Every night, I go to my dreams guilty
Each day, I wake up forgiven
My soul is like a thousand onion peels
or a constantly-unravelling cassette tape
I want to send you
a Medium Message.
You say that you don't understand what I mean.
That disconnect is art in itself.
Your mind will paint the portrait it desires.
Our attempt to comprehend each other makes us all Picassos.
{Even the Milwaukee's Best-swilling, Nascar-watching
barbaric gang of Pleasure-Hunters
Even the quasi-Bohemian snuff-breathers who carry
around little hardcover notebooks and fear their own demise
Even the loveless Crescent Streeters in their 1000 Watt
Ritalin Paradise
Even the Old and Older folks whose pants are rising by the minute
and who can remember Johnny Carson jokes}
I realize that I am using broad strokes here
and you can always retort...
(insert one-size-fits-all "No Comprende" here)
but that is just A-OK.
We are [a: born / b: alive / c: dying / d: all of the above] alone
Suffice it to say that this lack of comprehension between us
makes words taste like red licorice.
~~~
