As a concerned citizen, I strive to conscientiously know my place. I may flap a few wings, but I don’t fly. I try to maintain a discreet distance from loaded weapons. I zip more than halfway up in exposed public spaces. I know not to ask too many of the reasons why. Plenty of lumps are there for the taking. The unknown is unwelcome. That’s what cement walls are built to keep out.
So, I was merely attempting to skip from one unmarked crag to another in the time-tested manner to which I had grown accustomed as a two-bit performer in the grand scheme of people, places, and things, when I began to feel a tension like a high wire act migrating lower. The dirt came up to meet me. Halfway between here and there edged closer. Contradictions not only teemed, but abounded. Did that descending dust constitute a rise or a fall? What was all that icky stuff doing stuck on me?
I flipped a pointed digit on my dial, and heard, “Take me to the river…and wash me down.”
Maybe I should have quit right then and there, as one trusted old axiom on the classic hit parade would have it. Any fool is supposed to be able to do the math that’s as easy as two bit arithmetic. But you know how the song goes. How would I know how to feel deeply if not for sorry? Who would be left over to to stick in a thumb and pull out a plum? Janis Joplin, who died young, sang, “Got to try just a little bit harder.” Shortly before dying young, she also sang, “Get it while you can.” I continued to think dumb stuff long after I knew better. Still do. It comes easy. Why not?
When Otis Redding wailed while tearing up London in the greatest rock and roll song of all time, Satisfaction, that he could not get none, he did it best. Soon, he would die young. The chill from the icy night when he died young still haunts. I wasn’t there exactly but I might have been. Rock and roll is about nothing more than getting none. That’s as easy to understand as pudding and pie. How dumb would I have to be not to get that?
Though I may have been pushing my luck again, I was sure that it would turn out okay. What uplifting morals ending which happy stories don’t? No need to get excited. Look at how that Aesop dude sacrificed a bunch of fleeced lambs for your yawns. Aren’t the birds stuck in those cage looking pretty? And smell that yummy bacon. I looked down at the small wound trickling blood from a minor limb and it still twitched. What more proof of immortality do I need? It, like me, remained attached to something bigger, grander. This here fluid leaking, this ocean heating, that aquifer sucking, all of the ice melting, and those masses teeming, is nothing. A mere 5.3 on the happy-go-lucky Richter Scale. No harm, no foul, no biggie. I know that I, much like you, as well as you and you, have bigger fish to fry. What looks good on the menu today?
According to recently revealed sources of unconfirmed information acclaimed on the infallible internet to be nearly as reliable as many other uninformed sources of information concurrently derived in stealth from scraps of insipid tidbits snipped in whole and/or part out of many if not most comically serious studies of generally non-specific tendencies in massive consumption of nibs, squibs, and dribbles, the most happening place for those with specifically little and/or nothing to say to say it most optimally loud and proudly is currently Nitwitter by a twitch over Fakebook.
I said, aloud, if not proud, “Who woulda thunk it?”
More reports, catastrophically, were soon to follow. But not from anywhere too uncomfortably close. At least that’s what I surmised to the best of my recollection from the data with no decisive proof to wrench me in any direction otherwise.
I re-tuned my auditory vectors to maximize pleasure. I became mighty fucking pumped. I got good and jerked. I visualized the fluidity of sheer peekaboo marketing. It gave me a lot of pleasure to ponder, a fuck of a lot. It still gives. You got to fucking believe it to make it happen. What gaping hole did all of those ground breaking big butts and boobs pop up from? More genius, that’s what. Maximizing is big and only getting bigger on all of the gizmos ticking like smart bombs on the internet. What a grand rhyming jam it will be when all the masses yearning to breathe free start sucking on the ether in jungles, mesas, and savannas.
When HHUMH thee tawny owl responded to the clash and clamor that arose from the erupting erudition, I felt as if my feelings were affirmed. I earnestly looked up at the graceful perch he had assumed and asked, “How do you manage to keep so vibrantly up to date with all of what’s happening in earthy current events while flying so high as we speak way up there?”
“Fly silent, fly deep.”
“But what about soaring up there so majestically high? Isn’t that where the pure air is rarefied? I thought that was the heavenly ticket to ride.”
“I don’t need no stinking ticket.”
“That’s easy for you, but what about me?”
“Who would any flyer up that high be talking about you?”
“That’s so unlike the faithful story I’ve been told to behold.”
“That pump don’t work without a whole lotta handles jerking.”
I said, “Uh…”
“You ever get close enough to smell the breath of a gull?”
I paused to reflect before saying, “Uh…”
“Gulls eat trash. Even a seed pecker knows better than that.”
“But isn’t that enterprising?”
“No, it’s trash.”
“What does it smell like?”
“Like humans. What else do you think trash is going to smell like?”
I was about to say, “Give me a break. You know me. It’s not me. Maybe the guy next door, or the next guy on the block, or the guy across the street, or the guy after that or…” But then I remembered that HHUMH thee tawny owl was able to read my mind.
Instead, I said, “Uh…”