Greetings to the Depraved and Sleep Deprived;

Let me begin by saying that I am technologically challenged (and might I add, financially challenged as a result), so creating a blog is a bit out of character for me. On the other hand, nighttime mania, my unfortunate superpower, allows me to think and act in mystifying ways. Thus the birth of my crippled brainchild. The following content is unapologetic, crass, and certainly not politically correct. So if you have a proclivity towards Hallmark, Disney, and tact--or if your circadian rhythms are like a velvety Beethoven symphony --this may not be the blog for you. For all of you unfortunate, standing and pleading at the gates of R.E.M.; you, white-knuckled while awaiting your Ambien prescription refill; you, counting endless sheep--so many that you could felt around the world...Welcome. It is nice to finally have some company.

Wednesday, February 16, 2011

An Oldie of Mine--"Children's International"

The full-bodied Merlot hits your mouth,
filling every crevice of your ravenously bitten, dry, and peeling lips–
the sting–
then the swallow.
And you take a curious gaze, and a confused moment,
glass held like the newborn just delivered
from the woman who didn’t know she was pregnant–
“Thyroid my ass!”
She had snarled,
but softened as a moment of calming strength trickled through her i.v.
And as you gaze,
you think about...ponder...turn upside down in your head...
60's music legends
why certain low end motels boast a very Mojave Desert/arizona motif–
cactus studded trims, Native American acrylic paintings, those sand-stained pinks and greens.
You ponder...marinate, like two teriyaki skewers;

What the Fuck is going on–
with your unarticulated next move,
and the haphazardly executed previous moves.

Pretty sure yesterday found you in the most desperately grim of states,
Tostitos and colby jack, kellogs, seasame bread and butter, brownies...
And as you approach the 4th brownie in your crusty red robe,
hair so greasy you could fry an egg–
you stare, , transfixed, ,
at the fifteen minute Children’s International advertisement,
blaring in the background.
And perhaps it is the fourth brownie,
or the self-pity oozing from your every pore...
But you start thinking that $22 a month is an excellent bargain,
to help a poor, pathetic, maggot-infested third world child in need.
Perhaps it is simply the African American host
who reminds you of the Reading Rainbow mentor of third grade.

Your mind diverts–
Didn’t Susan Sarandon host these types of infomercials?

You skip again–
and for alliteration purposes,
there are a lot of famous women with double S’s in their names–
Susan Sarandon, Sharon Stone, Suzanne Somers,
the list pours from your well of mindless knowledge,
originally entreated by Jack and Jill.

Sarah Silverman–
Is this really what’s going on again?
Anything, you think,
just any benign dribble to connect the empty minutes.

“I’ll do it!” you affirm,
referring to sponsoring the overseas child,
And once again neglecting the real child–
the one couch-ridden in the tattered red robe,
brownie crumbs from the fatal fifth.

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