no real human panacea

doing the clumsiest electric defiant mambo dance across the powerlines, a spectre of myself sneers my kung fu sneer at the hired goons below on the sidewalk, sent to teach me to swim with a little help from my living room carpet. the thing is, this, see.. they finished the job a while ago, and have already had a cup of coffee and a cigarette at some local dive after driving back from the lake where they deposited me. yeah, they looked pretty surprised. so surprised that they just stood and stared at this ethereal version of me without speaking for a while. my spectre was too busy to notice them. i think i was too, well, when i was still alive.

people can get beyond your reach. they just can, and i think theres really not much you can do. its a terrible thing; an action creates a gulf, a gulf can cause a paradigm shift. back to the drawing board? no, i claim this whatever for fucking spain. whatever that means, i've been razorbladed out of the celluoid. color, cut and print. my soul is disquiet. theres some reckless abandon left, there always is... and i have no idea what it will do next.

there was nothing left to borrow

so i was working the other day. it was about 645, just before break, when a suit walked over to my work area. at first i thought he was just going to kinda stand around and try to look important, but he ambles over towards me. he then begins talking with the word 'sir'. now, i dont mind being called sir, but when some johnny unitas looking motherfucker comes over to me in all my early-morning dishevelment and says 'sir' i don't think hes just being polite. he told me that i needed to put my hair in a pony tail or some shit, because my hair could 'get caught in something'. wow! considering the only way it could possibly get caught in anything would require me to lay down completely horizonal on the belt, and try to jam my hair under the sides. (ill try it next week and post about it lolz)

at this point, im thinking 'ive never had any of my direct soups tell me about this. there are some girls that work nearby that have longer hair that i. whats the deal?' so i replied to him with a 15% sarcastic, 85% neutral sounding "okay". i asked my soup about this, and he said not to worry about this, he knew the guy and thought he was getting "too big for his britches". nice colloquialism.

maybe the guys parents were killed by a ravenous, bloodthirsty band of peace loving hippies. i'd like to think so, but thats a difficult question to ask in the workplace.
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its almost christmastime, this is my happy face... nah.