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| I question Mark. |
I've never read anything past the words, "How to." Goals, like band-aids, are just something I bleed through. Dreams, a read-through, the before the after. Happily ever after seems a bit like lazy falling action. Why does the action have to fall anyway? "You're a writer, why are you bothering with gravity?" I guess I just try to stay grounded-- I'm too old to have my mother do it. I don't like thinking about my mother doing it. That's why I'm doing it my way. Technically that's Sinatra's way, but hey, life can't always take place at Burger King.
Life is like a passing thought. It's like an unfinished metaphor in that. Does the thought ever occur to you? No, I occur to it. My thoughts are sporadic and Socratic. They're dispersed questions, like a series of mosquitoes protesting malaria injections. They suck, they're full of blood, and they don't always make sense. But how do you make sense anyway? What's a rhetorical question with an answer? A paradox.
The point of prose is to substantiate poetic critique. It rhymes perfectly with morose, flows and even rose(poet's love that one.) What is a rose anyway, by any other name? Doth it not smell as sweet? Sure, unless you call it shit. What is the word shit, if not but a symbol for language itself? Poop, excrement, feces, defecate-- all sound far to delicate, silly and sophisticated for the crap they describe. Shit is curse, but it has the same amount of letters as poop. What makes one silly? What makes one inappropriate? I'd argue that shit is the most appropriate tag for a turd, yet such is its curse.
