Poetry


Tuesday, March 23rd, 2010

 

Cannon Revisited (Unannounced)
Mike Parrish 


     Lost in technological advances toward mankind’s industrial implications of progression a forward motion might be discovered to be nothing but hazardous. A scripts’ “white-out” in 20 AD on goats skin didn’t exist and a journalist’s typewriter originally never had the function of erase and delete or copy and paste until the computer arrived.     

     Epochs have come and gone by the side of wayward sons with indifference to technology. Certain effects of machinery aid as others hinder the progressions of social wellbeing. Abundance of individuals sick in their pants towards social disciplines control the masses of all the sycophants. 

     Other days a curiosity of how the American life can, “get right” is contemplated as every attempt plummets into the water like a pelican swooping for groceries at the Old and Sleazy. The times of past are segues for new forms of entertainment and publicity of post-pubescent cities where the customer is left to bag his or her own shit with the choice: paper or plastic.

     Such thumbprints put the pants on sycophants as turnstiles ejaculate the turmoil and leave. Plastic utensils are traded up for plastic people who are bought and sold with plastic cards. 
 
  American Typewriter o’ American typewriter tell me how it once was before the confinement of computers. To this day everyone still wanders in the midst thinking; “Aren’t we curious about the interesting things occurring behind those French blinds.”

     Technology develops and the American prospects on how to socialize declines. The once stop and converse became the stop and small talk to walking by and a nod because the hip headphones act as social earplugs. Leaving the passerby to be curios about the interesting things occurring behind those carefully closed French blinds.

     At one point or another a thought or two cross the mind and imagination takes over. Nothing more was of existence in the moment to pass and each consecutive thought led to a deeper twisted reflection. The crinkles, bends and conjugations in the foil told it to be so as reflections twisted in and twittered out in the turned folds.     

     Today could be nothing more than the time to be made of as individually chosen. Yesterday past as nothing but a memory, yet it is still left in question in the nature of philosophy. Should it not be characteristic of society to question all the, what ifs and if what’s, in turns of presence. Fifteen minutes of fame are accomplished everyday as someone adds a face to a book or a book to a face.  

     Conquest of double penetration precedes yesterday’s thoughts and yet the sight of the daily news on the television recurs the angst. A classic, “if it bleeds it leads” scenario occurs as time slips by the madwoman with syphilis on the I-405 in a high-speed chase because her man didn’t come home. When the smoke clears and the sirens silence themselves by the simple flick of a switch the thought of infiltrating those carefully closed French blinds surfaces to only leave the impression first obliged.

     Click, clack, clickitty clack, shutter and slide the ratchet back; some words are spoken to be written and others written to be told. With each letter pushed and punched this American typewriter snacks on fingers as though they were the last ten Twinkees a fat boy would ever eat. Action determines the next move in all instances, seen fresh and unseen easy, as if to be sleazy.         

     Jokes to be told and jokes to be played never escape a lasting impression on those who’ve heard it all. Flatulence takes the role and disdain leaves no lasting fancy to behold or be held. Font and text are only dat3d by the ashes and need for compassion towards attributes in history. For individuals who understand disregard for what is committed there is not the same supposed regard for responsibility in doing so.

     Ejaculations of truth are forthcoming and easily hindered when the only result is to question actions.  Intuition steps up to the doorstep and angels fall forth on the question. The, “Have gun – will travel” attitude of Richard Boones Palladin has become a tradition long lost.

     Profiting as a man of commerce is never as simple as east to west or north to south. To distinguish being on the right side of things is to ask a prostitute if she likes it in the ass; she might say, “for the right price.” The mad woman’s fifteen minutes of fame resulted in her face being published on the cover of a book, which depicted her traveling the I-405 attempting the fresh and easy. Dead men don’t cum may have been her last thought as she raged through her man’s carefully closed French blinds.
    
     Ironically, there might be no solution to anything because the substance of answers may not be driven by a plastic person’s grocery list of vanity. The teedle totter of life on the wild side has not proven to be anything of significance for a self well-being. The turnstiles at the red line leave ethics and morals in the coil of destruction and leave behind the dust on machine’s past expiration. 

     The attempt to cure inconsistencies could be lost as the lullaby of time passes by at no expense. The loss of time is a loss of answers and the further it delves down the rabbit hole of inequity the happier the Mad Hadder will be. No question of time occurred. No longer will time be in the past or present, leaving nothing but a memory of the future.

     The inconspicuous tendencies of Moonlight, as well as human beings, are forthright in their nature. Perhaps nothing to hide and perhaps nothing to gain but life from the sun’s reflection in trying times of closed blinds. The sun’s dying light feeding the moon through the night is a madwoman’s tirade across the I-405 and a plastic persons grocery list of vanity leaving nothing to bleed when the typewriter crashes Paladins’ commerce.  Much the same it would be for those who fornicate in any forum behind the carefully closed French blinds of social consciousness.     



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