Parallax

Oh sweet merciful god of the internet, what have you brought me?

o o o o (125)
shakespeare rag is smartness.
im in teh street, walkens.
im in ur schedule,
measuring out ur life in teh coffee spoonz.

The LOLcat Wasteland

I'm in love. Everyone in the NHL has blue eyes. 'Specially whatsisface from Detroit. Holmstrom. Piercing blue. Detroit, you never do me wrong. Dave's new TV is 56 inches wide and it looks like a giant photograph. I don't really pay attention to the latest and newest toys that need electricity, and you know if given the choice I'd get gadgets that involve wood and vacuum tubes, but damn if that isn't a sweet thing to watch the hockey on. We also had abstract animal crackers. Non-representational quadrupeds.

Indi: "And this is a... sheep?"
Dave: "You thought the last one was a sheep."
Indi: "I thought the last one was a deer."
Dave: "What's the difference? They all look the same anyway."
Indi: "Impressionistic circus animals. I want to know what I'm eating before I eat it."
Dave: "You're eating a cookie."

After that we of course got to discussing the people we both knew Way Back When, and I learned that if you use enough education at it, you can make sixty-five grand a year being a preacher. We're not the right people to discuss this, because we stop with sheer bafflement. That's not important! That's like paying a street mime! Must be nice to believe in something. I sure as hell don't anymore.

If I was even slightly poetically inclined I could tell you something more about all of this: six pages of notes and the smell of a new plan, the velvet on my dog's head, the sand-covered abalone shell I couldn't take home because it was on the wrong side of a fence. This weird political hopefulness that I don't want to give a home to in case it's wrong. (So many thoughts I don't want to give a home to.) The knife-edge of stress and fear everyone seems balanced on and I don't know why, not well enough to help.

Why are we all so scared that Obama's days will be numbered if he winds up in the White House?

(Why am I afraid of my own shadow?)

Change, a change is gonna come, those very words once left me numb
I'll weigh myself when I get home, you can wrap your legs around these bones
Rise, rise, you broken children, rise

Dreamed last night that I had some poetry I'd written tattooed on my back by a friendly and slightly mad bleach-blonde chick with huge stompy boots. The tatshop she ran looked like a 1950's motel, and featured large, lush fishtanks.

Having any poetry of mine tattooed anywhere on my person is a very bad idea, since I am not a poet. But now I am thinking of Prufrock and ink-coated needles...