Damn! Do I have to do everything around here?!

In 2007, I decided to retire from the working world on a fulltime basis.  Or, that is, I decided to retire from a fulltime job.

Now is the time to return to the working world, as they (whoever they are) say, and get this economy rolling in its full equality thought set all over again for the very first time.

Yeah, the global economy revolves around me and I’m cool with it.

So, with all of that stuff in your thoughts, let’s get this party rolling again, the planet in balance again, and align your family’s/friends’ goals in line with mine.

Do I have to start my own business to get my business in your face?

Yeah, it looks that way.

I’m about to show you what it’s all about.

That’s just the way I operate, taking your barriers down and out for the count ’cause I don’t know what’s the matter with the walls you want me to maze my way through your amazement.

Know what I’m saying?

Doesn’t matter.

I’m here.

You’re there.

Time to get this ball rolling.

Start my own business.

Put my business in our bid’ness and make it profitable for your probability.

I want all seven-plus billion of you doin’ what I’m sayin’ not sayin’ what I’m sayin’, know what I’m sayin’?

Death missed me last night…

Death missed me last night.
I should laugh or cry?
Matters not.
I love everyone equally,
Desire them,
Wish to devour them,
Eat every drop of sweat,
Regardless of skin category,
Regardless of thought set pattern embodiment.

As far as I’m concerned,
If you can’t say “fuck” on network television
Then the illusion of subcultural restraint
Is no more reassuring than the government spying
That our local/national cultures condone.

Thank goodness for random acts of violence.

Thank goodness that my thoughts are in contradiction…

My thoughts say that I am omnisexual,
Yet my actions say I am celibate and live in a monogamous relationship.

I take interest in local subcultures in order to show interest in individuals
With whom I cannot express directly to them my thoughts for them
That contradict the legal obligations I made in front of a crowd of friends and family years ago.

I live in this luxury of contradictory thought patterns,
Unable to care about starving kids anywhere,
Regardless of “income inequality” that is a substitute phrase for saying people are unable to form their own local economies
(i.e., lack initiative to create money out of thin air which buys the necessities of life and more).

I lack sympathy for [pick your favourite ailment] survivors.
What did you survive?
What do you say you survived for?
Not for me, you didn’t.
One less survivor means more for the rest of us!

There is nothing I can give anyone that I haven’t already tried once and failed to get my point across,
Or succeeded in proving I am a total fuckup.

Yes, I am part of a financially-successful family living in a suburban-based rotting hull of a house,
Waiting to die.

I say I want certain things, certain people to hold, certain phrases to say, places to see,
But then I do what I say and I am still left at the end of the day with me as I am,
New experiences notched on my old, stained leather belt falling apart.

Fuck this world.
It doesn’t matter anymore.

Let me figure out how to backup this blog to my local hard drive,
Erase the online contents,
Delete the website,
And slip into oblivion from whence I came,
Just as I did with myself on a popular social media site.

We humans have such a tiny view of existence,
Measuring life in revolutions around our local star, the Sun,
Thinking that adding words like millions and billions somehow gives us added [in]significance.

No matter.
No matter what.

Death missed me last night…
Again!

I laugh because I cried for no reason,
The reason being the death of a ten-year young girl,
And I’m still here for no reason that a subculture couldn’t quickly twist into eternal purposes to sustain itself.

“No” and “not” and double-negatives,
Double-entendres and doublespeak.

Matters not.

I believed I loved two women at once,
More than once,
This time the pain is just as great,
The sorrow greater,
The distance closer yet farther away in age.

How much more, how much longer, can I survive myself?

I want to start a new charity,
It’s called “I’m a self survivor and I’m in remission, if not remiss.”

Time for another vacation from myself.

Time to start a paper “blog” and say goodbye to cultural affirmation of paranoid government spying,
Say goodbye to texting,
Say goodbye to social media updates;
Say hello to a new self that sits in public and meditates upon the meaningless mystery of dark matter,
Get power from dark energy,
Disregard the need for pop culture references to tie myself to the artificial construct of zeitgeist time.

One’s thoughts drift on a Friday afternoon…

In French:

Parlez-Moi D’Amour

Parlez moi d’amour
Redites-moi des choses tenders
Votre beau discours
Mon coeur n’est pas las de l’entendre
Pourvu que toujours
Vous repetiez ces mots supremes
Je vous aime

Vous savez bien
Que dans le fond je n’en crois rien
Mais cependant je veux encore
Ecouter ce mot que j’adore
Votre voix aux sons caressants
Qui la murmure en fremissant
Me berce de sa belle histoire
Et malgre moi je veux y croire

Parlez moi d’amour
Redites-moi des choses tenders
Votre beau discours
Mon coeur n’est pas las de l’entendre
Pourvu que toujours
Vous repetiez ces mots supremes
Je vous aime

Parlez moi d’amour
Redites-moi des choses tenders
Votre beau discours
Mon coeur n’est pas las de l’entendre
Pourvu que toujours
Vous repetiez ces mots supremes
Je vous aime

Il est si doux
Mon cher tresor d’etre un peu fou
La vie est parfois trop amere
Si l’on ne croit pas aux chimeres
Le chagrin est vite apaise
Et se console d’un baiser
Du coeur on guerit la blessure
Par un serment qui la rassure

Parlez moi d’amour
Redites-moi des choses tenders
Votre beau discours
Mon coeur n’est pas las de l’entendre
Pourvu que toujours
Vous repetiez ces mots supremes
Je vous aime

= = = = =

In English:

Speak To Me Of Love

Speak to me of love
Tell me those tender things again
Your beautiful speech
My heart is not tired of hearing it
Provided that you will always
Repeat these supreme words
I love you

You know well that underneath it all
I don’t believe any of it
But meanwhile I want to still hear
Those words that I adore
Your voice with its caressing sounds
That murmurs in trembling
Rocks me with its beautiful story
And in spite of myself I want to believe it

Speak to me of love
Tell me those tender things again
Your beautiful speech
My heart is not tired of hearing it
Provided that you will always
Repeat these supreme words
I love you

Speak to me of love
Tell me those tender things again
Your beautiful speech
My heart is not tired of hearing it
Provided that you will always
Repeat these supreme words
I love you

It is so sweet, my dear treasure, to be a little crazy
Life is sometimes too bitter
If we don’t believe in little fancies
Sorrow is quickly quieted
And consoled from a kiss
From the heart
Wounds are healed by reassuring words

Speak to me of love
Tell me those tender things again
Your beautiful speech
My heart is not tired of hearing it
Provided that you will always
Repeat these supreme words
I love you

Flashback Lyrics for the Day

Tin Man:

Sometimes late
When things are real
And the people share the gift of gab
Between themselves

Some are quick
To take the bait
And the catch the perfect prize
That waits among the shells

But Oz never did give nothing to the Tin Man
That he didn’t, didn’t already have
And Cause never was the reason for the evening
Or the tropic of Sir Galahad

So please
Believe in me
When I say I’m spinning round, round, round, round
Smoke glass stain’d bright colors
Image going down, down, down, down
Soapsud green like bubbles

Oz never did give nothing to the Tin Man
That he didn’t, didn’t already have
And Cause never was the reason for the evening
Or the tropic of Sir Galahad

So please
Believe in me
When I say I’m spinning round, round, round, round
Smoke glass stain’d bright colors
Image going down, down, down, down
Soapsud green like bubbles

No, Oz never did give nothing to the Tin Man
That he didn’t, didn’t already have
And Cause never was the reason for the evening
Or the tropic of Sir Galahad

So please believe in me

Torn between two lovers, feeling like you can rely on the old man’s money

There’s always the misconception that the Mafia is either fake or real.

So we turn to a band’s name for identification purposes:

Charles Pettigrew died of cancer on 6 April 2001, at the age of 37.

[Eddie] Chacon is currently residing in Los Angeles and fronting the electronic duo, The Polyamorous Affair, with Sissy Sainte-Marie. In 2009, The Polyamorous Affair released their album, Bolshevik Disco.

Call forth the phrase, “Dagnabbit rabbit!”

Unobtanium beer is pulling a sentence out of a dream: “I want a case of pickled anger.”

Why?  Because of a new storyline, a new personality that says, “Hey, you know what?  I don’t need nobody to speak for me.  You know why?  Cause I own my own business.  I’m what they call connected, like in ‘the mob,’ know what I’m sayin’?  I’m puttin’ on a show wit’ my girlfriend ’cause that’s just what I wanna do, show her off, tellin’ you fellas that she’s off-limits.  You wanna touch the merchandise?  It ain’t for sale.  She’s spoken for.  Yeah, she says she polyamorous but you get close to her, you burn.  You know what I’m sayin’.  I don’t need to spell it out in frank’n’beans or nothin’, do I, Lee?”

But then, the dirigible crashed into the Alps, spilling Earhart and Lindbergh onto the icy peaks.

The Mad Hatter spilled his tea.

To get out of the oxygen-thin heights, the daredevil flyers decided to put on a dance, mixing the cream components of melted white caps into the overflowing chocolate rivers flooding the Bavarian valleys, creating three new flavours that the people had wished for but never seen — dark chocolate, milk chocolate and white chocolate — not to mention Bavarian cream cheese, creamier and cheesier than ovarian, Ovaltine or oval saltines.

Yeah, it’s a crazy night for mixed-up storylines, seeing as the dance rehearsals went well, as intended, throwing the scent off the trail and the hound dogs off their common sense, Sir Arthur Conan Doyle waiting for Conan the Barbarian and Conan O’Brien to share their opinions as constructive criticism disguised as front page news stories, as, as, as, pretending that Jay Leno has any intention to call up Rich Little or Benny Hill to serve a substitute role for Jimmy Fallon who wishes Phyllis Diller was not related to Matt Dillon, Marshall Dillon, dill pickles or pickled relish.

Shaking the pepper shaker out of the Shaker’s household of a head-hold on the no holds-barred barista barristers barred windows, Windows 8.1 claimed ownership of the UI of iOS 7 which laid claims on the gold rush of iPhone sales diverting our attention in the divertimento window of opportunity in opportune opera tunes out of tune with the times listed in the back section of the New York Times hidden behind paywalls that are walled-in nonwalls with narwhals and ne’er-do-wells in wishing wells and cockle shells.

Love is a four-letter word.

Word is a four-letter love.

Letters are words of love for is is is an a.

The typewriter rhythms of grandmothers with multiple mobile phones and boyfriends saying “meow meow meow” like dorks worried they’ll be forgotten when they leave the day before their birthday — what else is of importance when conversations become fermented in the likelihood that a man’s wife is disinclined to dance the blues when she has a costume to finish for her dancing husband, the mannequin, when drunk Jenga games turn skyscrapers into pick-up sticks?

Seduction is not the answer.

The madness of one’s thoughts rules all.

When one dives into the abyss, what is money or love or love of money?

The clock watches the watcher who counts the hours before the next dance practice, wondering if spaghetti dinners are more important than uninvited guests entering the bed chamber.

But a tired perspirer whose partners don’t make him a manwhore make the whole man slimmer, if not younger.

The tick-tock-tap of the plastic keys play songs that drummers and lead singers, even two-to-three weeks’ preggers, can feel the lead beat in one’s core bouncing into the floor rather than bouncing back on one’s heels.

Type, type, type, tap, tap, tap, the music paces itself out of nothingness, into existence and back into the background noise of a universe in flux.

Time lost to hair dye and leather straps, slapped wrists and insanity at the end of madness one step away from workplace report revisions and shoe holes.

Waves in oceans turning water molecules and colloidal suspension into conflict, resolution, drama, comedy and tragedy as atomic energy is recycled, the medium medium tasting like one’s breath fresh with the cigarette taste of a lover’s lips or the scent of bath gel.

The substitute role of a trumpet player or the renewed role of a professional’s professional plays into one’s hands on the keyboard of life.

Microcosmic cosmic revelations.

Word.

The Flint

Based on the timeframe involved
I can safely say I stand on a manmade bridge
Over the Flint River,
The reversed-coloured glow of my smartphone
Blinding me,
Attracting tiny insects that land on the screen,
Squashed by my typing forefinger,
Flying up my nose,
An unseen large insect flying into my leg,
Making me stomp and dance in the dark
Under a half moon and familiar constellations.

I am in love with nature,
My eternal friend
Who talks to me
With insect wings and frog throats,
Distant internal combustion engines
And river water smoothing out rocks.

Is civility civil in “civil war”? Does it matter if it’s Spanish or Syrian by nature?

                                                                                                                                                            
Yesterday all the past. The language of size
Spreading to China along the trade-routes; the diffusion
Of the counting-frame and the cromlech;
Yesterday the shadow-reckoning in the sunny climates.

Yesterday the assessment of insurance by cards,
The divination of water; yesterday the invention
Of cartwheels and clocks, the taming of
Horses. Yesterday the bustling world of the navigators.

Yesterday the abolition of fairies and giants,
the fortress like a motionless eagle eyeing the valley,
the chapel built in the forest;
Yesterday the carving of angels and alarming gargoyles;

The trial of heretics among the columns of stone;
Yesterday the theological feuds in the taverns
And the miraculous cure at the fountain;
Yesterday the Sabbath of witches; but to-day the struggle

Yesterday the installation of dynamos and turbines,
The construction of railways in the colonial desert;
Yesterday the classic lecture
On the origin of Mankind. But to-day the struggle.

Yesterday the belief in the absolute value of Greek,
The fall of the curtain upon the death of a hero;
Yesterday the prayer to the sunset
And the adoration of madmen. but to-day the struggle.

As the poet whispers, startled among the pines,
Or where the loose waterfall sings compact, or upright
On the crag by the leaning tower:
“O my vision. O send me the luck of the sailor.”

And the investigator peers through his instruments
At the inhuman provinces, the virile bacillus
Or enormous Jupiter finished:
“But the lives of my friends. I inquire. I inquire.”

And the poor in their fireless lodgings, dropping the sheets
Of the evening paper: “Our day is our loss. O show us
History the operator, the
Organiser. Time the refreshing river.”

And the nations combine each cry, invoking the life
That shapes the individual belly and orders
The private nocturnal terror:
“Did you not found the city state of the sponge,

“Raise the vast military empires of the shark
And the tiger, establish the robin’s plucky canton?
Intervene. O descend as a dove or
A furious papa or a mild engineer, but descend.”

And the life, if it answers at all, replied from the heart
And the eyes and the lungs, from the shops and squares of the city
“O no, I am not the mover;
Not to-day; not to you. To you, I’m the

“Yes-man, the bar-companion, the easily-duped;
I am whatever you do. I am your vow to be
Good, your humorous story.
I am your business voice. I am your marriage.

“What’s your proposal? To build the just city? I will.
I agree. Or is it the suicide pact, the romantic
Death? Very well, I accept, for
I am your choice, your decision. Yes, I am Spain.”

Many have heard it on remote peninsulas,
On sleepy plains, in the aberrant fishermen’s islands
Or the corrupt heart of the city.
Have heard and migrated like gulls or the seeds of a flower.

They clung like burrs to the long expresses that lurch
Through the unjust lands, through the night, through the alpine tunnel;
They floated over the oceans;
They walked the passes. All presented their lives.

On that arid square, that fragment nipped off from hot
Africa, soldered so crudely to inventive Europe;
On that tableland scored by rivers,
Our thoughts have bodies; the menacing shapes of our fever

Are precise and alive. For the fears which made us respond
To the medicine ad, and the brochure of winter cruises
Have become invading battalions;
And our faces, the institute-face, the chain-store, the ruin

Are projecting their greed as the firing squad and the bomb.
Madrid is the heart. Our moments of tenderness blossom
As the ambulance and the sandbag;
Our hours of friendship into a people’s army.

To-morrow, perhaps the future. The research on fatigue
And the movements of packers; the gradual exploring of all the
Octaves of radiation;
To-morrow the enlarging of consciousness by diet and breathing.

To-morrow the rediscovery of romantic love,
the photographing of ravens; all the fun under
Liberty’s masterful shadow;
To-morrow the hour of the pageant-master and the musician,

The beautiful roar of the chorus under the dome;
To-morrow the exchanging of tips on the breeding of terriers,
The eager election of chairmen
By the sudden forest of hands. But to-day the struggle.

To-morrow for the young the poets exploding like bombs,
The walks by the lake, the weeks of perfect communion;
To-morrow the bicycle races
Through the suburbs on summer evenings. But to-day the struggle.

To-day the deliberate increase in the chances of death,
The consious acceptance of guilt in the necessary murder;
To-day the expending of powers
On the flat ephemeral pamphlet and the boring meeting.

To-day the makeshift consolations: the shared cigarette,
The cards in the candlelit barn, and the scraping concert,
The masculine jokes; to-day the
Fumbled and unsatisfactory embrace before hurting.

The stars are dead. The animals will not look.
We are left alone with our day, and the time is short, and
History to the defeated
May say Alas but cannot help nor pardon.

Seamus

Stood on top of my hill of childhood memories,
Stars between clouds matching sodium and mercury lights strung out below,
Walked past houses of former girlfriends —
Sandy Graves, Tamra Fain, Candy Barr —
I thought of you.
The locally universal you,
You who inspires my weight loss,
Who makes me feel better about myself,
Willing to open my thoughts, my heart and soul, to the world,
Risking real as opposed to written friendships.

Without you, no Seamus Heaney;
Without Seamus, no me.

Know me, like a miniature gnome (gnomee) or gnomelike (gnomey).

In the dark, memories of school-aged friends talking, sages smelling of sage and cafeteria food.

Overpowered by mown grass,
Ubiquitous train whistle moaning,
Scented candle wax ribbons unwinding…

Oirish eyes watering.

Silence.

Cork board

The ting of water drops splattering at the bottom of a downspout.

The faint glow of a firefly gliding under a forest canopy.

The chirp of a bird at night.

A bat?

No more firefly?

The points of light on distant peaks — mobile phone towers, street lamps, headlights pointing this way and that.

Standing in the doorway of a mountain cabin, a screen door barring mosquitoes and moths, stretching sore muscles tightened by hours of holding and turning a steering wheel, by moments in public view of others, anticipating their reluctant smiles, looking for laughter to ease the tension of one’s daily high-wire act…

At 3:35 in the morning, alone in one’s thoughts, is this happiness, time spent rewriting personal history, rewiring social connections at the neuronal level on an electronic slate?

How often does autocorrect redirect one’s thoughts?

If I’m willing to feel the pain of others in my easy life, so can you, when the time is right, when we get too comfortable to see that short-sighted happiness creates historical misery.

I am a caged animal at times, enraged, barred by artifices like social/moral boundaries that make no sense to me yet I, in my inadequacy, maintain for the sake of appearances.

Walking on hot coals for no reason, tiptoeing on eggshells spread across thin ice, wearing a life preserver shaped like a large yellow rubber duck.

This is my universe and I am learning to deal with it, a bull in a china shop one moment, a whisper of wind passing through seven billion social/moral/ethical animals the next.

We truly do not see our fragile place in the universe, trapped as we are by our hypnotic illusions, comfortably deluded.

Will we, as a small percentage of the mass of one planet, wake up in our sleep before we die?