Falling Down for Fun and Profit
The virtual psycho elephant in the room lost his nerve
playing pin-the-tail on the cranky Valley politician.
I kept egging him on to go for the jugular,
but the elephant really got the 3D shakes and couldn’t
follow through with any pure animal focus.
As it appeared to all of us surround-sound fanatics,
the whole nerve thing was just another ruse
to take our eyes off all the greasy fingers
flipping fun and profit left and right before sunup.
While I’ve had trouble not getting distracted
by the frolic intensity of my two-bit jazz membrane
as it bleaches beer and saltines to keep my two left feet
from giving way to some Bukowski lowlife instinct,
I still relish the bizarro Chateau Marmont encounter
living large once my head hit the eternal grainy pillow.
Yet, I’m still ahead of the curve by being on the in
with an army of bungalow cats too cool for school.
So maybe I should pull the proverbial plug
on the shady side of the long-lost family fishing trip
and leave all this falling down Rimbaud impulse
to the Westside suckers waiting for mommy leave home
in order to sign up for the cat infantry before the next
tortured elephant I meet can redirect the up escalator
into the blur made by the toxic tilt of fun and profit.
No comments:
Post a Comment