Journal 53 - I Like the Distant Sound of That

The sound of the music from the parties is distant and
unfamiliar in their atonal rhythms and quick dance steps.
I heard her say, "I like the distant sound of that"
while I sat stoned in the back seat of the brand-new
jeep rolling another joint from the seedless jack-lantern
bud we found on the side of the road day after a
road block. Best time to go hunting for free green bud.
I know I should be afraid of the hippopotamus but
I have to admit I look into the blank eye and goofy
teeth of that top-rated murderer and smile a buck-
toothed goofy smile right back as if we share a secret
sign of misunderstood brotherhood. Oh aren't we all
sad and misunderstood? Like the mouse and the king
snake? Now I lay me down to midnight past asleep
writing for my soul to jump into an understated bleep
on the taxidermists' radar. I am lost in this world of
post structured freedom; my identity was lost and left
on the hook of the bathroom stall back in 1909. My tongue
is cleft like a remnant of some forked serpent that
never presented itself until I wormed around. Wormed
is such a nasty word. Why do I fill these nice square
drawn rectangular pages with such depressing, gross, dark
images and verbs?  I don't know but it feels adolescent
and obsolete. But if that's who I am apparently I should
stop writing if I don't like it. There's a manic mockingbird
in my heart imitating the sound of a slow-moving
piston with these intermittent hiccups. I like to mix
with metaphors till the cows come to roost. The night
lost its cliched blackness the minute my notes on
the beauty of the sunflower growing on the beach
found themselves in the hands of another meandering
poser stealing strands of thought from the deadbeat has-
beens awake when they should be sleeping and asleep
when awake. There's no mistaking the sound of an
elephant snoring in the ear of your creative basilar
membrane. Lovely with its heavy duty wind-forming tiny
tornadoes, I mark notes of distress in her always
perfect voice; perfection is a dead dream of antique pens -
her perfect hazel grin not withstanding...


5.18.09