(Music is Recompense, Airplanes take down)
If I haven’t been writing much it’s because I’ve been scrawling an essay.
If I don’t write it’s because I’m writing.
If not, then I’m dying.
These are the frenetic axioms of my starship enterprise,
of my fucking life.
Put that on a t-shirt and leave me be, I need
time each morning with a soundtrack and a
few rehearsed scenes.
Sometimes I do a yuk yuks rehearsal of the great highlights
of my manic youth.
Other times just play Free Bird and belt it out,
sometimes sit and listen to Righteous Brothers on repeat
until all I can picture are the millions of crimes being committed on
people, across the globe, all the time,
in garages and basements, in broad
daylight, to Beethoven and ICP, at sporting events in the stomach,
the back side in prisons, all the rampant fuck on fuck-you action
that is this existence. Then I laugh.
I know it sounds sadistic but I think I’m just coping;
With having been raised getting lost amidst
the bar stools of Cheers and laughing with its live,
studio audience.
Falling in tv-love with Diane, my first experience with
an artsy type. And Ms. Howe.
People are so mean to Kirsty Alley. Assholes.
When I was 12 I wrote a short story about a virtuous lover
of the show who rebuilt the set and kidnapped the cast,
keeping the drinks and laughs going on some underground network.
I was coping with the series finale I guess. Parents divorced.
But who gives a shit the important thing is,
I was writing then,
and I still am now.
We’re all pills, breaking up in the systems stomach like
so much teenage pop music, soothing the acceptance rate of
young workers to the reality they will just be another one,
swallowed whole, in the end.
Cheers, motherfuckers.
Enjoy the show.
