Man, that guy was just giving a Dirty Sanchez to the Mona Lisa. That’s fronting on a level that’s like way too specious to even begin to like go barking about, at least with the cred and essentials I’m given here, like this, well, you know. God’s playing hooky. Here’s a lopsided set of surroundings that replaces the usual. It’s like equating killing household bugs with homicide, or mass murder for that matter, and it’s things we don’t like thinking about, you know, tiny lives like that. They don’t mean anything to us. Just another squash mark on the wall, a spot of blood on the palm. Holy lord, fixtures in the environment look better, stiller I mean, when fanned with the so-called Winds Of Same. This guy, well he gets nervous, you see? Like without-an-appetite nervous, and this hankering comes along to do good; so this guy makes it his like whole bounty, at the current time, to, at least to all appearances, give something good back to the world he’d swiped so much from. Taking was getting to him. It cramped him, made him feel cornered and unsafe, and he’d get to guitaring with his mouth, almost motorboat-like, and, well, you just had to will it all away, really. It was like ecdysis or something-- only a shedding of layers of personality. And he’s the one carving bad words into glass panels with diamonds? Shit. Sure, something stinks, but it ain’t ruled straight. Even dance halls hold more secrets than....but that only fathers Not Much and Just Barely. Man, that guy? You hear me talking? Well, that guy, he does his best to do good unto others and all that smegma, but it doesn’t get him far enough. He can’t hold his cards so they face just him, you know? It’s holding out and it’s not. Badly aligned or mismanaged constellations of ideas. There’s no telling where he slept at night, or if he even did. Nobody was going to go decapitating him over it or anything, but it still kept this here hunk of crud up at night. Valium doesn’t always cut it. Sometimes you go around just dowsing your sorrows a bit instead of drowning them, spend too much time inside, waiting, trying to get good at doing nothing. Hell, there’ll always be more laundry to do and dishes to wash. We spend too much time between things. But, man, that guy was going at it all wrong, and I won’t be one to shut up about it. Get me stumping and, well, it’ll just never do. That’s all. I’ll barnstorm until the cows come home. It’s a no-win cause. Shit. Some people get pissed off at some small thing that gets done to them, and they stay that way their whole lives, and it’s really miserable, if you ask this chunk of change about it. All this do-gooder foppery is just causing a cathexis, and things build, all that holding inside or whatever you want to call it, well, it balloons, it fills the volcano of you until the top smokes, you know, steam headed, blowing your top, that sort of thing, and then it’s double-bogeying until the cows of your past line up of their own that-there volition to be slaughtered. That’s rough stuff. Don’t I know it. Bust me out of this here cage and I’ll just find another one to trap myself inside of. The real hurt of it, all this guy’s do-gooding that is, was that he was doing it all for his own satisfaction. And, well, go shit in a paint can and call it a fresh coat, that’s not really giving in a way that’s more self-less than selfish, is it? He’s really just looking out for bad old numero uno. That’s what his concern is, there, in that ordered scheme of events. In the end though, is doing good always better than doing, well, bad? I mean, you take a little something, you give something else, and maybe you end up richer for it…or, well, then maybe poorer too, in the end. That’s what gets pinned to your tail after so much “trying” and such. It’s like chopping an onion to get the waterworks going. I’m more likely to shoot myself in the toe if I’m aiming away from others, you know? Maybe that’s a mincing touch on a result-ended gather, but we’re cheap in our expenditures of timely frustration, more than sometimes. Very compact, this guy, in his themes. I could throw a dart with my eyes closed and snag at least a folded corner of the notepaper of his results, well, if he’d kept notes on things as such. Monumental? It’s pawnshopping. That’s the news from the front. He’s got pull though, and when there’s a strength, not that I’m that forgiving or anything, there seems to be more than an uplifting of personal gain at stake. Why can’t I get back to the ocean? Why can’t I get pulled away with the tide? It all stems from some boring self-defeating streak that wins over the humbler and more realistic aspects of your appearance. Doing this or that for appearances only. That’s a loser’s claim at pyrite. Well, well. There’s a little more than sidewalk etiquette involved here, and once in a paper moon you see some guy putting a cigarette out on the armrest of his wheelchair, and then maybe you think to yourself, ‘That couldn’t be me, could it?’ Willing it so, with a headful of cork, you get to paddling in the rapids of the life you’ve suddenly been dumped into living. This guy was never one to go in for something as treacherous as all that though. He could’ve knocked off early after littering the neighborhood with save-the-earth type fliers all afternoon, but this guy didn’t think “quit” should apply to him, or, more importantly, didn’t want it to seem as if he did. It was all about how he was perceived. That which should’ve mattered least in this particular instance came to be what mattered most. But I’m just a hack looking for attention. Who isn’t sometimes? So now, well, everywhere I go the dogs bark at me, and I can’t seem to get a good shave. My will’s shot full of holes. Nobody’ll ever go around making these days up to me. That guy wasn’t up to nothing but no good. And that’s all you need to know about that. The only reason that we’re alive, besides to breed and carry on our species, is to get along in a society, to be social, to be a part of others’ lives and have them be a part of ours. That’s the creek’s-dry meaning of life. If we were seagulls it’d be different, or ants. But we’re not. Like it or piss all over it, we’re humans. And being human we’ve got to find a way to exist with other humans as best we can. There’s really no other reason for us being alive. Those who tend to dwell in solitude are really just living for themselves, performing a sort of escape act from life, from what they should be doing as a social animal: existing and, in some way, communicating with, or to, others. Shit nuggets. What else is there? Well, well. And the world keeps turning. Days blacken to nights and light back to days again, over and over and then some, while we hobble around and mope in the junkyards of our past. It’s nothing. Forget it. Go out into the world and live.
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