Metaphor Mike and Simile Sam
2002-04-10 - 11:27 p.m.
Metaphor Mike and Simile Sam
Ate a strawberry pie
And neither the Mike nor the Sam
Could tell you exactly why.
Metaphor Mike took a third bite
as Similie Sam began to cry
�That isn�t like pie, not like pie at all�,
he exclaimed full of tears as the sky
�more like my grandmother�s right knee!�
Metaphor Mike shook his head
�I would compare it, you hairy turtle boy
to an Autumn in summer, with a touch of lead.�
Half-sunburn from anatomy class, which was had outside, to the benefit of all [most]. Geese kept flying overhead; false warning.
Me, walking into a friend�s room: Heyhey, do you know what day it is?
Friend: Umm, I give up...
Me: It�s Tuesday! And you know, anything can happen on a Tuesday...
Phone: *ringy-ring*...*ringy-ring*
Friend: *long pause, as the phone tells him his father has died*
Me: [shyt...I�m sorry...that wasn�t the anything I had in mind] Jesus...
Of course, I know that this wasn�t the fault of the Tuesday...it�s just odd that these sort of topsy-turvy events seem to happen on Tuesdays. I swear, Hitler was born on a Tuesday.
Luck-Related Sidenote: There have been at least four reallybig lawsuits concerning the funeral service profession in this year alone, where previously there has been a history of very few large lawsuits in this business. Everywhere I go, I tells ya...everywhere I go.
Old notes that I found lying around, and that I didn�t really want to turn into full-blown sentences...it�s an art, I tells ya.
�smoked so much weed...my head hurts.�
"too much theology...messin' with my head"
�April 11�
�Busted Bank�
�Buzz on/off sleep dep...sugar!�
�forget this in the morning {is not equal to} forgiven of sins�
�If there were a hook I�d be off it...if there were a handle I�d fly right...�
�become one of those people that cleans a spill with their foot rather than bending down to clean it...�
�two whole days forgotten...three.�
�Androgen: the chemical that makes up games, since 1062�
�Meghan {equals} LD(50) for �intimidating�!�
�to be drunk is to over-estimate�
�Meghan doesn�t like you when you�re drunk, asshole. -Jason�
�hands and turkeys�
And a whole note (no refrain): The problem with my thoughts, I think, is that they don�t stack well. Thoughts need to get progressively smaller to stack and retain their stability, because [unless of course, one is a �thought architect, one who builds thought structures for thoughts to be supported-by / encased-in / enclosed-under], otherwise one would simply be making skyscrapers. Very unstable. And these thoughts of mine seem more or less the same size no matter how flighty/theoretical/immaculate they happen to be. Fall down go boom, they do. Bad architecture in my head, they says.
Letter from cell 101A:
Dear Parents (all 4 of you),
. I dearly hope this letter arrives in your hands, unviolated. I know that you think you�ve enrolled me in an institute of higher learning, but you�re really paying for an expensive, low-end prison. Today there was a raid on my cell block...they searched through one particular cell until they found what they were looking for, so that they could deport the guy. It�s because this place is little more than a holding pen. They aren�t concerned with providing things for the average student to do in their spare time, and no one can think of anything better to do than smuggle drugs and alcohol in. Ocasionally, you get a really creative guy that uses all his mental facilities to think up something really crafty. Like run around in the street. Or piss in the hallway. It�s starting to make sense to me, why some of my inmates have lashed out physically, punching holes in the interior walls. The institution isn�t concerned with education either, as far as I know...they tore the mission statement out of our books before we could read it. And then there�s the food. We eat the same meals each day; during the fist few months, there was an epidemic of anemia, but the statistics improved when the facility sent them home. Can�t trust anyone. Can�t trust the wardens not to steal my stuff, so I carry what I can on my person: money, keys, and a bottle of coke. Can�t trust your room to be safe from a rapist if your door isn�t locked 24/7. Can�t trust people not to hit you in the head with a soggy tomato, even though there are cameras everywhere, because when it really comes down to it, no one cares. But that�s not the thing that really gets to me. This hellhole, this college, Mt. Ida College, in Newton Massachusetts to be specific, stole my idea. I just wanted to express myself, set up a method for other people to do the same...a sort of freedom of speech thing. And now...through the processes of the leadership of this institution, it has become a college-owned project, headed up with leaders, and editors...I feel like I have to swim through a bucket of red tape to write anything. And all I wanted to do, in the first place, was show the world a poem or two.
-Jason
PS: Send soap. I dropped my second-to-last bar yesterday, and the other guys are looking at me funny.
I really didn't want to jinx it, but I might as well post it now: Tomorrow has the potential to be a very good day. I might even get a cuddle buddy, if I can keep my lowercase 'P's and 'Q's segregated by literary chickenwire.
