S t r eA M # 5 2

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Save for the enviable, one should save for the inevitable. Whereas the inevitable will come a-knockin’, the enviable will steer clear. (Hencethus, why we envy them.) And so but anyway, when the inevitable comes a-knockin’, you’ll need a reserve. This is true of the balloon as it is true for the needle. The balloon seeks to be popped. Indeed. It does. And the needle seeks to pop. It does. Indeed. To pop, or to pierce. To pierce whom? To pierce Brosnan. Ha, ha. The needle enjoys it: The Bursting. And the balloon enjoys being burst. It’s not unlike an orgasm. Perhaps it IS an orgasm. Why not? The balloon drifts on the wind. Indeed. It does. It drifts. The needle stays put. It does not have the luxury of buoyancy. Launch it into outer space, and, yes, it’ll have buoyancy, of a sort. But I had a conversation with the needle. It’s rather sharp, that needle is. Ha, ha. I asked it all kinds of questions. (Afterall, how often does one have the opportunity to converse with a needle?) It answered promptly and concisely. Better: It answered pointedly. Ha, ha. As you might expect, it kept expressing its desire to be introduced to the balloon. In vain, I tried to explain that I cut its string (the balloon’s). I tried to explain… but the words were mud. Or, rather, they might as well have been mud. The words are not easy to express. The right words. The words that clarify. The words I speak of are the sort of beast(s) that drinks tea at midnight in the house of apes and kites. The kites are not the same as the balloons. Nor are the balloons the same as baboons. Nor are the kites the same as the nice bloke down the block. The bloke down the block causes me, causes you, causes us no trouble. None at all. He keeps to himself but he must have skeletons in the closet. Who doesn’t? Well. I can name one, but that would be conjecture. One never can tell. It was a teenage wedding and the old folks wished them well. But the next train will be late. It will not house cartons of milk. It will, instead, house cartons of seaweed and soy sauce. The next train will rim the corner. Whatever that means. The next boat to follow me home is going to get it. The dead will not abide by the next train. They will abide by the next boat. They will not eat. They eat. When they want to fly kites they blow up baboons instead. Better make that BALLOONS, instead. They don’t do the things they really want to do. They deny themselves. They practice the art of getting what one needs, because you can’t always get what you want. This time there will be no designated driver. We are family. And the next time we designate a water bottle for the apple, we’ll ask the orange first. The orange has a lot to say. It doesn’t fit. It won’t fit. It’s too big. It has no power to judge the committee meeting. It does want to dish out the shit, though. He is the next man to walk the rings of fortune. It takes tiny feet. I’m taking the car in for an oil change and then some. I think I’ll have less butter on my toast, this time. Why did the salad make me fat? It was supposed to be a healthy salad. Fuck that cabbage. Fuck it. Fuckin’ cabbage. Fuckin’ lettuce. Feet first. FEET FIRST! Remember that, if nothing else. Always, always, FEET FIRST. And who doesn’t enjoy a little music, every now and then? Bottom. 

30 July 2008

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