I fell into a Deep Deep Well

As that man in black with the voice of a God sang, "I fell into a burning ring of fire". Just that it wasn't a ring of fire so much as a deep deep well, with the same intensity though. It's happened before and I had hit myself hard against the rough dry cruel base of the well so as to shake up my gray matter. I even knew that this well (in Ms. Robinson's backyard) was dry and not even that deep beforehand, meaning the impact would be soon and hard. And yet, I jumped in, just to see if I could pump out some water while I was falling, with my Wifi charm, just enough to shield the fall. Aah, if only supposed ebullience could cut through the ever-protective earth.

Denial avoids me like the plague as I lie among the remains of my gray matter in a mess, meaning I have far from retired from the subconscious vocation of our generation - the excavation for the elixir of life. Tell me is it possible to rise through wells? Possibly, in a matrix free from expectations and ambitions and gravity. Huh, wells, you say? Shit, the pseudo-intellectual feminists would be screaming for my nuts, after this. Castration - that defeatist weapon in the hands of the superficially weak. I wonder if the word stems from that Cuban dude. I would be very pissed if it does. Meaning the US is a feminist state? F@#&ing paranoid public opinion, I tell you.

Aah, it all makes perfect sense, no? A response in a typical hangover from the times when that little man was marching up and down that big country across the Atlantic with the flag of his fatherland flying like the wavy blond hair on the head of a true Aryan. Chauvinists and their infatuation with homosexuality! I mean what's the big deal? I obviously see the pseudo-intellectual charm of it all, but to name a band of long haired tenors to appeal to the younger superficial generation taking to ugly jeans and white sneakers; that's very shameful, even for pseudo-intellectuals.

Lime Green Nails

Sunshine on lime green nails

Tapping against steely untuned strings,

Singing of sad sad tales

And of false hope they bring.

Vibrations of dark dark wood

And questions blowing about.

Rich smoke maintains the mood

That the answers would never be out.

More street corners and more nails

Red, blue, yellow, magenta

Asking about dead dead quails

About changing the agenda.

But the man is color blind

And supposedly very very deaf

As more mothers lose their mind

Wallowing in emotional troughs.

4/4/2008