Banter

My life is banter. Endless gib, gab, all glib. Jibber jabber, walkie talkie. Commuting to work, down 280, respond to emails, have a few meetings, drive back up 280. Have a pre-dinner cocktail with a friend at a swanky hotel bar. Eat at Chevy’s, feel the chips crunch and crumble under my molars. Taste the overt salt on the tortilla chips.

Small talk to get to the big talk. I’ve been walking around quietly, in silence, with a big stick in my pants. A 4 cell Maglite, ready to shine the light on my insecurities, and swiss cheese dreams. Starting to get funky, gross n’ grimy.

My life is banter. Throw prudence to the wind, my dear. Cup your ear, is that John Lennon whispering come closer, over here? Psychedelic kaleidoscope eyes, blinded by a ceasing light. Vortex swarm, carry the waves over my shoulders, as the breeze crawls through my underwear. Black vapor holes, earworm tunnels through the brain of G-d. S-x, G-d, marvin gaye, spilled chardonnay. Cocteau Twins, to a triplet beat.

All a bunch of happenings, in between kind of things. Life, what happens sandwiched in between the bread of planning. Take a bite. Talk some more. Make it up as you go. Talk first, then think.

Analysis, analysis. Take it away from the computer screen, let the music breath. Listen to 40 mixes in your car. Burnt onto a CD, a secret star.

Shining, secreting humanity. Walkie, walkie. Walkie talkie. And I walk, and I shock. Fingers stuck into the sock. Wet sockets, toadie sprockets. Sprawling, spewing, filthy matter. Anti this, anti that. Counter culture, umbrella’d under a sub-culture. Popping subs. Sub pop records. Spinning around in a vinyl plate. Eat your block 8th note stems, with a fork and spoon. The kind that you stab, with steely knives. Killing the beast, pink Floyd on repeat. You try and you fly, soar and you score. Torn war, cloth of your mother. Sewn, hemmed by dried blood. Ink on a line. Drying on a page. Ripped, words spewed forth, spilled out. Erased.

And when the stream stops, dries to a trickle. You fell every sell. Black scythe, smiling sickle. Afraid of malaria, in a 3rd world. You, me, and them. Let’s kill’m all. Metallica beast. 80s metal, rawk — dropping, sinking like your wisdom in a Leonard Cohen poem. Rawk, drop, shock and dive. Shark attack, capitalist pride.

My life is banter. On the road of my tongue, Kerouac in a broken down bivouac — on a rivers Cuomo holiday, surf wax America. Ooing to the beach boys, that Neil young sang about — before he went tron, and fizzled out his doubts.

Banter.