I Wanna Lick Everywhere You'll Let Me.
I wanna lick everywhere you'll let me.
More Posts from Mistahsojourner and Others
I don’t like hearing Trump.
I don’t like looking at the fat orange fucker either.
What Happens
What happens is the machine
goes through us
too damn quick
til we got nothin’ but fun size Milky Way wrappers
in a Halloween treat bag.
-
What happens is sometimes you find yourself ponderin’ what hell is.
It’s geographic region.
The shit that goes down there.
Always in the same ZIP code you’re in.
It’s Monday eternally.
That deep, polar bear cold you feel all over your body
never quits
and everything you got to do to eat that day
is gonna kill you.
-
What happens is sometimes you live
and you’re happy enough to (almost) thank god.
Your walk has swagger to it.
Maybe the air that slowly kills you tastes sweeter.
You think maybe it’ll all be okay
till it all wears off like a crack hit.
-
What happens is life.
At 11 AM, the pledge will be recited
Call the number on your screen to report
anybody who ain’t sufficiently excited
about being free to do what the fuck we tell you
while the red, white and the blue
fly above
and burst your hearts with love
God, guts and glory
goes the story
of a nation that kicked ass and looked good doin’ it
Light from the Lord God spread to the world
by us
Evil and darkness flee
Get your WWIII commemorative pin today
to trigger the snowflakes and the pussies
on your way to church
to hear the padre preach about how Jesus woulda dimed his neighbors out to ICE
cuz it’s the law
If there was anything that Jesus was about, it was the law.
Bless the nightsticks and the guns
Bless the kevlar and the riot shields
Bless the blood in the streets and bless that liquor to forget all that shit
or to get nutted up to lie under oath about it
or to just live here
in the land of the free, the home of the brave
one nation
that got the goods on all of us
On a summer night in mid-July
the asphalt cools from the day’s baking
and a man recovers from a day that ends in y.
Legs crossed on the floor like when he was a kid
Window is ajar and the breeze is sweet mercy.
Mercy hard to come by
even in mid-July
if you live long enough.
Thursday
I sit down at my desk, open a Word document and start typing away. Nothing like inspiration has hit me. No burning bush. No getting struck blind with the truth while hearing the voice of God. The office is quiet. I’ve said my good morning to the office manager as is always my custom. She’s a sweet lady.
It occurs to me that what I’m doing here is writing just to get something down. It really doesn’t matter if it’s complete garbage or not. Just do it. Nike that shit.
I sip from my second cup of coffee today. I have one cup of coffee at home, another when I get to work and some decaf in the afternoon while I’m just coasting through the second half of the day (hopefully).
I’ve worn a collared shirt and khakis every single day that I’ve been employed here. I could probably get away with dressing a bit more relaxed but I don’t. Even though I’ve developed quite the disdain and skepticism for authority, I still tend to follow rules. I try to look as respectable as I can even though the idea that someone is respectable due to wearing a collared shirt is almost unspeakably stupid. Maybe I manage to completely undermine my air of respectability by wearing my collared shirts untucked though. I mean, I used to tuck them in but they kept coming untucked so I just wear them untucked.
I’ve been in this habit recently where I sit down at my desk at work and begin writing. I do it “now” instead of waiting until I get home because mostly I fear that I’m not going to have much in the way of motivation when I get home. What I’m aware of when I’m sitting in the office writing is that when I’m doing that, I’ve got the vibe of the office going on. I believe when I’m engaging in this exercise in the office, my mindset is that of the office. There is reservation in my words. I keep myself from going to certain places inside myself because of where I am. Things be calm at the moment, ya dig? Any moment though, that serenity gonna get murdered by a member of the professional managerial class. I’m always thinking about getting interrupted.
Don’t ask me what’s with that 1950s hipster language or whatever that is. I couldn’t tell you.
This feels cliche because the late comedian Bill Hicks tends to be an influence on insufferable artistically-minded types of a certain age. I meet people and I feel like I can sense people who the man spoke to.
This is one of my favorite bits of Hicks. This spoke to me even when my mind and my world were much smaller.
What the fuck do I call this?
If you know where the dream ends, you’re being watched.
If you can find the seams, the stuff you jerk off to that you don’t tell anyone about is being written down by a government agent who is slowly falling in love with you.
You make the nipples of their soul hard enough to cut diamonds.
I clear my throat, “Look. This is bullshit. See, the beginning of wisdom is being able to tell where the dream ends while at higher frequencies. If you can do that, shit will be less scary.”
See. There were moments here. Undeniably. Some of it was bullshit. Maybe most of it was bullshit but some of it was not a dream. Sometimes I heard right. Sometimes I heard just right.
That song I know. That I heard somewhere. One time.
Yo man. I don’t know how I feel about that song thing, man.
This is garbage, isn’t it?
Maybe. There were moments though.
There were moments you thought I kinda had it.
Maybe.
Maybe.
Maybe.
The audacity.
to try to utter the unutterable.
Holy shit, I better stay in my lane, right?
The crowd builds messiahs.
Nobody is insane enough to believe that about themselves unless they are high 24/7.
I don’t gotta worry about that though.
I’m not that good.
This though.
This is courage.
If you tried. Fuck. That’s cheesy. Good night. You know what I’m getting at though, right?
Seriously though. Good night.
Not interesting
I need to get the fuck outta here.
These roommates really are not working out.
Like, being here irritates me.
I need to be alone. Truly alone sometimes.
I cannot be hearing the bickering and arguing that is the byproduct of your fucked up, sad marriage.
I can’t come “home” at the end of my 9 to 5 what a way to make a living day to scary cable news propaganda. That shit gets to me on a deep level. Like, maybe it’s the holy spirit helping me recognize with banal evil is. Seriously.
I probably need to be sitting down and talking to someone. I don’t want to take medication cuz it does nothing. The only drugs I’ll be taking are for the fun of it. Seriously. I’m only going to alter my mind with drugs if I feel like it. Not doing it on doctor’s orders if I can help it. Fuck that. Real talk though. I need to be talking to a professional probably. Don’t worry too much. I just need the perspective of someone with a more level-head than I’ve got.
Aight. Back to our regular scheduled programming.
I get stoned enough, I'm honest. Smart honest. The kinda honest I can live with.
Maybe that's what I tell myself.
This is me writing garbage ain't nobody gonna hold me accountable for.
I don't know how to be. There ain't no fucking manual. Bring me a pizza every once in awhile and I'm good. Pizza and a whiff of sex. I'm good.
Nah. Shit. Maybe I sound like the Internet equivalent of that homeless dude rambling about some shit that makes no sense while he waits for a bus he doesn't have money for. That could be you. That could be me. Maybe your wits and your good looks and your talent and all that shit ain't gonna save you cuz you're just you. Look. I'm just me. It's aight. I love you. Okay. Maybe I won't say that again. Yo. We gotta believe a better world is possible.
Fuck. I'm getting sick of this. 10:29 PM Pacific Standard Time.
I feel lazy.
This is art, yo.
This is sugar.
This is late night truth.
This is finding the one true god again.
This is bullshit but it had its moments.
Should I read this again in the morning?
-
mistahsojourner reblogged this · 3 years ago
