Forest green song. Chocolate enchilada. The face of a dartboard. Crying sailboats.
I am a vehicle. A truck? No. A car? Probably. I’m small and I want to go fast. I want to be ahead of the pack like the first gorgeous rose that buds in the Spring. I don’t want to be slowed down by policemen. I want to zoom zoom zoom through life and prove I can be something special. Speed bumps and fucking flat tires are always in the way though. Love is like a giant pothole; if you get through the rough part, you’re fine. If you don’t, you’re loaded with more problems than the CEO of AIG. I avoid the potholes. Dance around them. Sometimes I slip. As the car expresses itself, purring engine like a comfortable cat, radio at full volume as the voice you hear releases his or her emotions in their lyrics, I realize I’m the only one here who isn’t expressing myself. Cars and radios are full of emotions. I am the quiet. I am the salad fork. The musician playing a silent instrument. I am the scratch on the ceiling. I am…losing at life.
Sinking groundhog. Wet cross. Bubble pillows. Glorified liars (oh wait, those are called politicians).
I am a painting. Unfinished product of course, but a painting that’s coming along. Like to wonder if my creator, whoever he or she may be, is proud. Smiling, beaming. Or pissed, frowning. Or just doesn’t give a shit. Big Bang Theory says we have no creator, but then who created the bang? Those idiots; everything has a creator, whether or not it’s a godly figure we shall find out someday. Sometimes I feel like a painted figure and the artist left no surroundings, nothing but white. Plain. Nothingness. Nowhere to go. I must create my own surroundings. What shall I paint? Who shall I paint? Where shall I paint it? Dark or light colors? Fate decides paint, and fate will be on my side sooner or later. I wish I could paint quickly, wish I could drive quickly. Never know when Father Death comes. I want my surroundings now. Now. Say “now” several times in a row. Damn it sounds whiny. Pathetic.
Fledgling seashell. Wicker blanket. Bar circus. The nomad in the dryer.
Pathetic like all the annoying dandelions that look the same, take up space. They will eventually be mowed over by a bigger force. They already like to fraternize with the insects. Lowlife shit. Ripped to shreds like a lion feasting on its newfound meal. I am a wallflower. (Check out the book “The Perks of Being A Wallflower”. It’s fantastic.) I am the observer of the world who watches the others stumble through Saturday nights like an alligator in hockey skates. I listen to the thousands of people tell the same two stories daily. The artist did a bad job with them, the artist created a bunch of old 1992 Ford Tempos with the license plate hanging by a thread and an engine running every other day. Two stories. Same version. It’s like a record player on repeat that you can’t turn off. Sex and beer. Sex and beer. Sex and beer. Sex and beer. Sex and beer. Sex and beer. Sex and beer. Sex and beer. Sex. And. Beer. Ladies and gentlemen, there’s ninety-five percent of your surroundings. I forgot to include a one-night lover. Excuse me. Stunned is the wallflower. Stunned like this year’s winner of American Idol. I don’t get hooked, I go the speed limit.
Open pupils. Pray to light. Anything different. Pleasant boundaries. Toy of fire.
What do I care about the work-in-progress surroundings of others? Their surroundings become mine, whether I want it or not. So I must care, whether I want it or not. I’m in this world too, but I’ll be fine; I’ll never sink into the navy blue words of apathy. I’ll always be the human in a world of robots. America’s robots. Blind. Look so real. Actually, look as real as proof that vampires exist. America needs a hero. Illinois needs a hero. Bloomington needs a hero. ISU needs a hero. Keeping your eyes open is the only way to see what’s not really there. The hero is busy flying down the river of excitement and passion. True passion. Uh-oh, river talk; Gabe will be happy.
Now I’m outside sitting with the insects I hate. Damn flies; I hear but can’t see them. I’m short of ideas at the moment. I’m short period. All good things in life are short-lived. Many bad things in life are short-lived. The earth spins forever; or at least many millions of years. Humans come and go, the circle of life. We’re here eighty years if we’re lucky. Each of us is one in a billion. We are insects. We inhabit. We eat. We live. We die. We have an existing purpose. Life is miniscule.
Red wedding. Bow tie time. Sticky glass. Steady wallpaper.
Whitman was right you know. The world would be a million times better if humans shared more qualities with animals. I love my dogs. Every time I come home, they look at me with the excitement of a five-year-old who’s just received a new toy. I’m the stranger they recognize, I’d just left for four years. No judgment. No racism. No war. No adultery. No. All they know is love, affection, trust and loyalty. I’ve been saying this since I was twelve, literally. Dogs are better than humans in countless ways. Gracias Walt!
Gotta keep the whole weird word thing going, I love playing with words.
Tree puzzle. Salt buffalo. Frame spray. Control pen. Recliner call.
Sorry for practically slating mankind. Everyone has a hobby.
JOE BALLARD (Word count: 956)