Where there is no sadness I wonder. . . . . .
“Smothered in the arms of an aunt whose connection to me is vague. Is she my mother’s sister? Is she my father’s? She seems to know me. I have a hesitant moment in the arms enfolding me, telling me that things will be okay, that is was for the best.”
How can non- life be for the best? Isn’t life what it’s all about? Not just mine or individually but in the whole scheme of things? We’re told that the universe is expanding. That it will eventually turn its cold shoulder on us and coast to a stop. Devolving, becoming less and less complex while life, rising to levels of incredible complexity, a counterpart to the cosmic death spiral. In the end, when all is dark, cold, not a distant memory anymore because there is no one or no thing to remember. . . . . .
If no one is around do the falling tears of angels make a sound?
Dragon flies don’t breath fire, little men with big egos do. The expiration date is meaningless. Standup comics should sit down and shut up. Keeping the unicorns off grass seems to be more important than fact checking who killed Ben Gazi. The generators of conspiracies fuel up with half -truths from yesterday’s garbage. We all know that the CIA uses diminutive genetically engineered ponies with a single spiral horn to assassinate our dreams. Freddy Flintstone and Fred Kruger have the same mind set, the same IQ and the same socially insecure number. The left hand doesn’t give a shit what the right hand knows. Space aliens capable of interstellar flight never seem to opt in for roadside
assistance. Their insurance policy excludes coverage in near earth orbit. My god can beat up your god. Heck my little sister can too. If you can’t follow me then why are you close enough to read this bumper sticker?
A hundred buildings
A thousand corridors
Ten thousand unknowns walking towards an uncertain purpose.
Looking for validation, who if they were to be honest (so few are)
are emotional invalids with no rehab insurance.
So many unknowns, so many corridors,
Pacing, walking, running into dead ends.
Doubling back— climbing ladders, slamming their heads
Into invisible glass ceilings where the Chosen look down,
Snicker then go back to discussing mergers, the plight of the poor,
Holding solo cups filled with wine or champagne,
Disguised to resemble wine glasses or brute flutes.
Two Buck Chuck is a folk hero in the corridors.
The masses of unknowns toil in upward mobility and
just as rapidly filter back towards the bottom rung of the ladder to nowhere.
They genuflect in yoga poses and deposit their blood, sweat,
Tears and other bodily fluids as sacrifice on the altar of success.
Disciples of self-esteem claim that success is a state of mind.
A state with no leadership, lacking in resources, bankrupt,
Its boarders defended by assumptions,
Presumptions, and conspicuous consumption.
The faithful disciples hold monthly meetings dedicated to past and future
Inductees into the hallowed ranks of the Honorable Mention.
They pride themselves in their lofty status —
A rung above the Also rans –
Who hold fast — clinging to trophies emblazoned with “ Participant”.
No Name, no date.
No effort, no doubt.
The unknowns in the corridors
Those who own the corridors
All seem to forget that no one gets out alive.
That life is a sexually transmitted disease that is 100% fatal.