23 Feb 2011

pit boss

one is in the fate groove, one is in the sawtooth, one is in a wagon rut, applying leverage to send selective bloggers flying, as a scheme to hedge bets, but the application was filed in triplicate centuries before it was a gleam in one's eye - throwing your hands in the air doesn't mean you don't care, just that it's impossible to know what to do, and even if you did, it would require re-aligning the poles, and mackin hos, and finding good cheer in hardy barley which ain't in the cards as far as i can see

between the serts and the trazzies and the whatnots, i think something may be wrong with me, physically for sure, and therefore by extension, mentally - these symptoms keep adding up, to what i don't know, i'll call it a slagheap, a droolslathered muckscape, if this is health then the ideal isn't worth a dime - i hope it's a disease of some kind and not my right mind, the kind that tricks me into thinking there was never any healthy living, a new-age devil to play the villain in that fairy story - well smurf villages are becoming real, briar showed me, maybe i can pin my problems on gargamel, an easy target

either way i'm against myself - the cycle of self-flagellation - the bio-feedback makes everything worse, useless information, enough gnosis for a bird's eye view of the nursery, ages since demolition, nothing to see here but a union stymied mob connected crew on another no-show job, no evidence or even inkling of anything other than the loop - it's enough for a life-time, i guess, i didn't ask to not be born, so, forty years of this and it'll be a fait acompli, the self-contained cycle, from here it has a horizon underground, but it's been a while since any sort of purge, what doesn't kill it, me, one, you, her, them, makes the strength weaker, the dark and drowny logic of its spiral, so hypnotic that i'm still in the trance: it all becomes clear when i say that i'm a machine for producing phlegm - and it doesn't explain the allure of those magic faders on my fingers, the worst drug in the world that's more immediately addictive than anything ever, the amen corner chorus for acapela floor splatter

some people think it's a robot - maybe a turing machine, so they'll call it an honorary soul - but if it acts like a robot, those analog folk can't be blamed for thinking along those lines, can they? if it don't throw no big flashy empathy party, how can it be thought to be empathic? they'd need an almost saintly level of empathy to extrapolate that ability to the calculator

i think if i just plunge that cast-metal shovelhead down into the coalpile again the delightful kaJUNK of that crunchy gravelly black stuff aflyin into the furnace will make everything burn bright for another interval, or at the very least, the experience will allow me to get away with that assumption for a temporal period to be determined at a later date... this train ain't headin that way, no, intelligence isn't even on the line, but that's what you get for hoppin on, boy... shoulda read the tag, didn't it say something about, something? boxcar young adult told me that, you know? yeah, you know him, he's got that cheek-length head of hair you thought was the gold standard of cool when you were ten - yeah, you know what i'm referencing, don't be denyin

what's all up with you anyway? you just angry cause you don't got a hobo name? okay, i give you one - ima gonna call you: "MC disc jockey" - yeah, hehe, that's the one - you MCDJ - no, i like MC disc jockey better - whadayou think boxcar douchebag beard? yeah, suit him, don't it? no, you can't be "boxcar transient", we got too many boxcars in this boxcar - i get confused m'self sometime - i get confused bout a lotta things - like am i black, or white, or pirate? whada you think boxcar douchebag beard? nah, i ain't no puerto rican, that's fo sho, you be trippin again - i remember my first twistareefer

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