Mop Head

speechless 2      As I was saying just the other day, or close enough, to my friend the Unpaid Internet Content Provider, after an interruption, “As I was saying…”



“I can’t wait.”

“Hold on.”

Is the misdirected pause that prematurely douses fertile fits of heat simply one more symptom of a rampant scourge of shallow intercourse endemic to mundane chatter on the periphery of meaningless events where frail words have succumbed like a fey biatch to stout numbers, and don’t mean diddly any longer to any or none of the above, or is it just me who gets that a lot?


Reasonably, I responded, “How much longer must I have to wait?”

“You’re asking me?”


From all that I have been able to gather willy-nilly from committed first person observation of the multiverse despite myopia from afar, without any particular evidence, expertise, insight, interest, scheme, doctrine, demagoguery, faith, fidelity, zealotry, or paid employment to bog me down, and after groping with vast scads of exponential ramifications of multitudinous contradictions, the second most basic building block of the multiverse, on a regular though inconsistent basis, along with unintended consequences, either the fourth most basic building block of the multiverse, or the third, depending on where the mistakes are buried, sort of, which might lead in any one essential direction to the exclusion of others, the answer or answers remain unclear.

string theory

“Same old, same old.”

“What do you expect?”

“I am trying to swear off expectations.”

“Try harder.”


Who was it long dead who said free your mind instead? It wasn’t just the other day even if it seemed like it was or had to be. Dead for him may be all in his mop head. Or could be. If not that, what? And when? Seriously.

I declared, “You’re still just sitting there doing next to nothing, aren’t you?”

“Your point?”


It is likely rare in any known context, which is all I’ve got to work with, no matter how hard a worker I may fake appearing to be, for basic building blocks of the multiverse to be inactive for long. Dynamism is the name of that game. There is no mere lurking in shadows for the basic likes of figure-eights, contradictions, mistakes, unintended consequences, or free radicals, the fifth most basic building block of the multiverse. Don’t try to tell me that any free radical is just far out there, lurking.

For the umpteenth time, I muttered, “Oh, for crying out loud, and for Pete’s sake to boot.”

“Why try so hard to become melodramatic?”

“What’s so funny about a little peace, love, and understanding?”

“Melodrama may be shallow and demeaning to your presence.”

“What’s so shallow about demeaning?”

head in sand

In one unexpected transition to more heat and less fog, leading to more blame and less shame on behalf of more guilty parties, more slugs become more meat for more skunks squeezed into less room to roam abutting the redwood forest. All of those dead skunks that pile up on the side of the road get to go nowhere. Don’t you believe with all of your fruitful faith that something smells fishy? Form snaps repeatedly at the slimy ass of shallow content in mass graves and kicks hard. The superheroes of old can’t help but look pretty threadbare and war-torn in the backwash. None of them can even leap a single tall building in any odd number of bounds. And what kind of dead desire leads to fucking virgins anyway? While it may give no great pause to the many happy-go-lucky dogs and their walkers who talk the talk, what if the air conditioning gives out and the stink multiplies exponentially? Will expectations remain no less lethal? Will illicit traffic continue to abet unabated? Will you learn to clean up your own mess? Will your scabby knees ever heal? As the second most basic building block of the multiverse, we know contradictions will always abound.

Having lost my place where the answers are buried, I said, “Uh.”

He said, “You know what they say about that.”

“Not usually to my face.”

“Whoever they are.

I won’t claim to know or care who they are but I know they make me rub my eyes, bash my skull, grab my throat, gnash my teeth, bleed my gums, bend my neck, lock my hips, bump my knees, stub my toes, piss on my own pot, and scratch the spot on my own back that I can’t reach. When it don’t work no longer I’m left with an empty hand to shuffle.  Suck on it all day, sucker. I’m as sure of it as I can be. What more about all of that above and below needs to be said by me?

I said, anyway, “Is it really too much to ask?”

As a ricochet, I heard, “Examine the evidence.”




About marclevytoo

writer of fiction
This entry was posted in animals and birds, environment, humor, legalize marijuana, writing and tagged , , , , , , , , , . Bookmark the permalink.

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