Monday, December 13, 2004

Meet Talia

Hello my name is Talia and I am looking for help. I'm looking for ways, any way, to avoid working. I’m not the usual slouch, mind you, I’m far too far out for that. I’ve been out on my ass for some time now, and I’m running out of ideas. Listening to a dreckumentary on uranium bullets, I wonder if NASA would be interested. I mean, I’m artistic. I figure I'd be ideal for some sort of experiment. The effects of artlessness in zero gravity perhaps? There must be a subsidized scientist with a budget out there somewhere, and I'm sure shehe or he-she could sort out the whens and whats.

I'm not looking for money, just in case you are suspicious. I’ve no need for that. Auspicious, but with enough altruism for a dime store mystic, I just suck off of our Ministry of Plenty. That’s what they’re there for, after all, aren’t they? And don’t think its all shi-shi dinners and elaborate practical scams, no, there’s a whole lot of this too. A whole lot of sitting around starving.

I'm not homeless. Don’t summon up that kind of pity, you. I gracefully decline all that. I have worked. I have had roommates and stuff. I even have an apartment, where I am right now, and with it I enjoy the interminable worry of next month’s rent. I guess my Civil Scientist would make note of the fact that these acts of financial desperation, these gasps from the gullet of societude seem to pounce around the same time each month. And no, it’s not a period thing either, so back off! Quite simply, there must be a grant in here somehow, doncha think?

And pardon my tedious typing and such. I'm well educated, but you’ll soon learn that everything has a political motive for me. I rationalize, yes, but I can back it up. Yet I rarely do. I’m one of those silent protesters. I’ve got opinions on tons of issues, strong ones sometimes, but I keep them to myself. People don’t seem to like me much, so I don’t have the opportunity to shoot my mouth off all that often.

That’s why this writing thing is such a great find. I can rabble and dabble all I fancy, and no one can really stop me. Who would care to anyway, right? And even if I die right here in bed, rot for days, chances are this would be discovered soon enough, and my ridiculous lifestyle will be vindicated. No, applauded!

the thing I have about work is less about working and more about time
more about time about time about none
hours exchanged
rehearsed and excruciated into regular daynights
for spare change that doesn’t
about working the thing I don’t have about none about time
is less about words and more about change
in a Bb minor harmelodic
on the cello of Sappho’s finest
the change about words about letters

so when I launch into that sort of thing just bear with me, as I have no need of sense and its makings, and I’ll tether on back before you’ll hardly miss me.

A song for the mood

*** *** ***
Would it that both joy and pain
Could trickle gently down the drain
For high and low to be extreme
I’d live with all that’s in between

I borrowed once and borrowed well
I mirrored everything that fell
From Fountainbleau to Auld Lang Zein
I borrowed well and called it mine

If ever were a point to come
Where eyes could see me deaf and dumb
And if in such a turbid sight
I still were fit to pick and fight


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