HonkIfYoureAGiraffe

The problem with being the go-to advice guy in any group of people is the bewildering thought all those people have that you know the first thing about their myriad problems. They come to you, baring their minds and hearts out, and they expect just the right combination of words out of you to take their troubles away. Of course, most of the time they already know this series of words they're expecting to hear, otherwise they couldn't tell when they'd be satisfied with the advice. When they don't know the words is when it gets interesting. People who don't know the next words that are going to come out of your mouth are some of the best peopl

I cannot see beyond last week Through the next day's flowery grace Or to the clouds up there And the spiral so fair I cannot tell you the time How long it's been, or how long it will be And I couldn't tell you the name of the street Or tell how light from the bulb starts to deplete The verdant greens and the luscious purples Come to life exactly the same And I couldn't figure out what to wear that night Even if I was told straight up, outright I'd be at a loss for words If I felt not with touch, but with sound I'd be lost in a daze If or even if I'm not in a blurry haze Words are almost never there to grasp But the senses ar

As before, in syncopation Everything off that creates a cohesive whole Greater than its parts Is now undoubtedly before me A discordant perfection that rings in my ears At one moment swift, tapping, elegant And the next slow, methodical, crashing Both are that is wonderful And a drum beats From a snare to pitter patter To the toms to resonate deeply To the crashing of that cymbal As they are two songs beating out of time That is messy, chaotic, meretricious Admirable in that art film way Before the final perfection, whenever it comes

For so long has humanity been As in its ways Driven by the sense Or the urge to rise When they felt the need to contribute to what they comprise Society, the needs of the immense Beaten forwards by senseless days For as long as they have triumphed Until one day, a man with clocks came Bearing down on his hunters with rigor: "Forage no longer when the time is right, Or when your body moves you, The bells ring when the time you tame Becomes the last deadly trigger And before long you'll have lost the sight Of cavernous depths left bitter and blue." Or when the written word came writhing Oh Socrates did decry: "Our minds are n

A Tragedy: For Sale; Dog Toys Never Chewed A Comedy: For Sale; Size 20 Sneakers Worn by Average-Sized Kid An Artistic Band: For Sale; Our Music Just Kidding, We Like Money A Corporate Shill: For Sale; Their Music Our Love of Money Gives Us More A Lemonade Stand: For Sale; The Hard Work of a Young Child Also, Tooth Decay A Stand Made of Lemons: For Sale; How Did This Get Here Please, I'll Pay You to Take It A Confusing Piece of Modern Art: For Sale; Symbolism so Abstract Only I Get It I Don't Like Money, You Pleb A Confusing Piece of Post-Modern Art: For Sale; This is not a painting I don't like money that follow

 "Could you describe her? What do you see when you see her that other people don't?" "Well, I can't describe her as a movie star, because she doesn't act. I can't say that she looks like Emma Stone but with a slightly different haircut or like Zooey Deschanel but with more beautiful eyes. I can't describe her as any other girl I've seen, because she is not like any other girl I've ever seen, truly. What I can describe her as, though, is akin to an inventor. There was a point when most homes in America did not have electricity. Oh sure, if you were rich you could afford it, but what hope did that give to the common man? None, as you can see

 One Day, Richard was sitting in his office. Let's pause for a moment. This isn't a very interesting way to start a story is it? Ah, but if I've kept your attention even up to this paltry point, you've no doubt taken notice that the story is already off focus from Richard. We'll get back to him in a moment, don't you worry. For now, I want you to think of your favorite animal. . . . Do you have it in your mind yet? . . . Good, let's move on. Richard was typing away at his keyboard as he usually does on Mondays thru Fridays, but today something unusual was going to happen. "Richard, I need you to come down to storage and deliver these crates

 I figured that looking down on my own corpse was such a rare occurrence that I ought to appreciate it a little more. My conscious mind wanted to savor this moment, as I was fairly sure it would never happen again. My subconscious, however, had very different ideas, and it set upon me the suggestion that I should scream loudly. Who was I to disagree? My subconscious knew me better than anyone, it had always been there for me in mysterious ways that I will never understand. I screamed loud enough for all the clouds above to hear me. It's late. It's always late. I'm always late, rather. The library doesn't like it when you keep books late. On

If I can't think of a good idea for a story, and my books are all aggravating agglomerations of misused and abused chapters; where do I turn but to poetry? "Words are flying out like endless rain into a paper cup" says Lennon, but the words attack and assail a page of papyrus with abhorrent disregard for its aboriginal qualities. Be it a typewriter, a pen, or an accredited arrangement of hieroglyphs, it's honestly just an exhibition of vernacular, lexicon, and simple vocabulary. They say Plath was daft but Joyce was choice, a prime pick of what a poet should be. It's like a fearful scream, adamant in its advance upon the acclaimed mind.