*Do I have to mention by Charles Schultz with slight alteration? If so then there I did.
bleak
I didn’t take this picture, nor did I incite Jeff Daniels to lose his mind and chase this poor woman. Actually this is from a play called God of Carnage. That should probably be underlined. I didn’t take it but I’m afraid if I don’t tell you that it is in fact a picture that was from the New York Times website, that I happened to catch while reading about Les Paul then someone from the goverment would come and disappear me in the middle of the night. I just heard my father make a silly voice talking to the cats in the other room and I thought some kind of troll had revealed himself and was ready to take over. I grasped a very heavy lamp to defend myself with but then I realized he was just throwing some Fancy Feast on a paper plate for these spoiled felines. Also a lamp probably wouldn’t be much of a match for a troll, or maybe it would be so random that he’d have no defense, magic or otherwise for it.
Anyway, so yeah, Jeff Daniels is probably doing just fine, and he’s not actually harassing this woman in some drugged/crazed state. It’s just art. That I really had nothing to do with but the picture kind of makes me laugh, you know, because you don’t think of Jeff Daniels as doing that kind of thing.
Sports or “Your Face Looks Like a Landfill Coming Out of a Pool in the Wintertime During Football Season”
………..meets the unusually positive family next door.
*(to be read in a humiliated, restrained mumble)
good morning,
I’m still awake, flicking matches at dreams of traditional and happy and normal and quiet.
I’m sucking up the mirage and I can’t tell the difference anymore.
“slow down” loops inside the walls of my head like fingernails tapping against graphite.
I have to think there is more than sandwiching a day full of painted on smiles and strained conversations in between alarm clocks buzzing and drifting off during the late night talk shows.
I have to believe that.
I think I believe that.
The world is rising in new, neurotic storms, panic stricken and gun shy.
And how much longer do you really have before the colors fade and everyone starts asking you questions to catch up?
Before your friends become acquaintances and you’re pulled from the story?
How much longer do you have to scream out at the moon and beg the night for more? What’s left of your mind as you box it in, under neon lights, poor dialogs, regimented schedules, blood shot eyes, and failing social skills? Your imagination becomes something you trip over, an abnormality, you’re a mutant in a world of mouth breathers and sports geeks.
You’re an old bluesman trapped in a stadium full of people chanting the words to that same old rock song you’ve heard a million times.
Head down, lock yourself in, pray for feet of snow and bad phone reception, hours of television and DVD’s to take your mind off all the fun you could be having, forgetting all the navy blue evenings and gothic purple nights you spent waiting for God to reveal himself on the lips of a girl, or the bottom of a bottle.
oh well
So now he worked carnivals,
Using that great, booming voice he had to draw people towards the rides and games.
Sometimes an old song would crackle through a radio
Or some pretty, young girls would glide by his booth and he’d remember his big dreams of using his big voice:
Sweet girls swooning and screaming at him up on the stage.
But it didn’t work out like that.
Judging by his calm exterior one would never guess how close Corporal Lawrence Marmalade’s escape really was.
Jack Vance’s Jealous Sea Monsters All Star Disco Formal.
I ain't done shit yet
no that’s it.
