Wednesday, December 4, 2013

Pooping Light Beams

I wanted a cherry tree tonight.  That's a lie.  Sci-fi fantasies where everyone is brave, at the cusp of amazing adventures, spiting death...  That's where my mind was.  That too, is a lie.  I can't pick up Zarathustra for the life of me - 60 pages in.  The overman?  I can only imagine a Napoleon or a Caesar.  But there are no longer any wars to be fought like that.  Nietzsche responded on placidities side with a Goethe.  Am I beginning to hibernate for the winter?  Artificial light animated icicles sucking life from a coal burning station.  What are they doing here?  Yes, them, the extraterrestrials living among us.  And is there really to be an overman?  Phillip K Dick.  Valis.  The legend of the savior yet to be born.  Overman and savior do not necessarily equate.  Death ticks through every moment.  Customary sludge oozes from the infested houses and slimy brick buildings.  The light of God still shines into the darkness illuminating the path of the masses.  Dollars rain from a sun drenched sky burning bright.  Now did you say that... you don't say...  Some music store owner tried to convince the police and in essence framing me before all that I was mocking a political shooting murder and that that proved me some kind of terrorist or something when the only verbal business transacted was the arrangements of restarting guitar lessons after a hiatus and now he shop is closed.  The wicked ways of the world.  I ate a star for dinner and pooped light beams.