(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.