Studio8 - Uniting the Arts

Life isn’t fair.
Air in Texas is bare.
My bungalow is young.
Never thinks of dying, only creaks.

Who is the next Dylan?
Is it you, smoldering eyes?
My bungalow taught space.
It cavorted and spun, creaked a little.
All through blackness the whole time.
Remember a line about silent telephones.
I get wild gravity, how do I get home?
Gravity lets you down, Google it.
Google morphs into heinous.
Alien computer mind.

Who writes anything that sticks?
God can I come back in six years?
See who writes a good Bible.
Check fluid levels.

Life isn’t fair, I was drunk.
“Hundred bucks if you make that.”
So he took up his cue, Houdini-like.
Lined it up with a precision of Leonardo.
Moon sat there forever, flies orbit beer signs.
He stood there, scratch his chin, he does that.
For centuries he scratch his chin like that.
Weeds grew on the felt, then trees.

Google the next Dylan, the next Jimi.
Billions of computers hooked in series.
Horrible green computer saucer alien.
Get the answer soon.

He lined it up.
Clock spin backwards.
Dali melted the needles.
He peers and paces, the prophet.
He bent down, flies orbit beer signs.
I heard an odd click, an odd motion.
Ball jumps up, bam bam blue meteor.
Spun like a disco sparkle.

Not a fair subject to begin with.
The odds against existence.

It lurched across felt.
Through weeds and trees.
Jumpin’ Jehosophat, joltin’ Joe.
Then it hung, more centuries passed.
Photon leaned against it, lit a smoke.
Plop.

wild ride........yes it's a delicate balance my friend......a very hip jorney that poses at least a few important questions, who will be the next Dylan, the next Jimi.....cause those are some hard shoes to fill.....

ps. ( aside)....I used to shoot pool with a woman in Key West, that whenever I called a pocket to shoot in the eight ball, she would drop one of her tits in the pocket.....I never did make one of them shots..
aah, but that was a long time ago.....

utteredly fantastic read
H

Thanks Steve, Hesty.

Inspired by a roommate from 20 years ago-- "If you're good enough at what you do, you can shoot pool with a broomstick," he said, as he got his fancy custom cue out of its fancy custom box. Ha. (Not sure why that popped into my head. Odd.)

I was jus' readin' and writin'
this warm, perfect afternoon...

"The Borges Pome"

Time is a river, scours my bed.
I am the river, round rock too.
Time is a fire, burns my trophy.
I am the fire, all it consumed.
Time is a tiger, preys on fear.
I am the tiger, my prey too.

It goes in circles.
Tiger chases my tail.
Water drifts into mountains,
flows back out to the sea.
Round cells and curves.
Everything go round.

Eat, sleep,
Sow, reap.
It goes a-
round.

This writing thing...
I dunno. Hmm...

"Time on the head of a pin"

Whadya wanna be when U grow up?
Not some damn paper pusher, I tell ya.
Not some shoe shine gun runner.
No money in it.

I wanna invent the games.
I wanna jerk strings, flick knobs.
We got the effects, we got graphics.
Got power and speed and codewriters.
No explosions on TV, only in the games.
Might find myself in Orwell's mind.

What did you expect?
Under a radioactive cloud for sixty years.
The religions confer, retrench, write copy.
Some based on deity, some on greed.
Time compresses quickly to a point.
What did you expect?

A lot to figure out
in little time.