|Dan I Am Day,
Marchipelago 16, 41 A.B.
between the antique curlicues of Shakespeare and Paine
the flamboyant flat-lining of Hemingway and Gary Cooper
those hallowed grounds for thought
every word counts without moving its lips
every letter-cloaked arrow of an idea
the very center of the mind's bull's-eye
all the casual ease of ordained Perfection....
I wish I could find those grounds, once or twice...
I ache to wallow in them this very second
a naked little piglet in freshest mud."
Me. Just now. Yep.
Well, needless to say, those hallowed grounds needn't worry about the likes
of me treading anywhere near 'em today, locked up as I remain in solitary
Forever imprisoned by the four walls of my Me....
I'd expected things to be different by now.
I'd just always assumed that surely I would have achieved at least one
of my life goals by the 55th anniversary of the liberation of Iwo Jima
and the 150th anniversary of the publication of Hawthorne's The Scarlet
Letter, but no.
The harsh truth is that not only does it look like I'll never get
to wallow in the mud of hallowed ground, it also appears as if even the
simplest of my goals will remain forever beyond my grasp....
All of which ignores a larger truth, of course.
have yet to learn how to play air guitar - and I don't even know of anyone
who gives lessons
have made absolutely no progress towards achieving my boyhood dream of
getting the world to use the word singstress instead of chanteuse
of levitating the Pentagon, as I once promised myself I would do by the
time I was 30, I plea bargained my ambition down to a simple levitation
of a drum majorette by the time I was 40 - and then I didn't even manage
the promise I made to my grandmother on her death bed, I still haven't
written a letter to Jimmy Walker thanking him for that "Dyn-O-MITE!" catch-phrase
of his that gave her a reason to go on after grandpa died and it looked
like the jury might not buy her alibi
failed utterly and completely in my attempts to get Charles Schulz to admit
and go public with the "special relationship" I had with Woodstock... and
now he's dead... leaving me to wonder if maybe the pen or the phone
would have been a better alternative to all those years of attempted
telepathy... just like Krazy Kat kept trying to tell me....
Which is that even when we achieve our goals, we're still stuck
Ahem. Sorry. It's just that it's bad enough having to be locked
up within myself 24 hours a day without so much as a single hour of outside
exercise yard privileges a week or a chance to strip off my despair and
brainwash me poor leetle head once or twice a month. The situation
becomes almost intolerable when I realize that I'm also trapped in an absurd
been really afraid this year that the federal government was gonna run
me out of business by dipping into its strategic blather reserves and flooding
the market with blather too cheap to meter. I hoped and I wished
and I hoped and I wished and I HOPED and I WISHED and - surprise!
It worked! The government kept its spigots shut tight to everyone
except elected officials needing material for their next public pronouncement.
But guess what? It hasn't mattered! People everywhere are getting
better and better at making their own! And what they can't make they
get from their local school boards. It's enough to make me doubt
the powers of wishing and hoping, let me tell ya....
long time ago, T.S. Eliot taught me that there's no better way for folks
like myself to spend their time than by measuring out their lives in little
teaspoons. So for years and years, that's what I've done every spare
moment that I could find - I've measured out my life in little teaspoons.
I even measured them twice before contemplating them once, just like they
taught me on This Old Existentialist. Now, just today, I get
a notice from the people at the European Common Market telling me that
if I want my results to be Certified Believable, I have to go back and
re-measure every little bit of my life using an officially calibrated
cubic centimeter scoop. Excuse me?! Can someone please
show me exactly how I ended up in a place where unelected Flemish bureaucrats
have supplanted the inspired poets despite doing everything I thought was
required of me?? Next thing you know some representative from the
U.N. will be at my door telling me my pit isn't deep enough and my pendulum
has swayed itself a bit raw. ENOUGH!
It's hard not to go stir crazy sometimes, you know?
Thank goodness I still have my Woodstock PEZ dispenser to console me.
Thank goodness I was able to cultivate a taste for green eggs and ham in
Krazy Kat so I don't have to share!
But time I got back to that teaspoon, I think.
I mean, cubic centimeter scoop.
Hope they at least didn't misspell your cell block's name when they
Back To A Time When
One Fewer Hash
Marks On My Skull
Forward To... You
More Of The Same
(©Soon by an underpaid and overworked court-appointed copyrighter
on behalf of the alleged Dan Birtcher who swears he's not himself