10.27.2011

What Would the Lizard King Say Of Your Bass

If faces come out of the rain when you're strange then one can assume it gets worse with the snow. Maybe the bodies follow. The weather's as unpredictable as the events of these last several weeks. What overpaid, televised guestimators refer to as a "wintry mix" falls tonight a few calendar days before Halloween. The Doors play on my stomach-perched laptop as I lay in bed lazily since the internet connection's down and my CDs are in the truck I can barely afford. Maybe the precipitation will wash the birdshit from its otherwise clean exterior. It took me a week, but the dishes have been conquered and vanquished from the sink. I used to be a stickler for timely, efficient housekeeping. Now that I'm the only witness to my sinful filth it's hard to motivate myself to stay on top of anything other than my bed. Even that's not truly mine; she made me leave my mattress at the old place when we moved here a few months ago. Women seem wicked when you're unwanted; beds are taken for granted until they're repossessed. Now I'm wondering if she'll take this one, hers, when she comes with her mother on Sunday to get the rest of her things. The boxspring and frame are mine. Perhaps some pine boughs will cap them nicely; a bit of a rustic touch to contradict the industrial look of the brick and exposed pipes. How ironic, and therefore hip. That's the name of the game in this trendy town crawling with trust-fund kids. Faces look ugly whether you're alone or in groups. Angsty children piss in the streets of the nation's major cities for the sake of having a cause, ignoring the cue from uninvolved local citizens and small business owners that their welcome's been worn out and it may be time for a different tactic, and the Man's to blame again for speaking up in part for another portion of that already redundant percentage which I won't cite here. Streets may be uneven when you're down, but it's hard to notice through the teargas. The home movies don't lie; neither does the internet. We're headed for revolution with no leaders in sight other than the funnier talking heads who impart their biased knowledge to the Text Message Generation via sarcastic satire. All of this, like snowfall in October, we're expected to accept. Jim Morrison's right: Strange days have found us and no one remembers your name.

Currently reading:
"Rabbit Remembered" by John Updike.

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