Fetushead was a teacher of mine
who usually kept his temper in check,
but one day he lashed out at our class
when we weren’t paying attention to him
(we couldn’t answer the questions he asked).
There was something going on in his personal life
that caused him substantial stress,
but we students had no clue, being dumb kids at the time.
the fetus for a head
would have contributed to his overall grouchy demeanor
in that situation (and every other he would come to navigate).
That he kept his cool
for so much of the time
was taken for granted by
the snot-nosed punks of
the hallowed gated community founded by
J. Rick Rubins,
the only exalted LEADER that our planet can trust
to usher us into the 22nd Century we deserve.
In the midst of a blight
brought forth by injustice,
abandoned his bow
in favor of an idiosyncratic approach
buoyed by the near-legitimate agency
with which so many people
squabble on a near-daily basis.
Suffice it to say that he’s miserable now.
The life on the sea was a demanding one,
but nothing he couldn’t handle
(with a nice snifter of scotch
warming in his palm).
He’s not as much of a red tape connoisseur
as most folks sharing the cubicle farm,
and his frustration tends to surface
in the form of a lighthearted jibe
(sometimes misconstrued as unobstructed malice).
As the weeks and months pass,
Sailor Parry begins to doubt
the instinct that drew him
from the briny depths to the skyscrapers
of those self-professed modernographers
who derive satisfaction
from pushing the 21st Century agenda
as far as it can possibly go–and then some.
“All the world’s a sea, but some of it
parades around as a c-word.”
Leave it to the Amish to make daily life more of a chore than ever before. I don’t know why I had such an itch to live the way my ancestors used to, but I know for certain that they would have picked an easier way to light the house and prepare food–if presented with a choice. I was so spoiled by the modern conveniences afforded to me by science and a free market economy that I failed to see the value of an Amish-esque leap of faith. I’d taken those marvelous comforts for granted as I skittered along my daily schedule, not a minute wasted, making all I could out of a dubious practice.
Eh. I genuinely am relieved that I don’t have to be a part of that ridiculous rat race these days. It was even more of a chore than the labor-intensive Amish regimen. But if I could just make use of my arms, that would make this feel more like vacation than prison. I’m just saying… And could you please dim the lights if that’s at all possible? I don’t ask for much.
Anyway, to simply engage in that dubious practice of selling time for the shackles of currency is one thing, but to embrace such a hectic outlook is a disgrace all of its own.
And that’s exactly where I found myself on the morning where my car broke down on my way to ten soul-crushing hours in the tiny cubicle I call my second home. Calling the tow truck, a horse and buggy rattled past me and I thought, “now here’s the kind of living I can get behind!” So I flagged them down and hopped right in without asking permission. They didn’t even flinch.
I was quickly initiated into their rustic ways, and the first couple weeks were life-altering. After a couple more weeks, I began to grow tired of such a humdrum and back-breaking existence, but was then informed that the contract I signed–which I thought was fishy, but I signed it in good faith–bound me to the Amish lifestyle for the rest of my life.
But now I’m here in this rubber room talking to myself all day long for lack of anything else to do, likely being studied by a combination of the US government and power-hungry extraterrestrials blackmailing Washington into doing their bidding. Which reality is worse? I’ll have to think about it.
God, I really wish I could use my arms.
I really wish I could use my arms.
Fleeting circumstances join forces to contribute meaning to one’s waking life on a moment-by-moment basis. In the leanest of times, those moments come few and far between. But if you’re lucky enough to string along multiple meaningful moments within minutes of each other, you might get headstrong and crave even more, creating an imbalance in the miracle mindset and setting impossible expectations for yourself and, indeed, the whole world (at least as you perceive it)! The whole world, damn you! Expecting a higher miracle-to-moment ratio leads to unhealthy thoughts that develop into undesirable behavior, its entire purpose to create miracles from thin air putting karma in jeopardy. Karma’s in jeopardy, people!
Can I at least get a pen to put in my mouth and try scribbling on the wall?
I miss feeling literate.
What in the hell? I don’t know where all these Belgians came from. I know somebody dared somebody else at some point, but it’s possible we’ll never know for sure. Am I perturbed by that? I suppose, perhaps a little. But I won’t grow as a person if I spend all my time wondering whether or not a bunch of infernal Belgians belong in this picture. They have a right, like any other ethnic group, to be included in this narrative, and even serve a prominent role! But they won’t. See, this piece doesn’t incorporate a single Belgian. No people, chocolate, beer, or even waffles from that place.
So you can understand my mortification surrounding the inclusion of these here Belgians. I’m so ruffled that I haven’t even bothered to count them. Did they get here on a tour bus? I just saw them milling around on the corner with no real idea of where they are or how they got there. Is this some sort of elaborate prank? I’d go up and talk to one, but then I’d open up the floodgates for every Belgian in the tri-city area! This is tragic. I wonder if they speak English. All Europeans do, don’t they? Is that racist? Culturist? Maybe they’re not even Belgian, hell.
Where does the ceiling start?
How long has it been now?
I really wish I could use my arms.
We take with us all matter of things, insomuch as it stands to be ever an incher of pincher cinchers, where schnitzel bricks spend all-day expeditions of exquisite daydream clamfaces–by the cola machine is where our lord takes his things. Bitter nut jobs make extraordinary leaps through our galaxy, but never when you have an economy rooted in capitalism, that dollar ever-chained to something way older than our collective responsibilities and squared up to a door we must have forgotten like a stamp mailed on a letter to the dentist some Tuesday back in December when the weather was much nicer but the days were much shorter and you sure as hell don’t miss that one bit, as goddamn cold as it may be right now, god dammit. I really wish I could use my arms.
mold old pita bread
while extolling the intricacies
depicted in The Lorax–
just as a matter of fact.
No time like the present–built into
the inscrutable molting pattern–
for a splash in the unsalvageable
concrete turnstile lifestyle,
no matter what our compatriots
might mouth in opposition.
Hell, you could go for a while
without betraying anybody’s trust,
and wouldn’t that just be neat?
That would mean that you’d deserve
to be on your best friend’s right shoulder
while he reads his vows
on a sacred summer afternoon.
hold old cheetah breath
in the highest of all esteem–
and esteem-related sincerity–
while plunging obliquely
through the ever-stacked ideology
touted as ne’er-do-well yodeling.
I really wish they’d loosen this jacket,
whoever they are. It’s cutting off circulation.