Tales From Earth:Ramblerhymes I and II
A work from the compilation Tales From Earth.
I’ll talk about this and that, like a Fireside Chat, with Roosevelt in the 1930's. Are your shoes dirty? Then wipe them on the doormat. It is 'cause you're sore that your format was broken like the hearts of hobos in Hoboken? Well, I'd take that statement back but it's already been spoken. I need tokens for the subway fare to reach the daycare and lay there until they stare at me with funny looks before throwing cookbooks and encyclopedias at my head to inflict brain damage like the modern media! Or is it that Liz lit a fire for a funeral pyre for your self-respect? Or do your finances do numerical digit dances because your taxes and bank balance faxes weren’t double-checked? Incessant prattle like baby rattles damage eardrums, but drunkards drink beer, rum, and martinis until they can't see me because their heads are in the loo. I may be quite silly and speak with words written willy-nilly, but I'm smarter than you! And so is your pet goldfish, which made a bold wish for a cold dish of fish sticks! Is it a cannibal like Hannibal with gills and fins? In that Hell-sent event, nobody wins. But the winner is only the worst as losing. Would that be twice as bad, or am I just being confusing? Well, I know I'm being absurd with bird-turd quality word combos. Care to mambo? Or foxtrot, perhaps, over sad saps that have fallen astray, and now spend all day staring at a screen or an ashtray. Those folks, I suppose, have lungs filled with sludge darker than German double fudge smudged on a pudgy boy's mouth. I'll migrate south to avoid stumbling into the moral void created caused by society's crumbling. Or is it that I'm just mumbling? Well, I know I am tumbling and doing logical back flips and sinking battleships and messing with minds like bad acid trips on LSD, which makes everything groovy. Now, drugs are bad, like the Devil, but he’s on a different level or plateau, and Dr. Moreau’s freakish creatures are to be featured in the next big blockbuster Hollywood horror movie. And once the credits roll, all your happy friends will watch the sappy end to their favorite high-rated drama show. The main character had heart trauma, no? Either way, I'll change channels and traipse through the annals of human thought and frown upon them like a pack of apes with all the pointless worldly possessions they bought in feeble attempts on the happiness they sought. Of course, now they're caught up in the disturbing truths I brought up, so I'll get a running start on the gunning part of the expected village mob. I enjoy being wise to fools whose eyes are tools to the business guys' master plans to mine jewels. But, hey, it's my job.
I consider these rants to be somewhere between 50’s beatnik poetry slams, 80’s old-school party jams, and vaudeville slap-happy stage hams. But good comedy is a dead art, sunken in time like the lead part from an ancient machine, like a lock from a cage crafted in the Iron Age and hammered into shape with rocks. Like parrots, many people talk and squawk without knowing where the conversation’s going, hopeless of finding a self-concocted opinion like a lifeboat rowing through the Sea of Japan. But, man, it can become a dull time fearing Orwellian thoughtcrime and bearing through intellectual lulls. Like that man mulls it over before acting on an impulsive whim! And he convulses at the thought of abstract things too complex for him. He can try to comprehend it, or light it aflame. To the wise, it’s atrocious, but to him it either depends or it’s really all the same. Because he doesn’t want a universal truth that could cause pain like a cavity-cracked tooth; he wants a sugary lie that can soothe and explain. The opiate of the masses is the dentist’s Novocain! Talking in imperfect circles until lack of air makes my skin purple, almost like suffocating from a face full of back hair. I'm not going back there, back where black stares penetrate your essence, unless you don't exist like an invisible presence. I got presents for Christmas until I converted, after which all the local nuns were alerted to my change in faith. In righteous fury, they hunted me down like Tolkien's ring wraiths. Meanwhile in Middle Earth, the middlemen argued over the worth of potions made of clover and myrrh. My girlfriend asked for a bottle, but I have a notion the exchange rates will seal the fate that I won't get any for her. So, instead, I'll wrap her in furs and the finest mink stoles that I stole 'cause I'm a fink, but that's fine, 'cause they're crap. Is this bad freeform poetry, or a bad freestyle rap? If it's a rap, then it's outdated, overrated, emaciated pap, which deserves a well-weighted bitchslap; but if it's a poem, then the audience can go ahead and clap. Why, you ask? Because poetry is a complex task without a definite goal, where sheer density of concept can create ideological diamonds from coal. Or maybe it is just nonsense that I'm doling out while strolling about the town square in just long john underwear. Should I care? Of course not, self, it’s not like anyone is there! I mean, nobody's looking while I'm cooking a fragile word soufflé that could rupture and deflate any day. Or maybe it would pop and explode like Pop Rocks and Coke simultaneously in the same belly. If the myth were not true, then would somebody tell me? Well, be on your way, for this fine day grows finer like the aging of French wine, Chateau Beloux, 1944, Calais. An excellent year, worth shedding a tear, for the travesties of man were found incredibly near those wineries so dear with the evil mastermind in a bunker, underground. Most look back and reflect, while others, not a sound. Could it be an irrational fear of revelations profound, or a national cheer for silence and lack of exclamation? The sad thing is, since you're such a technical wiz, if you wince at these proclamations, you can just change the station.