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Apr. 28, 2006 Toothpaste, mouthwash, and red wood chips. A one hundred-page prose poem and black dirt, good black dirt. Ten literary biographies, light green or pastel blue tiles to fill up a house. A Zen garden. This is how my tulips grow. Clean furniture with water and a cloth, not Pledge and give me some dollar store boxes and two thousand dollars please. I want to go into a restaurant, sit in a booth with my beloved, and order to our hearts content. Beer and nachos and steak and potatoes, and a new, quieter heart full up with the right words. Not a literati. Just talent please. Chemistry is where you find it. Long sleeve shirts and the life of my love. Nervous breakdowns to the west and to the centre. It is a woeful road we travel. Asthma inhalers, codeine dreams, nicotine and cotton shirts. Mothers often feel guilt over everything. Doctors understand next to nothing. Women without sin are like showers without water. Why do the men of antiquity make fun, make light, of Hesse? – Oh, that book was so popular…everybody read it (condescending). Phoebe, Chloe, Sebastian, and the life imagined. Big furniture is so eighties. You have a cough, a wheeze. How does the world end? In emphysema delight? Cancerous lungs? Cough syrup with narcotic? In a pool by the worldside, or in a world poolside? Books on logic and the anatomy of argument; nah! Hunter Douglas blinds and hand me down couches and a hand me down destiny or no destiny at all. The weight of the world is a grapefruit. Watch me swim. Eat and pray. 1.99 for Allen’s fruit punch drink boxes. They say nobody writes about work. It is mostly true. We want to be something other than what we are. James Thurber. Never knew him. Humorous? Maybe. A bit. Toucan Sam was the image evoked and half prayed to in nightmare environs. Raisin Bran and milk. Milk saves the world. Sickly black cats and generic brands; ten years trying to understand Malcolm Lowry. Some writers are made for it. All else is derivative, vulgar. Coleslaw and salad. French dressing. What is the house Quiche? Oh? Eggs. Yes, I knew that. Corned beef in a can. Butter and who is the love of my life? Seedless grapes. Cheese is on sale. Get a marble and a mozzarella. Remember, intellectualism is the worst kind of vice. The elder is steeped in morality; - you must shave your beard. You are not a prophet, and people will think you are a homosexual. Wild corn of Indian muse hung on the wall. Twentieth century American literature. Acid and acrid visions. Reading The Transition of Doubt. The world is a Burger King in a worn part of a city. Tables and light switches. Quarter round and magic. Stan Smith Adidas all day in the rain. Solipsism. Her dark eyes and darker ways. Better days. I had known. Better days. I would know. Sometimes a flower will close itself almost completely to protect from a cold spell. I see you’ve cleaned. Christ the place looks good. Crisp and neat. There is room to think. There is room to be. Do you want a beer? Do you want anything? Its cold out. There is the sun, ya. But then the wind comes a moment later. Take away the wind, and everything’d be fine. I guess it’s just the way of things though. I really think next week will be better. Your hair looks good like that. The way it frames your face. ------------ Email Brian Michael Barbeito: Brian1750@Hotmail.com Comment on this article here! ------------ All articles are EXCLUSIVE to Useless-Knowledge.com and are not allowed to be posted on other websites. ARTICLE THIEVES WILL BE PROSECUTED! |
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