed coo-coo-birds and the ball bearing buzzes of urethane winged dragonflies wearing half cocked ball caps looking to get rich or high trying. Uncle Mitty just shakes his head as those kisses drift along as cold as prison bars and land upon the tan scruffy cheek of a panhandlin beast with serene table manners. Befriending the old Holy Bum, who in a past life was an opera singer who remembers the rich Neopolitan pastries but now washes the memories away with a cold 40 as swiftly as the tide sweeps a golden broom of kelp from the sea's beach.
In the meantime, mannequins inside Lola Luna's, once employed to guage the effects of a atomic blast, stand like accessorized philosophers 'happily' pretending the silent treatment. Quantum Autism. Pride in a Furnished Room.
I listen as an Invisible Force, an etheral rush of darkly white noise fills streets, crevices, eardrums, storefront spaces and half-guessed souls. Wuuuuuuuu Shhhhhhh... Wuuuuuuuu Shhhhhhhh... The sound of salt water boundless. The heave and hurl and crash of a comber hounded by wind and chaos. Out of the reach of her contemptous surges inland. Out of the reach of her arms. This Invisible Force, it turns out, has many daughters, equally otherworldly. This Vast Ocean, Everyones Backyard, wants to know if I've bumped into her lately? You betcha... I says outloud to NEMO. She's the one thats worn me out with her vanishing acts. She's the one who has left me lonely, or worse hopeful. I roam this beach portal late at night, lost in a Sunshine Company as this Vastness casually asks, "Is she still daddy's girl?"
I stumble back home where I figue I'll kick back and do my best contrived Kerouac. As I shuffle along, in rolling walls of fog that mix with a blood alcohol content somewhere between something and nothing doing battle here. I pass a town library commanding silence and making no complaints about itself being rid of rugrats, snake charmers and a room rich in enigmas. This heavy silence has the air of a bow tied move in special. Another exagerated gift from Mr. Landlord. I feel like it's dawn again and I'm in church but it's not dawn and I'm a bit sheepish about church. I'm drunk and hexed like everyone else here. I'm on the sandy steps of a Universe's Funeral Home and unsure who or what I am mourning. I'm supposedly the 'cool' dude, the super happy glue that folks like to be near because I'm holding it all together. I leave my smile on the steps like a bouquet of flowers that attracts the happy.
I sigh, clay melts into hardened plastic. I'm a poetic justice collectable. A mannequin. We are all huddled here but with no trace except for our names. These have paved a path, a porch, a neighborhood as new impulses, too strange to dwell within my head and unseemly instincts have got me lodging here. I get back home. I wonder who's in the next room but I already know. It is Life. I am here, all alone like everyone else. Wuuuuuuuu Shhhhhhh... Wuuuuuuuu Shhhhhhhh...
I'm the new tenant in the Ocean Beach nest. In the sky, a flock of white t-shirts are flying to Fluff and Fold Launderland. On my kitchen table, also in a fishbowl, my goldfish Hafiz, who has helped me through many a bad night while sipping a light spirited gin.
I'm waiting for the sunrise. I'm waiting for the turquiose earth swell. Looking to find waves where their are none. That's my life now I've told the Thesaurus on my desk. The OB World beyond my window has quickly grown illegible for this full time window washer and partly part time writer.
Mr. Landlord, boss of all bosses of the Universe. Mr. Know-It-All, wheeler-dealer, wire-puller and the shuffler of zeroes later tonight failed to mention all of the amenities. All the porno sloppy screams during the 17 minute gaz dashes, the wall to wall concrete, the smokers weezy hacking, the flurry of lies, the stink of deep fry, the silhoutted sneezing, that little shake after, and the hiding of a heart. All of it, behind a stained white curtain breathing out and in a hole in a structure suffering from asthma.
A lion roars through a jungle alley, opens its ravenous jaws and consumes a dumpster filled with the shame of consumption. The steel box returns to the hard concrete and echoes throughout the jungle. The lion roars away.
The shadows lengthen as my windowpanes begin to blaze. Our Grass City is sifting into view. The muffled drumroll... A slow, stony-minded striptease, she's blowing kisses over blurred white gloves that crawl up her skinny arms like a caterpillar shimmying along rationale. It's still early but her sun burnt shoulders are already undraped and so is one of her sagging, wrongly tattooed breast. Glass pieces get stuffed and hit with precision as she opens her legs, a salty ditch in the ocean air orchard teeming with green foul-mouthed coo-coo-birds and the ball bearing buzzes of urethane winged dragonflies wearing half cocked ball caps looking to get rich or high trying. Uncle Mitty just shakes his head as those kisses drift along as cold as prison bars and land upon the tan scruffy cheek of a panhandlin beast with serene table manners. Befriending the old Holy Bum, who in a past life was an opera singer who remembers the rich Neopolitan pastries but now washes the memories away with a cold 40 as swiftly as the tide sweeps a golden broom of kelp from the sea's beach.
In the meantime, mannequins inside Lola Luna's, once employed to guage the effects of a atomic blast, stand like accessorized philosophers 'happily' pretending the silent treatment. Quantum Autism. Pride in a Furnished Room.
I listen as an Invisible Force, an etheral rush of darkly white noise fills streets, crevices, eardrums, storefront spaces and half-guessed souls. Wuuuuuuuu Shhhhhhh... Wuuuuuuuu Shhhhhhhh... The sound of salt water boundless. The heave and hurl and crash of a comber hounded by wind and chaos. Out of the reach of her contemptous surges inland. Out of the reach of her arms. This Invisible Force, it turns out, has many daughters, equally otherworldly. This Vast Ocean, Everyones Backyard, wants to know if I've bumped into her lately? You betcha... I says outloud to NEMO. She's the one thats worn me out with her vanishing acts. She's the one who has left me lonely, or worse hopeful. I roam this beach portal late at night, lost in a Sunshine Company as this Vastness casually asks, "Is she still daddy's girl?"
I stumble back home where I figue I'll kick back and do my best contrived Kerouac. As I shuffle along, in rolling walls of fog that mix with a blood alcohol content somewhere between something and nothing doing battle here. I pass a town library commanding silence and making no complaints about itself being rid of rugrats, snake charmers and a room rich in enigmas. This heavy silence has the air of a bow tied move in special. Another exagerated gift from Mr. Landlord. I feel like it's dawn again and I'm in church but it's not dawn and I'm a bit sheepish about church. I'm drunk and hexed like everyone else here. I'm on the sandy steps of a Universe's Funeral Home and unsure who or what I am mourning. I'm supposedly the 'cool' dude, the super happy glue that folks like to be near because I'm holding it all together. I leave my smile on the steps like a bouquet of flowers that attracts the happy.
I sigh, clay melts into hardened plastic. I'm a poetic justice collectable. A mannequin. We are all huddled here but with no trace except for our names. These have paved a path, a porch, a neighborhood as new impulses, too strange to dwell within my head and unseemly instincts have got me lodging here. I get back home. I wonder who's in the next room but I already know. It is Life. I am here, all alone like everyone else. Wuuuuuuuu Shhhhhhh... Wuuuuuuuu Shhhhhhhh...