Pious Pitiful Pissants

Preposterous musings that fickle the intellectual

As the sun drops for the moons rise

and the simpletons waltz through brooding streets

in search of a little sustenance

Claiming the faithful for a few extra quarters

And squandering the goals of the fierce

Depositing the corpses at the back of the line

Where the smell will be less foul

And in limited time the prophetic fiends

will frequent the places of worship

Granting ill will in prayers for the damned

Who drown with the sinking stones

but be it not for me to judge

those that drudge the bottom of the pond

in search of a few extra dollars

for the four horsemen

For they beset upon the few

Who control the buttons

that can obliterate the oblivious fools

Geniuses in turns 

Mostly in blows

With sharpened pencils not unlike daggers

firmly held and then firmly planted

Waiting for the midnight howl.

Some Sort of Epiphany

When the man came home his wife asked him what was wrong, and he only replied that he did not know.   It wasn't so long ago that he would have compiled a laundry list of grievances to thrust upon her question, but at that moment he was left speechless.  It was accentuated by the sound of the kitchen faucet - that the wife had running for her many dirty dishes.   The water ran into water, and he pictured in his minds eye the suds building into a small bubble bath for the various plates and drinking glasses inside.   The food would loosen and then with the help of a rag in the hand of his frail wife they would be wiped clean.  He thought of all this rather than his irritation that the dog had pissed on the throw rug again.  In truth he could see the stain still their behind his eyes, a wide round yellow stain on the off white shag of that carpet that lay in the center of the living room.  It was a definite eye sore, but he had no defining words to give his irritable feeling.   His mind was at a loss, even for the way his wife stopped shaving her legs one day.  He had felt them brush against his own and voiced that she mine as well have been a man.   The man had not truly meant it, he did not think that his wife's hairy legs made her less of a woman but her refusal to keep her role bothered something guttural in his beliefs. 

She then briefly removed herself from his view, and he rocked - as he had been - in his black chewed on leather chair and he stroked at the stubble on his chin.   When once he had been so angry at the incessant noise of the neighboring children he was now finding it peaceful their obnoxious laughing and screaming.  He stopped rocking and placed the soles of his feet flatly on the wooden floor and he kept his fingers on his stubble.  "What are you making for dinner?"  He hollered to the next room.  Perhaps this newfound respect for the things he found disrespectful could be quenched with a taste of a good home cooked meal.

"I ordered out, chinese.  Hope that's alright."  She responded, their was a simple fear in her voice.  That bothered him, but not in an angry way, it was that gut feeling again, that vomit inducing queasiness.  It was in fact okay that they eat take out, it was in fact not a problem.  But he heard in her voice a fear that it would be.  He was hurt.  Had he really been that petty, that picky, that grumpy?   So much so that his wife would be worried he'd retaliate in some way for her choices.  

"That is fine."  He said.

Queen of the Movement

I blanket your shit with a stiff upper lip
Let's get one thing clear
You are not queen of the movement
You repeat offending joys
Surrounding yourself with smoking toys
And denying that you aren't just sitting on your ass
Only rising up to sit your ass over there
And to play with your smoking toys
To offer up your offending joys
Oh, Queen of the movement
Let me pardon myself from your view
Let me take the back stairs out
Lest I run into you
So harsh, ruthless, blind
You know you need a cause but take no time to really ponder
Attack and defense,
When there's only the holding of the gun
Empty and not cocked
Not aimed,
Just looked at, spun around and turned
Pondering, thinking
But you only see the steel
The weapon, useless without its bits
Without its multitude of pieces
And you spring into action
Knock away the useless thing
And pound the face of the wielder
Who may be an asshole
But who only repeated what he grew up knowing
Its the same,
Raised a specific way to the innocent people you claim to protect
Spiteful and stupid,
All of you, oh queen, yes all includes you
Grow up and stop being a fucking idiot.

Thorough Excuse - a short story

I am contractually obligated to give you the whole truth.   Not just the small tidbits one might expect from a story of this magnitude but the whole truth and nothing but it.   It's not that I think there is enough to warrant such a magnitude to what I need to say but the fine print above the dotted line I signed says the exact opposite.  It says that no matter what it was that I did wrong, I must be willing to explain myself in gory detail.  So here it is, the whole truth as I can surmise is necessary.
If I am going to deliver an accurate account of what went wrong I must first start at the beginning.   And by the beginning I do not mean my birth.  That would be far too much detail, no I will simply start at the start of that particular day - which was a Monday.    As everyone knows the start of the week is the worst day of the week.  There's no escaping this.  Garfield knew it.  It is an astrological exactness to everything that is wrong in the universe.  And my ill fated day was of astrological wrongs.  First my alarm was not set.   By not set I don't mean that the proper time was not entered, because it was, it was just that I didn't flick the little on switch to signal to my digital alarm clock that when the red numbers flash six'o'clock it is to be accompanied by an arrant and disturbing warning sound which really should be reserved for many natural disasters.  That's a ridiculous thought, as the horns they use now to warn of tornadoes and the like are much better than alarm clock alarms, but for the sake of full disclosure that was the type of thought that was going through my mind.   So I wake up about five minutes late, which means I'm pissed off.   When I open my eyes to see what ungodly hour my brain has decided to wake me at and I five minutes after the intended time on my clock I am naturally pissed.  This is an outrage, this is a break in the routine, this is a disaster.   I should not be waking up now, because now everything will be five minutes behind if I stick with my typical schedule, and since that can't happen I have to shorten some parts of my normal routine.   So either I lather up less in the shower, or I forego the toasting of my morning bread or I don't shave - which can't happen - or I will be late for work.   Decisions, already, at this time in the morning.   Like I said astrological disasters.  End of days shit.
I prefer to be perfectly clean so lathering less is out of the question so I stick to my normality in that regard.  I soap up my hair with this fruity clarifying shampoo that in fact smells like strawberries - like exactly like them.  Its fantastic, I can feel a layer of suds forming on my head and I figure I have an Afro foaming up there, and the hot water is spraying against my naked shoulders running down my body and I'm thinking I'm definitely wasting too much water.   That's a terrible thought.  A really tragic thought.  People are going without water, because of drought, or contaminates and crap like that and here I am loading my hair with seven dollar strawberry smelling shampoo and I don't care that water is passing by my toes by the gallons every minute.   I give the thought a think only for about two more seconds then I tip my head back and let the water rinse away the soapy goodness.  When I'm sure my hair is free I grap a bar of soap and get where I can get.   But there is always that space between my shoulders and the center of my back that tends to get neglected and i don't have a  brush to get to it anymore ever since the ex took it awhile back.  But screw it, I need to do what I can.   The water will probably make some soap land there anyways.
When I'm all finished with that and I dry off my face, my arms, my body, my legs, my balls, and my ass - in that order - I toss my towel in the hamper as though I'm a pro B-ball player.   But I miss and it drapes slightly on the corner and slides off onto the floor.  I pick it up on my way to the door and throw it in a tad annoyed like.   I tried to keep my mind off the fact that I'm still five minutes behind of my typical schedule.    Even as I slide one leg in after another into my boxer briefs, and then my work khaki's and my blue polo I can't allow myself to worry about the time.  
It's the toast I skip.  I grab and apple out of the fridge - the last one - and I pour myself a glass of orange juice.   I don't need the carbs, I have the fruits, the vitamin c, and the fiber, and I figure that'll be enough.   I scroll through recent news articles on my phone, well, actually I'm just looking at the newsfeed of facebook, seeing if there's any new developments in the lives of people that I went to school with who mine as well be strangers.   But I don't care.  There's something interesting about how other peoples lives are going, what they find worth posting about, what they are into.  Its interesting knowing where everyone is in their lives, even if you didn't care about them back in high school, but thats so long ago and you know you are not half the person you were back then, so how can you assume anyone else is.    That's what I do and then I click off after the the last vague post about someone vaguely complaining that their husband/wife/girlfriend/boyfriend/dog/cat/world/society doesn't understand or listen to them.   How everything is royally screwed.   I could care less, but I'm just a spy, I don't let anyone know I'm present and taking interest.  
I check the time on my phone and I've shaved off a few minutes, now I'm only running a couple minutes late.  I step swiftly from my table to the front door and slide on my shoes.  Retrieving my keys from the rack I open the door - making sure its locked behind me - and I make my way to my overpriced gas guzzling SUV that my ex made me buy because she convinced me that if we ever had a family we'd need something better than my old Dodge Neon.   Now I'm stuck paying for the extra gas while she gallivants with coke fiends and hippie dippy bullshitters.   That's neither here or there, I digress.  I mean why should I care what she does.  We're not together anymore, I don't care, but I know what you'll say well he must care if he's going to waste the time to write in his mandatory explanation, but the answer is I don't care.  That's what I'm thinking on my way to work.  I'm still a couple minutes behind, so I accelerate a bit more and my engine goes from a purr to a roar as it accelerates from forty-five to eighty.   I can almost see the numbers being shaved off, its almost like my own little time travel machine.
That's when the blue and red lights flash behind me.  I'm so screwed that I don't know what to think.  The idea of possibly driving on and leaving an officer of the law in my dust only enters my mind for about ten seconds.  Who am I kidding, for one it wouldn't be worth it, and for the other I'm just not that kind of asshole.   So I wait.  And wait.  And wait, and then wait some more.  I know he's running my plates.  I know he's trying to discern my identity - less I be some homicidal maniac with a penchant for murdering cops.  He has to be cautious, I get that.  I'm also late for work.   More so now.  I didn't even eat my damned toast this morning.  That was supposed to be my saving grace.
So that's why I'm late.   I hope I have supplied enough detail in my story to warrant a good enough excuse.  I'm glad this company gives so many shits about me.  It really makes me happy to know.