VICELAND AD#10

Let’s only elect librarians to congress, let the dishwashers have a say in the senate, and put some drunks and outlaws on the Supreme Court. Nobody’s laughing and everything’s the matter. Too much bellyaching going on around while the tax-drenched get their nicotine fix around the corner from greed’s ugly cousin: envy. Sniffing that perfume doled out by the state to murderers, the conclusions you get to coming to about what you had coming to you. It’s a pasteurized calm that’ll never just do. The dirty fluorescents flicker and cramp. Underneath we’re ugly with ambivalence and armed with pesticides for jealousy. Sour potatoes. Abandoned amusement parks grown heavy with vines, sunk into the swamp water, empty and decaying back into nature’s resilient arms. Marry the plums to primrose in a vat of ferret-tail wine. Tell the hate-makers to comb their hair and get over it. There’s a mule deer in the vestibule and a blue book for the price of souls resting like a head on a platter. The wiser we get, the moodier our converted status of being us becomes. Tell what you know and be rowdy at heart. God, I wish the guy with a sax two flights down would just put a sock in it. But I guess that’s what you get when you get dopey and drivel on instead of calling (646) 851–0347.