Conduction

We are never more than half an hour away from nowhere.  At twenty-three, I found a bad connection.  A navigational mistake takes me over the edge of the map and back again to not giving a shit about reality, and whether my head belongs in the clouds or up the ass of some sailor who's two three and four-timing me, the one foolish lady who waits at home naked, bated on tender looks through the telephone, strip-teasing on skype in the middle of the night and hoping my roommates don't come in.  Even though I locked my bedroom door, it still makes noises as if something is trying to get in to my brain.  Pink Floyd paranoia paints me a softer shade of blue that will eat itself for supper--did she call it dinner?  Charlie Sheen is winning at the craps table of red queen and hatter, catcalling at Spanish Gibraltar heart flings, violin strings that break and coil when we touch them, pressure sent quivering down my spine, the horse's hairs run fine as bow ties, champagne lying about being in the closet with R. Kelly, and Tom Cruise leaping on Oprah's couch because he's so in love with denial, the mental firing of Donald Trump and all other orange-faced CEO's of mediocrity, spare me the lecture on the greater morality of ignorance, defacing the state of humanity so quickly as a divorce, the steady rate of infantile shake-n-bake syndrome, E.T. phones home and gets charged for roaming, the overall tone is condescending and I don't think it's necessary.  I'm trying to break myself of the habit of listening to the madness that's chalking up my brain like cyanuric acid in a skimmer, choking the sand filter that's fixated on one common objective to drill for hope and oil--men, who stare at the wreckage of hunger.  From the oval office, Herman Cain declares that humanity can overcome the aliens, the illegal salient memories of bygone eras, we seek to erase history from happening, the social status of the nanny welfare state and prolapsed anuses on display for Santorum's enjoyment, Anthony Weiner, why can't I let you go? You make it too easy for me to say something, none of which has any consequence on the greater tuning of my piano with no strings, you broke it, that's where you place the music while you're playing, how will we make it with out any directions and preconceived notions of plans, none of which ever work. We make one, we get there and then shit hits the fan, so lets just go balls deep and do the finger in the butt-hole while giving a blow-job thing. Hap tries to stay up with the young people so he takes ballroom dancing and romances long-haired red heads with pretty lips until they get married and have kids--how quickly Tara's life has changed, and random that I found her name living at the bottom of my cesspool, curdled milk and rotting green tomatoes make a lovely stew, chasing a shiny green bug across a wooden bridge, me-n-you are children.