What can we even call valuable these days? Not money, that’s for GOT DANG sure. Something far away and winking at us. It doesn’t want us to know it has a glass eye. Trust me, I know what I’m talking about.
Remember the Christmas party back in ’97?
Hysterical.
Find a kindred spirit,
fill it up with gopher planters,
Tell your friend that you’ll go strand ‘er,
Nothing much to fear, it.
What’s your motive, buddy?
Got a bindle on your shoulder,
I saw you sleepin’ on that boulder.
Look a little muddy.
I just want to see right here
what gopher planters do to you.
You might develop love for shoes
or burning in the ears.
The devil’s in the derailing of that train, the baby crying for closure, the military brat skipping along the sidewalk in Atlanta while his father dodges bullets every day. Yeah, there’s plenty of devil all around us, surrounding our waking lives with the idea that we’re not good enough to do what we really want to do. But then the devil jumps into those who believe in themselves and wish to make a positive impact on this planet. The devil plants his slimy fist into their heart and slices a coin slot right at the top. The devil blinds men to the power of fellowship and turns them onto the scent of dirty green paper. The devil is in the television, in your aunt’s glass eye, in alcohol and energy drinks. The devil doesn’t pick and choose what to inhabit, he just throws himself into anything, willy nilly, until he’s gotten his fill of screwing around with us.
The devil. What an easy excuse.
We’re the devil, and we know it.
Why do I want attention? Honestly, I don’t want attention.
My words want attention. I want attention for my words, not my ego. Do I need to develop an overactive, self-indulgent, ridiculously aggressive ego in order to do anything with my life that makes me seem like an important person?
What is importance? There’s no such thing as something being innately more important than anything else. Nature seems to understand this, yet humans decided that they don’t belong to the natural cycle that they step on and choke every day. The soul of a chicken is useless to the soul of a human until that chicken’s energy is converted into food matter and consumed by that human. By that point, the chicken’s soul has already transcended this plane and begun the selection process for another life somewhere in this universe (or perhaps another). That soul will earn an upgrade for its devout service to Earth’s common good.
What’s my problem? I want my words to be read by people, and I want to be able to write these words for my life, undisturbed, peaceful, constantly inventing. That’s what I was brought into this shitty world to do, but I won’t be allowed a comfortable living if I insist on doing it like some sort of maverick poet. How dare I wish to explore the forefront of language to attempt a deeper connection with the cosmos?! I’m a real piece of work.
Seven grimy little speculatives prindle across my gallery floor, after I specifically told them to wipe their feet upon engaging in heavy humiliation for the sake of their beloved ancestors. I’m a liberal sort of person, but only so many things can run across my field of vision before my temples begin thumping and causing me a severe headache. The blurry vision and stammering retinas are not good for my prolonged curatory career, and I poured my heart into this endeavor. It’s a real shame when speculatives can’t obey my commands or even accommodate a quick gesture, and it has become clear to me that I must plow forward in this project by myself, leaving behind those little goobers for a sweeter reward. It’s on the horizon, blurry (due to my migraine or near-sightedness, I’m not sure) and promising colors galore, subdivided into hues unimaginable to folks behind me. I’ll get there first and gloat for seven seconds as my competitors reach my apex, only to find that I’ve laid a booby trap for them. As they tumble into this pit of despair (and crocodiles), I’ll be watching their descent and waving, hoping they’ll have the wherewithal to look up and regret their lemming impersonations.
For I told my butcher: “I want gravy with that”. Now and forever, I shall always demand gravy on the side, never on top. I could care less whether or not my butcher has this gravy readymade for me at any given moment, as I pay the premium prices to keep him in business. The least he can do is simmer a pot in the back for my saucy pleasure. I will give him six business days to amend his practices, after which I shall seek new routes for obtaining my prepared meats and gravies.
I haven’t folded any siblings at the present moment, though I’m confident to say that my upcoming moments will involve exponential growth in that arena. I’ve stumbled upon a great new widget for bending my brothers and sisters to my will, and I’m certain that, with a little practice, I can effectively coerce them into doing my bidding (at least 96% of the time). There are always going to be a few kinks in the system, but my reign as tyrannical overlord is bound to get its feet off the ground within the next calendar month. You can count on that, you cynical renegades, you.
WHARVED 