Sep 21, 2021, 05:57AM

Blee Blah Blub

Shout out to the people who have nothing to say.

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Nobody else here but me, myself and I. Three’s a crowd. I was talking to myself again. You think you've got problems? You should see the other guy. He made mincemeat out of them. Nutty as a fruitcake. Shout out to the people who have nothing to say. Everybody's all talking at once. I don't give a flying woohoo what kind of life you live, where you're at, or places you frequent. Now blee blah blub hoppity hop, and a rub a dub dub.

Watch me. You got it. Let's get on with it, shall we? Right now! I got some awful news, and I thought you'd like to know it's all gobbledygook. You too are gone tomorrow, here today, like some freakish circus that just skipped town in the dead of night. God don't play that tune. So what's the big skinny on all this tawdry rigamarole? Too many questions, so few answers. It must be true because I saw you on TV. Have you heard the good news? He has risen to the occasion.

This rubble is hard to wade through. Blood rains down. Shit floats hopeful. Tears flow freely. It's ruining my shoes, wading through all this crud. The rabble-rousers are not very good rebels. When does the show start? I must've missed it. Dry martinis. The juice is running down my legs. If you have something to speak, spit it out. I can't hear you. That malarkey is hard to swallow. I was addressing an audience of one, possibly two. I've reinvented myself so many times, I forget who's who. I have my fingers in my earholes, and I'm making a repetitive noise with my mouth. I'm right here alone with my thoughts. You're here too, I reckon. My hand is on the pulse of this still-beating heart. I've got words left, some never used. They're sitting on the shelf in my sawdust brainpan. Never saw the light of a blank page. It comes out of thin air. It goes out into the ether. I was floating around, bobbing like a message in a bottle. When printed matter truly mattered.

There are other obscure words with esoteric meanings we keep hidden away in a bottom drawer where they hide the XXX-rated magazines, under the kitchen sink, near the plunger and rubber gloves. It's a dirty job, but somebody blew it. What are these things that hold such mysterious meanings? They serve no practical purpose in real life. I’m trying to convey half-assed ideas. So misunderstood, I can't stand it anymore. Is there anything more useless than words? Even poetry leaves a hollow sound. Out of control, off the hook.

A time capsule of useless info buried deep in the egg noggin. Easy to fail, hard to recollect. Receive unnecessary sanctimonious floggings sledding downhill on your sleigh without a snowball's chance in hell. Spit in the sun's eyeballs. I recall a time and place of insignificance. The timid shrinking violets suffering the vapors who faint at the drop of a pin in a haystack or millions of pennies for thoughtlessness. A blushing cherub with hotsy-totsy ants in the pants. You get the gist. The moon up above. This thing is called love. That kind of hyperbole in a vacuum. It leaves you spinning.

Where is it? How do you get it, and where does it run off to when the show's over? So many idiotic questions to mull over. A big finish, take a bow, exit stage left. Would you please wait until intermission for nature's call? So pick up sticks, throw down the gauntlet. Make those Lincoln logs. Keep your nose clean and follow no rules. Wipe your butt. The nose always knows, an odor, most foul. A simple line cubed, squared, round like a circle, drawn, and quartered. A road atlas of my skin. I watch this vessel slowly empty. The contents of my shrine. A tooth here and there, thinning hair, eyesight diminished, the folds in my temple of doom. I can’t hear the clarion call. As the flesh dries up, it withers and blows around the missing world in the breeze of my anonymity. My invisible presence only exceeds my obscurity. I've always been right here waiting for you. 


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