oubliette blues: 1/1/2009

he slipped in while I wasn’t paying much attention, was I? next thing I knew, he was sitting on the couch next to my wife, stroking her thigh. so I took my shots & went out to the car. I tried to sleep in the shotgun, but I could still see his malicious grin like it was backlit by the sun. winking & nudging, as if to say, “you got this stone rolling, man,” <snicker>, “go collect some moss.”  <snicker>

and when they're right, they're really fucking right.

 there were no songs because the words just don’t exist yet. making due with grunts and sobs just doesn’t cut it anymore. we’ve got 3 years to make the deadline, pardon the pun, and the outlook is less than sunny at this juncture. (a word beginning with ‘b’ springs to mind, but that would just be depressing.) we could put up new wallpaper in our whitest of houses but the change is so very far from where we are. our only hope is that trickle becomes rinse, and that in a hurry. but what do we know? other than ragged-nail struggle and barren coffers? what do we know, other than sodium placation at cents on the dollar, and faraway dreams of anger-management? silly trifles like feeding our children, and retaining some semblance of sanity in the interim. indeed, what do we know?

but I digress, since digressing is what I do best when the younger brother of the Apocalypse is groping my wife, and all I can manage to say is, “Happy New Year!”

well, it’s notes from the underground, or something equally as clichéd. turgid as such, but aromatically reminiscent of fried hair and sulfur. out on the street, every street, like a god’s fingernails across some incalculable chalkboard. reverberating in HD through the living rooms and souls of every American family. we are, all of us, the best sitcom ever made. we require no laugh track, because our tragedy is the purest, most genuine comedy of evolutionary proportions. “Sorry folks, but our scheduled trip across the Rubicon has been postponed indefinitely.” so, is there nothing left but wet confetti and resolutory shards? spent ammunition and blood-muddy dust and shredded uniforms? I mean, what if we all threw our shoes? would that end the regime sooner, or would we all merely be nursing injured feet?