sometimes you hafta

sometimes you just hafta to say what the fuck, and when you get done getting mad at everyone else around you, you turn around and see what it is you got spinning on the karma wheel and somehow somehow somehow begin to get the joke that is your life, when compared to the ideal image you formed of it when your were ten years old.

so you're one of these thousands of creative souls who decided to believe the hype about the pursuit of happiness and in the meantime took odd jobs and grabbed hold of bits and ends of the roots of the tree of life or even quite luckily saw the great sweet million-colored blossom way up there in the canopy and began the climb and after exhaustion and a million scratches reached up and looked in and there in the petal cup was a pool of dried sap and all these dead scraggy bees and flies, and all the nectar gone baby gone.

and when you realize you have this kind of woodsman dimension to yourself but you're not very handy with the saw or bow and that you're far too inattentive to the here and now to ever make devoted love offerings to the various gorgeous kind women who love you in ways that say to you both stay near and here i lay out sweet decades of surety and security, except for the fact that your watusi and merengue are good enough for a few passes across the ballroom parquet but there's this little tremble in your step and you seem exhausted these days straight from the getgo, i mean, really, brother.

the former landlady won't release the deposit and the cheapest place to live looks good but puts you way out in the suburbs and nobody reminds you of anybody you used to know, and you have to learn your own language all over again plus two or three others that you know nothing about, and everyone's asking "are you a city person?" and "are you a city person?" and you try to say "yes yes of course" even though you feel like a sailboat out on wide sargasso seas of just you, a seagull, a sunset, a porpoise and a bit of kelp, well, then you think about what a good time it would be to have just a fifth of whiskey and some easy horny women with come hither manners in a relatively free loving zone for a day or two at least.

and your most beloved beloved one won't let you make big dinners for her anymore and you want to hold her close in the thunderstorm and see what she had to say about the fog-shrouded mega-opolis blinking a mile from a fifth-story roof where you're holding hands and you can hear her heart beating fast in sweet expectation and you just said the most amazing words of devotion, but then you get hit with this sharp-toothed "you're smothering me" childhood hangup overdrive that makes you wish you were a merman and had a secret underwater hangout with cool glow-globes and every time you wanted you could just jump in any body of water or toilet and swim there, where all the rest of your friendly sea-monster family and friends were waiting with delicious mango-juices and nothing but funny jokes and everybody just tickling each other's ribs.

But no, there's this drag of time and you sense yourself instead of a light easygoing child of intricate and hilarious diversion a poor struggling poet with a bit of a chip on his shoulder and lowest common denominator expectations because even you yourself had let people down, and then they, the people you loved, let you down, and then you realized nobody was as strong as you thought they were, and it makes it harder to trust and love someone unconditionally, but you were even on top of that supposed to, like, atone for all their crimes as well as your own, you said: WOAH, what is this? and perhaps just want to hum a single syllable for three days as a way of making sure something would persist and stop for just a few restorative minutes to give you a breathing space instead of the constant wailing deafening stereo music weapons or even actual weapons, and you stop wondering what they seem to be fighting over because they simply just like to fight and it fits the weird evolutionary jinx they want to fantasize about and gives them something to be proud of since all the good seats have been mooched. OUCH, you say, and then they say "well, just get used to it" so that something positive comes of it anyway, maybe. and even though they aren't always worth trusting you just love 'em though from a sort of window seat and not fully up close enough to get the full smell of it, life and sweat, and they're just as likely to turn their backs on you as surprise you with sweet attention and loving cupcake devotion after all.

AH HUM.