Monday, March 01, 2010

Muskrat Love

I have this gnawing suspicion that I am not living my own life. Like maybe I accidentally spliced the tape of my internal soundtrack to a copy of America's Greatest Hits and I'm walking around singing about a horse with no name and Ventura Hwy even though I hate those songs and they aren't even in my key but they stick in my head forever. In my dreams lately, I'm the only one who realizes those people gathering on the sidewalk are actually flesh-eating zombies and the Program Director insists that I bring them in for an appointment right away because they are just a little psychotic. Somehow he doesn't notice them spitting out fingernails and eyelashes. Meanwhile, my supervisor is giving away the last water in the county to these zombies who really are just waiting to snap her neck and chew on her brains and Oz never did give nothing to the Tin Man that he didn't already have and there isn't even a power button on the goddamned sound system. It just gets louder and I'm almost grateful when a crackhead knocks me down and starts repeatedly stomping on my face.

And I'm working on a graduate degree in this discipline and you really can't even think about a career shift during a recession with a kid about to go off to college. So just keep kicking me in the face, crackhead, just keep kicking. Sooner or later I'll either pass out or remember another melody and then I will sing all of the notes to some sick acid rock guitar solo in a perfectly pitched wail and it will drown out all of the Sister Golden Hairs who will hold their bleeding eardrums and slip on all of the shit leaking out of their state-of-the-art septic tanks and I will not document how many days the tank has been leaking and I will not pull the records of the purchase date and I will not write down that their eardrums are bleeding nor the causality and I will not fax a picture of the event to the FDA within 24 hours. I will just laugh and scratch out all of the band America's lyrics with a leaky, puddly pen and I will never, ever initial and date those blobs of ink. I will just laugh and sing all of the acid guitar solos that used to accompany my dreams and also all of the original Tom & Jerry soundtracks louder and louder and louder until we all finally admit that life is just one great, big fat Heisenberg Uncertainty Principle -- or maybe a Quantum theory of observation -- and if we don't wise up, it's going to seem like the flesh-eating zombies are eating our brains but we still have to get up at 5:55 a.m. and go to work and think about the best way to identify an error correct or how to keep that crackhead clean once he's kicked it.

7 comments:

Pelmo said...

I'm not eating at McDonalds anymore.
Or is is I'm not going to be eaten at McDonalds.

La Sirena said...

I'm glad, because obviously, R.McD is a flesh-eating zombie. Why else would he wear all of that make-up?

changapeluda said...

at least Jaed. planted
"I've got a Tiger by the tail"

in the busdriver's head today!

cracky buckarooo!

and YAY for you Mama w/the kid off to college!!

Indigobusiness said...

puddly

Ed Pilolla said...

there are peaks and valleys in this world, and i admire your ability and willingness to write about dem valleys.

Holodeck said...

Holy Smokes!! you have the most beautifully poetic mind. I love the way you write. The imagery flashing through your head must be alternating between frightening and beautiful beyond words. If you cry at terror and cry at beauty, the tear ducts of your mind must be flowing like torrential rivers of passion.

I continue to monitor your art in hopes for the secret to life, I know it is in there somewhere.

La Sirena said...

Sometimes you have to trudge through the puddly valley for awhile before you get to ascend.

Thanks all, for listening.