Earn Your Spurs, Make’em Jingle Jangle Jingle

June 24, 2008

Earn Your Spurs, Make’em Jingle Jangle Jingle

"Smarts don't it?" It was Samuel Clemens, or rather, his glib gibboned moustache (pronounced with quick emphasis on ache, as in ashes to ashes). The words tumbled out of his follicles, as if there were anywhere else they could come from, what heard crumbled my resolve as his insight settled into my seat. How did he know? "Maybe it's in the reaction that showed me your contraction? You made a move, a tricksy maneuver, but you always get you sooner or later, like a prowling alligator you always wait for you to do what it is you do. Are you done yet? I bet I bet you can always tell the tall tale by the inhale…" Cryptic, sure, but I'm no stranger in those lands, I'll tack and track with my bare hands if I have to, so I took it for what I meant.

Found out on so many levels, and the fly swat from his angry swatter smattered me a squattered mad hattered battered by belaboring my personal points - a one-two punch with a punch drunk uppercut thrown in for sloppy seconds. "Maybe you were just trying to see? Did you react in a loving way, or was it from that who-do-you-think-you-are kinda place? I'm sure I didn't get you on as many levels as you got you to, because you know the truth of you much better than I do, with much applause and insignificant ado, with a much to your chagrin and chicanery to boot, you...wanted for simple extemporaneity, just like me." What the hell was this arrangement of stultified hair-do talking about? I began to wonder to myself, all before I realized I was in some kind of dreamy dream state. Did I slake the thirst for my wanton need, or do I need to be straddled by the Chinese feed bag one more time? Is that what he means? I admit to only this keyboard that I was sliced pretty thin, and maybe there is something to this, that I cut through me thing, through the all that I hide in me thing. The hair smiled a wicked loving smile as if he had known my thoughts that deep all the while, but wanted me to make my own way there, damnable hair, when will I shave? When will I shave that I don't have to make slaves of the knaves I see and in the shaving to see the be-ings in front of me not as the bee stings demanding humility, but as winter's thaw (dribbldy drip draw) drop Sam's rainplop dance, and springboard me into the reborn year?

I yearn not to take advantage of all the openings I can see, and only the openings significant, when others around me only see the openings. Is that an opening? Where'd all these trees come from and where'd all those bees goes off too? They left me here naked and alone and there's so many trees that I'd have to call them my own, or at least something other than "what the spring brings". The Rainmaker's call brought me brought me to a silly brawl with myself, and lanced so much pain through my main water main's veins that I suffered a spiritual stroke, hit the ctrl+alt+delete and rebooted where I had myself rooted. All I can think of, no, all that I am in this moment right here is: I let you down. As much as I tried to keep us afloat because that was what I thought I ought do, I couldn't. And I knew the price to be paid, to have a deep friendship waylaid out on a slab and only brought back by constabluatory fab. And now I'm out here on a paper boat learning how to not try and keep it afloat and just let it sink into the clinkity clink if that's where the needs be kept. There are still the sweeping heartbreaks and smothering heartaches to contend with. If there was a sure fire way to slip past those unseen instead of turn to face'em I've tried it. I've pried it loose from the caboose of some kind of unseen drizzle. I'd make it past if I could, past the feint and the fizzle as I sizzle my nizzle bizzle dizzle dialect from what makes like the cool but only shows the drool of the monkey wrench while I sit out here warming this bench wishing I was in the game. What am I to do with with with this seemingly useless tool? There's no other end to contend with in sight; nothing to loosen and nothing too tight. I can swing and swing with all my might, even long into an April shower's night, but there's just no fight left in me. "Maybe you could see that you don't need to contend with me, because I'm no easy meat, but I'm the toughest ornery scofflaw who's on your way home." But it's not really about what I want for me to be anymore, or is it?

I want it to burst like the overfilled water balloons on the precipice of summer's gas. What a gas that'd be to find a fancy fancy me on the quaking stems of a dozen reddened roses equipped with as many lengthed noses to take advantage of such an affair. There I am again bottling up the opportunity and selling it up for upwards of a dime-bag a piece. But Sam, you said you were something else…you you said you were something you're not showing me to be…do I fade it again amdist the growing grumbling get pissed ride that's building up inside? "What do you think?" came his hairy reply, and as I pondered over why, we passed his neighbor the nostril's snort and it issued its lowly shortened report for a sneeze, and Sam gave out laughing wheeze and I couldn't help but join in, ending the guffaw in a silent grin just for me. Why don't I share it anymore? Why do I think? What what for, giv'em? What what five?

So I could only slip in what I think I am, could I? No no Sam I am! I do not like those green eggs and ham. You were supposed to play with me. "But maybe I am and you just don't know it, maybe I am but I don't sow it so easily into the infertile place of need. I could respond and react and make things easy, but that's not what you're about, like George and the Wheezy sneezy. There'll be nothing to satisfy you short of what you think you are it would seem, and that's just a shame to me. Come down from your cat and mouse game any time you'd like and just hike me the goddam ball. Because when all is said and done, this one is mostly about the kind of fun that's undone by light uproarious laughter. I don't want to give the gifts to those who don't know how to sift through the bullshit, but I will anyway, because as plain as I am found, I'm laying it all down in what I say. This is me Taking it Easy, with a paint brush and easel, no, not a weasel after all, just enjoying the color sprawl and arranging and derailing with them tools, the norm to form coherence inside of incoherency, because really whose approval do I need to create? Break me off a piece, and Break it loose, we've got a good sixty odd years yet if we so choose.