Everyday *revised* by MyX

Everyday

This morning,
As the leaves whipped around violently
From strong winds of life’s foul breath
The gray sky drew itself over the city’s morning lights.
I am late for work again.
Too much drinking the night previous.
And too much tom foolery in paperback form.
I spilled coffee all over my shirt.
And noticed I forgot to throw on a tie.
Discovered a hole at the calf of my trousers.
Forgot to wear some antiperspirant.
And I smell like shit.

Good morning.

My mind is as ripe,
As an unpicked orange in a Florida grove
Yet my thoughts are as stale
As a 10 year old box of wheat thins.
My spirit is as damp
As the downtown Seattle city streets
And my inspiration is as dry
As the black market’s supply of gun powder.

And the sentiments I carry on with
Are as hilarious as an old lady
Yelling and screaming,
Beating the fuck out of a cake she just baked.

Or as ironic as a young man
Coming home from his first date
Sharing his excitement with his parents
Only to have his drunk uncle come sniff his fingers.

I introduced me to myself in the mirror.
You are the star of a B movie
The sociopathic manifesto to life.
Featuring a deranged sense of sexuality,
And several conventional twists.

I’m writing the answers I’m trying to find.
With thousands of ideas still in the infirmary.
They are deformed like the carnage of car accident.
And they soar my ears loudly
Like the shrill screams of a thousand rape victims.
The questions of “if”’ and inquiries of “what”
Are undeveloped and exposed
Like a scantily clad 12 year old girl
They are persistent
And the persecute me like an irate bill collector
Telling me,
To entertain the pedestals of people
That still find gastronomic expulsion amusing.
I pass the glint like a cat.
And they scurry from the torch like mice.

I spilled the milk.
It was me.
Sorry, I did it.
My fault.
Its another day, today.
Another pudgy teenager
Just finished his last potato chip.
Another wife beater,
Just took his belt off.
Another school teacher,
Just failed another student.
Another cop,
Just ran another red light.
Another insubordinate juvenile delinquent,
Just got himself another after school detention.
Another baby boomer,
Just quit smoking.
Another teenager,
Just tried his first line of crack.

The crooked world has turned a year younger today.
And our regressive lifestyles continue to mature
Into a plastic dollhouse of subtle nothingness.
I’ve done my part today.

The walking talking text books of this world
Constantly tell me that I’m uneducated.
They think that their memorization of words
From works of literature and art passed down like acid rain
Spell the meaning of life.
They think that their interpretation of the shit sandwich
That each of us are forced to taste from our history books
At the earliest possible stage of development
Makes them profound.
Prolific.
Artistic or brilliant.
But words only categorize things.
They separate that shit sandwich from the hamburger.
Knowledge isn’t arranged by little plastic building blocks
Nor is it derived from a series of words.
It is not pulled from thy rectum via verbal masturbation.
KNOW is the answer given when your yanked from your placenta
And LEDGE is the one jumped off when one finally realizes
That every redeeming quality of life is accounted for
By a taste of that nasty shit sandwich that awaits you
At the end of your pathetic existence.
Of which every one else constantly
Kicks their clumsy feet around inside
Looking for their own answers,
Tying to find their own narrow paths.
Goodnight.

Dear Tomorrow,
I’ve re-opened my eyes today.
I took another look at the world in front of me.
Walked around a supermarket.
Observed the useless objects,
And the regressive lifestyles that surrounded me.
I saw a frown for every autumn leaf to fall that day.
Frustration within me feeds off every face I see.

I need to take a course in anger establishment
I need to grow some balls.
I went looking for my voice.
Where in the hell, did my vocabulary go?
I stare and think of nothing.
And everything.
And of a reason why.
And why not.
Should I, and when?

Dear Yesterday,
I’m fucking sick and tired
Of breast feeding the lethargic imaginations
Of the analyst types.
Things only make sense to those idiots in numbers
And I have only a facility for one through five.
The great weight of my pen
Prohibits my shackled hands
From spreading my misery too far thin
Unto others.
A fork lift couldn’t lift my pen today.
An earthquake couldn’t shake me awake
From today’s police state.

So I’m taking my sarcasm out on a selfless teenager.
Filled with angst derived from the same nothingness
That concerns a bored and lonely grandmother.
And soars the face of a retired councilman.

It helps me thumb through my cook book
Of insanity kept in a compilation of free verse.
And take a shit that plagued my intestines for 2.1 decades
And it allows me to take the trash to the curb of my outré’ yard
Of every fucking superficiality that has ever crossed my sick twisted mind.

My candid alternative
Only visits me momentarily
Between the intervals on my wall clock
Never once allowing me to borrow
More than a brief,
….grotesque
And tasteless analogy
That no one will understand
Then it wanders without direction
Eventually descending from my mouth
….Unwarranted.
And so my words seek adrift
As if unspoken
They die in the only two plausible ears left to remain
And in a conversation that I carry on,
With only myself.
Good day to you.

And just what in the hell
Do all these insipid paper back authors
Have to ramble on about?
Fiction is for tearoom dwellers and the unimaginative.
No.
I am not making a statement that would diminish my ethos.
Or flourish my logos
Or desecrate my pathos
I’m mopping up your polluted, carbon copy ingenuity.
And I’m wringing it out
On the saturated towel of the archetypal e-jack bullshit,
That you’ve just spent 4 years studying for to obtain a degree.
While I’m practicing cartwheels,
In the spacious right side of your brain.
I’m dancing on the pages of your echoing rheumatic subject matters
And listening for the voices inside
That are telling me to throw away my notebook.
And cut the cord on my computer.
Voices that are telling me to go fuck myself.
Buy a six pack of beer.
And go bug someone else.
Preferably a television or a jump roping six year old.

Perhaps only terrorists
Perverted janitors
Retired politicians
Senile inventors
Imprisoned rock stars
Inner city addicts
Maternal scapegoats
Distinguished street grease
And corrupt saviors
Write like I do.

A constant struggle.
Which words to be left unwritten
And which to be left unsaid.

Today is just another day.
Every single, fucking day.

MBE 12/22/03