"OK" said the day
by Brendan deVallance
What is it? Not sure, but I'm adding more to the end every
“OK” said the day. “Drop dead” said the letter that was read. On off they went on the traveless journey. Go know where fast is the Formula One. And we run like the devil on ice. I could drive my self crazy or stand there feeling lazy. Lost my way on the way there and so I get to start over and over starts over there. From here that is not a good idea, but from over there it looks like light bulbs blazing in the noon day sun. The moon and stars are not visible but when the sun goes down then the shooting stars light up. Like the door to the fridge, open, on; close, off. “Good times ahead”, said the finest finders of fine things. No falling rocks on the plains. And six more days to get across, one less day than a full week. Lets just leave it at that.
|2||You can lead a fish to water but you can not hear it sing. I see that the fish are always talking, but not really saying anything. I’m like that sometimes. The sound of my lips flapping against one another drowns out the point of my story. Every day I cut my face out of a blank cube. Secrets of the razor blades as told to me whilst shaving (”you’re not doing it right”). Little whispers. It is amazing the power the little razor has over my daily life. Like a cold chisel over a marble block. ”You’re not doing it right” said the razor blade as I dragged it ‘cross my face—the double blades vibrating together like vocal cords. You have to stand up for what is right, no matter how your doing it. Wake up and smell the coffee, stop and smell the roses, something rotten in Denmark.|
|3||Don’t let the drivelers get you down. I have no idea what you’re talking about. This much I know is true. Even scientists won’t argue against this point. I won’t say anything in response, I’ll just say it with my eyes. Stare a hole to the back of your head with my gaze. The slow fade into drivel. Doomed expeditions are like that. Some day I hope to set off on one of those. I’ve had my fill of this place. The people who just sit there not saying anything, those are the people. Won’t be dead too long. I'll have another cup of infinity please. From the eyes.|
|4||Bored to be wild, on fire, untied. Left arm dislocated, not quite destroyed. Days not dogged and screams not logged. You have to kill yourself everyday, then one day it will stick. Evaporation is not recommended, but is also an effective method. It all seems to come back to that tall glass of water you once poured a thirsty man. Make things, set things on fire, drive to the store. Heaven will hear our screams if the noise is made loud enough. Marshall stacks were created for this purpose. But in the end science will reveal the true fiction, so, today, on with the experiments. What will happen to this if I do this to it? Excuse me, but I think you just kicked sand into my hourglass. Make things, set things on fire, drive to the store.|
|5||Shouldn’t have, should not have. As anyone with a truncheon will tell you. The bird flies off, destination unknown, and I take the same beaten path to my console. Dribble thru the drivel. I am a citizen of the word. Strapped in, trapped in, sedated. The ship will sink as it sails. But at least it is moving. All the real things must keep moving. Real, as in the really real. No even bets for the deadline weary. No one jumps when the gun goes off. Money takes the fall again, and money counts the numbers. “I’m getting mad at angry” Blind(L)eaf said, tree not falling far from the low hanging fruit. Situation not normal (snn) in times like these. But I will take what I can get. And I will give what I can, sign here please: ____________________|
|6||That’s one heck of a neck you have there one heck of a neck I must say. Head above shoulders and all that, just as I like it. Twist, burn and brain. I’ve been living it that way for years. All around the outside. The journey is the thing, the getting there, enjoy that and the rest is gravy. Some of the things I don’t get are in the small of the details. Not the drivel, not the landfill but the unspoken code. The smart nod, the eyes that look away. I hope you like breathing, because I see a lot of it in your future. I’m not just talking furniture music here. Of all the things I havent seen, this is one of the best. Striped down or all dressed up, the roses vs. the rose holders. Here’s one for all the good times gone bad, sad days struck down with rainbows, icicles on a summers day.|
|7||Do not be afraid of signs. Signs will not hurt you. A sign, it is well known, has no feelings. There are no real sad signs. They just tell you the most current thing on their minds. My signs have a mind of their own, just no feelings. I have a mind like a steel trap, no wait, I have a mind like a fly trap, fly paper. Wind blows stuff all around and it sticks to my glue. The gray stuff = the glue. Ideas stick there and die, the feet twitching and wiggling. If you could see inside my skull you would be appalled. Like a refrigerator left unplugged for several days. Even the dead flies have flies hovering around them. Sad state of affairs really, but somehow the sun still rises everyday. When it is cloudy and raining the sun is still there you just might not be able to see it. Believe me, it’s there.|
I WILL NOT write that book: “Credenza, Please”. Ok, I might write it. But I will not enjoy it. I will protest it like a world war. I will carry signs against it, employ campaigns. Some things are better left said/unsaid. And some things are better left unthought. I would/ wouldn’t do my best to put it straight. Narrow and fixed. Merrily we roll along, roll along, roll along. But not all endings are happy, sometimes you just run out of paper. If you run out of paper, then that is a great place to stop. Nothing good ever comes of wasting paper with the stupid details of some made up shit. At least do us all a favor and get to the point before my eyes turn to stone please. If I do nothing else let me get to the point quickly to hasten the end to the pain. Or better yet let me have a point at all.
|9||Thinking? That shit will kill you, idiots last a long, long time if they can keep from walking out into traffic (traphick as my brain spells it). I know pictures don’t smell, but that magazine I’m reading sure does. Or is it like silence, not really possible. What is the word for the silence of smell? Must have missed that day in school. Snolence? Is that it? Ok, that will have to do. That is a word that a fish will never hear. Although, when I’m under water it’s totally snolence, nose just won’t work down there. Sort of like color on the moon. Did you know that it’s a total black and white world when you live on the moon? The only gray is in your skull. And lets face it, most of us are only imagining that we have anything there at all. As I imagine myself into existence. Finger on the . . . .|
|10||Sane is good early in the morning. Insanity is more of an afternoon thing, or late at night. If you are on your way home try to keep it bottled up ‘till later, after the kids are asleep. Moonlight loves some kind of crazy. Makes it look fine. I’m talking stage-one crazy here, not the kind where bullets ring out. That shit don’t go with any kind of lighting. But a moon beam on the face of the slightly mad, well that can melt the hardliners. Melt them into doorstops or traffic cones. Solace in the mirror as the noose get worse around us. I mean the news. This is all meant to have a calming effect, the moon, the sunset. The colors of peace. The color of the rocks at the bottom of the ocean calling you down. Nothing to see here folks, keep moving along. Show’s over.|
|11||Masters of mayhem and doom come calling to my front door. I am up to my eyeballs in gothic sludge. Swimming in it. Swimmingly. Don’t cry, don’t cry, don’t cry, don’t cry, don’t cry, don’t cry, don’t cry, that is what the bird said. I have seen the stars in the sky at night, seen the Moon over head. Lived a 1,000 days all at once. For the life of me I can’t get my trains running on time, and the suits are demanding it. Can’t get my trains to run on time. World of water in the land of dry eyes. Help to set them free, help to carry the water. Can you help me build it?
I like to see the Sun on Sunday, but I’ll take what I can get. If there is sun involved then the tyrants can not hide. Make the world a better place? Yeah, there’s a
pill for that.
|12||Trying desperately to learn how to crack open an egg. How to get inside that confounded device? It may not be worth the bloody fingers. I’m hungry and all but geez, next time that happens I’m going out to eat. Order up some pancakes, no sharp edges. I’ll look it up on the wiki, see what they have to say about the subject. Most of the stuff I write down isn’t good for anything. Wrote something down, neglected to even read it. Scraps of paper don’t blow away like they used to. Not every real thing turns out to be true. And the truth is often like a ball under one of three cups. Elvis in the ground, or so I’ve come to believe. Buried him out in the yard like a dead pet. Hoping they bury me in an unmarked grave, oh, I already am, ignore that last request.|
Seen the Soldiers marching down Main Street. Parade verses the invading forces. Guns not loaded, soldiers loaded, sky goes gray, sun shines awry. Things in one piece, things left in pieces. Blew it all apart, Napoleon Blown-apart. Shock waves through the corridors of lost hope. History repeats itself. I said “History repeats itself”, but never the good kind. And why is the end of July never really the end of July. Looking back through my weird view mirror I see the faceless face of doom. Everything I know about the future I learned just now. Trial and error, my own supreme court jester. For all I’m worth, for all my accomplishments, a handshake deal, my last meal. The seal of good something emblazons my forehead. The bloody severed hand waves back.
|14||Don’t spill anything please. This is a good way to live. Spilling things has added more heartache than I care to admit. Cry over it? No use, so as I’ve heard tell. But I want to cry believe me, I want to. Better to cry than waste your time cleaning it up. At least it would make me feel better. A persons time should be spent on constructive activities, like painting things for instance (canvases, clay pots, fingernails). I like to make things. Cutting pieces of wood or paper. Gluing things together is another favorite activity. Sure I like to go places, but lately that is beginning to lose its appeal. As the future becomes more oblique perhaps it is best just to stay home. The outside world confronts the average person with too many difficulties. Best to stay home and not spill anything.|
|15||Don’t kill me Darlin’. I have heard them say it that way. Like a dream come true, or a bullet gone through. Do you? Do you? Luxury teardrops streaming down a made up face. Messed up stuff all over the place. Set my boat down and let the wind take me there. No way home without traction, out to sea, out to sea. No escaping the gray, gray day. Of the chemical bond to the substance of blood. Blood in the noon day sun. Escaping from all sides I see it do its job. Free to roam, free to roam. Radio ice pick? In my Skull? No thanks or you’re welcome. Sun out, sun over. It isn’t personal if the world happens to clock you in the nuts. It isn’t even personal that you have or don’t have nuts. That is just the way the chips have fallen, the way it is. Way it is today.|
|16||Good at breathing. And some days the sun does not shine. Stick to what you’re good at. Live to not live, see to not see. Please step into my time machine, one where the lungs are good and new. As the bullet went by it said “So far so good”. Told you what I said as the rabbit was read cover to cover, over and over. Was that a bullet? Extricate the pain from the sore spot. We hear the bullet talk and ignore the gun, it’s just the sound they make that captures all the fun. Where the sidewalk meets the sandwich. Good at shaking hands, waving goodbye, waxing nostalgic for times gone bye. Don’t tell the Repo Man where I live. I have time invested, wasted in the future that never seems to arrive. Can’t seem to shake it, the brain-in- the-fog. Shudder to think and so far so good.|
|17||Nothing: one of my favorite things. I can’t get enough of that stuff. Void as you fall, fall as you wane. The dark don’t fall, it’s a fade into the night. Fade to darkness and a nice dream will follow. That is the problem with the cloudy day. The gray won’t fade. Float along on the wave of a hard spot. Sharp pointy things are not uncommon, but rarely warranted. A club to join or to beat you with. Sliced it to bits on the Radial arm saw: arm and saw shouldn’t be in the same title. Brings to mind the bloody stumps. Hand saw? Please. Flaming screams in the night. The silence of beautiful monstrosities I have created. The gentle nudge from my Albatross Pariah. Damned if you do, damned if you do. Sometimes I do just sit here, nothing else.|
|18||Walked the sidewalks of oblivion, it never rains there I’m sure. Driven to distraction in the Hot Rod of fools. Never coming down. Head in flames, hair flambeau. Drys out the sinuses but oh, at what a cost. Balloon station in the sky, where the ones that get away go to die. High in the clouds. Sometimes I am there walking amongst the dead balloons, head in flames. At 4 a.m. period Eyes half closed when you sing into the lamp shade my friend. It only looks like a lamp shade. Listen to the sound, I’m never coming down. But I won’t hold my breath. High up above it all seeking rebellion, accepting the sheet of glass. My new friends, the dead balloons and I will turn livid and rise again. Float away into the sunset. See the solid story, head in flames please, head in flames.|
“I’m like a brick in mortar”, said the Brick in Mortar. Stuck, but vital. Unique, yet not. Not clean but not dirty. God help the dirt. I’m for rocks, sand, gravel, dirt, filth, the whole deal. Dirt really should not be avoided. In the end it will help us defeat great evils. I am not a figment of my own imagination with dirt under my nails. The dirt can make you real. Standing in the middle of the road, dirt can protect you from speeding cars. “Sink your metal teeth into this”. That is what was said as the speeding car passed by. Bounced right off of me and my dirt. Some people might wear a hat or gloves. I’ll stick with filth thank you very much. Water is not a good solution to all problems. Faucet situation is reveled to begin anew. Brand new day. Drink me later.
My disease, if you please. Some sort of good time wasted on the masses. What is it with people? Seems like every last one of them has something wrong. Things I want to say to strangers but don’t: “Can I help you?, Can I help you with that?” It just never seems like the proper thing to do in my town. Look away, move on. Shielded from the discourse of course. I move on in silence. “That’s gonna leave a stain” I think to myself. Now if the belt of your raincoat or Dr. Who scarf is dragging through the city muck I will speak up. No one deserves that stuff in their life. I’m a fine caring person, really I am. Kitten saver. Protester of evils. When you suggested I stick my head in the oven I really thought it was out of concern for my damp hair.
Miss Mopey Down-Down can’t you come out to play? I’ve been beaten up by reindeers, seen balloons without wings fluttering along the ground. Held out April arms to catch what might fall. And the dogs will eat you anyway. Seen sticks, rocks, people, all rancid and hopeless. Wait, rocks are never really out of sorts are they? Seem they thrive in all environs. I’d like that disposition. Like a weed growing up through a small crack in the sidewalk. Take what you can get and run with it. I’ve seen the sky grow dark as I’m sure you have. But the next day resets as it all was before. Same day someway. Try to reach for the sky, try. Let us be hopeful, let us be splendid in our own ways. Teeth gash the hand that feeds us, that wound will heal. Try stoic in the face of it.
|22||Rick rack for my brickbats. And good weather down the wire. I’d like for there to be more solace in the abundance but I’m not holding my breath. I’ve heard the screams from my window on the streets below. A cat walks silently by. Change the world or just turn it off. I’ve got my own problems. Change the sheets for christ sake, this isn’t a science experiment going on here. The warm air of the still room hangs like the sound of a broken radio. What will I have for lunch? I have my held my own against the shadows and other useless things. And studied the traffic lights for a message, some kind of pattern, but nothing. Seen the magic junk carry on without remorse. Without a care really, but not carelessly. Shadows? Really? Yes, and other needless things.|
|23||Tales and tales of entrails. A good day for a found way as the situation arises. Light streaming in from the left of the day to what is left of the day so far. What’s that sound from the radio dial? A guitar can’t make that sound, I know that much. More anguish for the alligators I guess. Electric gravy blown forth. Grinding holes into the fabric of this world will not help you escape it. Leave the fabric of the world in one piece if you please. World Piece we’ll call it. The underknown and the lesser known and non-known entities all conspire against me some days. This day makes up its own rules. Follow or don’t follow at your own pace. Winners only win at what they are good at. Stand behind lasting creations, the made up ones, the straw and mud that your mind puts together.|
|24||Also, I have signed up for the new boredom. Have you? Not like Tokyo boredom. This is the hardcore, the last rites of stupification. Brain in the deep freeze (deep fried, well you get the idea). Like a single block of solid matter, no moving parts. Aspirin won’t help you. Guns can not protect you. Go ahead, stand against the back wall, this is the firing squad you’ve always dreamed of. Sat in that bar before, sun outside still shining. Bad news for ice cubes and their ilk. Thirsty nights no longer. I’m sad just to hear those words. Blankets on the bed cover up the seriousness of the situation. Short walks and loud sounds, let’s call it even or
call it off. A pain like no other. “I’m not giving up” said the ice cube in the sauce pan. “I’m never giving up . . . .
|25||Cry to the wolf, I don’t think so. Serious injury may result. No use, no use. Hearts will beat as often sighted, but they don't beat like that. That's not natural, god given. A hit to the face, a fist full. Lungs can't breathe like that anymore. Is that the road I hear calling? The road and my face, a beautiful match. Grind it down to the bone, or just walk along in peace. You can’t touch the magic of a long stretch of asphalt. Are the dashed lines painted on the road sending me a message? T, T, T, T: what could it all mean? Well I’ve been a lot of places and I’m going to see a lot more. Somethings I've seen, and somethings I've just heard of, funny how that goes. Not for the hard of hearing (hard of herring). Sort of a pinkish herring. The red herring can’t feel your tears.|
|end of Section 1.|
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