Don’t Give Me No Stinking Can

.astro chimp        I was strapped into a prosaic airplane, not exactly tight, but inexactly tight, which was tight enough, and too tight for me.  They, whoever they were and are, would not allow me to move about freely, even though according to the dictates of my mind when cutting fast and furiously loose, it was supposed to be all about me and my free will flying. Is that or is that not what I was inbred for? Whoever I am, was, or any of us, turn out to be.

They, whoever they were and are and will be, often when disallowing, seem to pop up like guises in many of the same familiar places, many with gray masks under ashen faces.  You know the type if you know what’s good for you.

riot police

Then, whoever it was, is, and will be, repeated, repeated, repeated. Bondage is made to be unbroken for a reason or reasons. Many reasons are good reasons for a good reason, plenty good. You’d better fucking believe it if you know what’s good for you. It all started out early before you were, are, and will be born, before kindergarten and puberty, playing with semi-precious dolls in the dirt. Many early mornings stayed dark as they must for precisely one of those better or best reasons. James Brown was the earliest voice to acknowledge with accuracy that it is what it is.

I received the message, also early, deep in my gut where I still felt sick from gravity.

color splat .

I requested all natural juices to stem the high tide of my guts leaking from the bondage but I was referred to the outside of a can to read a list of ingredients. I may have been dripping from over-sized pores according to accepted standards in least common denominators. Yet inside, there were still more ingredients clinging to the bottom. Then, I was referred to outsource management for a brush-up on, for, and by, the manual. Not one word against. But, I did not and I do not and I will not want before or after to drink no stinking list of ingredients from no stinking bottom of no stinking can.


Flying high often proves to turn out best when no hanky-panky mars a healthy return from orbit. Conveyance below the belt tends to be highly vulnerable when suspended by straps in lighter than dense airs. There was no argument to be made from me, only the remaining evidence of sickness.

color splat2

Was the pilot, on autopilot, also strapped down? From what little I could make out unclearly, his gray hairs might be showing erratic roots under his cap. Is that grayness still a sign of indentured servitude as it used to be, continues to be, and will be again? What if all the destinations out there, by all firm accounts lots of them, many for no more reason that that, lured him like the Sirens into rocks? Space, only seemingly empty, is filled with rocks. Most of my inbreeding, too.

Streaking rocks, as epiphanies in the making, may be the origin in the mulitverse of avoidance issues. Fuck me now or then if any of us, it, what, or what else, knows for fucking sure. Not even Elon Musk could predict what and where the next rock strikes next. Unless that is the ominous voice of Stephen Hawking doing all of the omnipotent predicting?


When flying, and especially while flying, I can’t see all of the red lights swinging from lamp posts below me, many strung up by opposable thumbs, as they lag like stalagmites, leaking. Minor earthquakes hardly register on the deadly Richer Scale in that way and that way only.

Many of those red lights need to turn green, and go fast, and get going to escape. If not that, what? Whoever they were, are, and will be. Stalactites too, dripping.

I won’t deny I was happy when the pilot only bounced twice upon coming to a complete halt on dry land before continuing because more and more if not that, what?  But still, even though when and while in motion, unless that was, is, and will continue to be especially in motion, why stay strapped down so very much longer when there is no beginning and no end and there never has been or will be.

Then, it was, is, and will continue to be suggested to me, and not only by me to me, as well as others coming in and from many directions, though not so very much out and out out there, where it shows in either outer space or my leaky guts, that next time I should try to fly higher.




About marclevytoo

writer of fiction
This entry was posted in culture, humor, poetry, writing, wtf and tagged , , , , , , , . Bookmark the permalink.

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s