Tuesday, July 15, 2008

Drunk on a Sunday Night

All the boys who love their city,
all the gals who love hometown,
all swimming away with vast complications,
all looking for something to turn them upside down.

There's a galley on Main Street,
the street Hemingway spoke of all lit up,
and in it are various styles and dimensions,
while the lights hurriedly blink on for fear of the cup.

The cup is the one in the hairy man's hands,
that he doesn't jingle but sits next to him.
While he works his way through palm frond baskets,
Making things as pretty as the galley's lights on dim.

And you walk farther or closer and see the gay bar,
where six foot transvestites hang around the entrance,
And past them are closed shops with the neon all on off.
Where main street dies at night for the ice cream stands.

Across the way is a shop that sells communist carry ons,
to capitalists on the long main street.
It was there that I bought a green hat emblazoned
with an offensive star for to greet.

Further and closer and you come upon the establishment
of the greatest capitalist singer that ever lived,
His name is Jimmy Buffet, the place is Margaritaville,
and in there they card. What a bitch.

So go on up and across the way again,
where a man is telling dirty jokes for a dollar,
he says “cunts” loud enough for the kids to hear,
daddy gets indignant and pops his collar.

On and on, far, far away,
from the southernmost this and the southernmost that,
less than a block from the Southernmost Point,
I scared the golf-cart riding family of fat.

Get on toward the setting sun,
the bars get smaller and smaller,
'til you come unto the smallest one,
where they sell you drinks that get taller and taller.

Beyond that a ways before the sandal shop,
everything gets too real,
the homeless smoke cigarettes like it's going to kill them,
instead of giving back life some zeal.

The whole world dies for a block or two,
before you get to see redemption,
the place is called Mallory Square,
and there life starts to feel worth a mention.

This is one conch's story of life and death,
composed on a Monday morning.
As it's being written a storm blows in,
full of lightning and one thunder warning.

Sunday, July 6, 2008

Excerpt: From A Streetcorner Screams God.

Si. That means yes. As in, yes I am going to talk for a while. What I'm going to talk about is a man who lived somewhere in the Pacific after the world ended. He enjoyed coconuts so much, that at the end, he decided to move where he could always have coconuts. So he sold everything he had, bartered for a ride into the other hemisphere and with what he had left he bought crates of Rum. Sixteen and one half crates of Appleton Estate of Jamaica Rum. It was good.

When I met him, he was into his fifth crate of rum and knee deep in seawater. The rum was in a coconut which had two holes in the top. One was for drinking and the other ventilation. He funnel rum into the coconut and when it mixed with the coconut milk it became a further form of heaven. Further more than the reefs of Key West where you can see one of the world's eyes. It is the blue one, a blue so pure that it makes you want to look into it forever, and further, and further.

Heaven on earth is a problem, because heaven takes from the earth.

C'est la vie.

So this man waved at us with huge gestures and magnificently juggled that coconut rum bomb. It would later knock me out. He was glad to see people. Either: Americans at that. Or; Even if it was Americans.

C'est la vie.

Ya never know.
We were lost and had stumbled upon the magic man. He had so much rum, it would astound those who had no funnybone. And he had enough left that he let us drink a lot of it without missing our company. Whatever that was worth. Any further and he might have cried in the midst of the final drunk.

Eso si que es.

So I was talking to him and he's spent so much time thinking that he only has opinions. I'm drinking coconut rum bombs and listening. I laugh when I'm really drunk, which happens.

We were talking and he says something that put everything into perspective. It was this: “Life is fiction.” I forgot what I was talking about when he said that.

That was the way it felt on the boat surrounded by nothing but waves. That's what it is now that I'm standing here in the middle of the largest ocean on earth. Our lives are fiction. They are fiction when we're living normally. Or, when we are doing the most freakish/brutish things we can imagine. They are fiction against the galaxy which is fiction against the universe.

Which, by the way, Earth scientists have decided that universal time may be more important than universal gravity. Humans have to be able to see time and gravity as it is meant to be seen. Which they cannot do. Thus, they cannot see everything. Which explains why matter matters in our minds.

Hell, why not just fish? Spearfishing or catching suckers in a creek.

I already could see that when I left this place, I would have a lot to think about.

That's a good thing about fishing. You are thinking somehow or another. Living should be done with the urgency of spearfishing and the recollecting of canepole fishing. That's a simple code to live by. If you make it simple.

This man was saying all these things that made the fireworks in my head go off. And I was only thinking of my way of thinking about how he said it. It takes a while for waves and wavelengths to overlap.

Ideally, it's like King said; “The arc of the universe is long, but it bends towards justice.” I'd add, “But, don't let assumptions get the best of you.”