...and the reward that may await you.
life becomes small
when you look through your eye
a door down a hall
you can't reach though you try
when nothing exists
until you say it does
and to those who resist
you say it's so just because
I say widen you're stance
see your day through their head
for if you endeavor this chance
you may take them to bed
Thursday, August 14, 2008
Who has their Own Kryptonite?
I mean something that leaves you, nerves shattered so badly your whole existence gives in and you're curled on the ground in a fetal position twitching, nearly insane?
No? Me, neither. Okay, I do. Bet you do to. Example:
Several years ago, a friend of mine and I were going daytrippin' to a beach over an hour away...you know, a real beach, meaning there would be a lot of girls we could pretend might like us...not that we'd go up to them, as there'd be no challenge to it they'd like us so much.
Anyway,
We had to take a highway there and we're going about 65mph, when suddenly my friend - who's driving - starts in a voice rising to a scream: Make it stop, make it stop, make it STOP, MAKE IT STOP!
And he SLAMS on the brakes, screeching us into the breakdown lane, leave part of his tires in a zig zag skid on the road. 65 to 0...like that. He grabs his head and holds on, breathing out and goes: I can't stand that.
Stand what? Styrofoam on Styrofoam.
It was the cheap cooler we bought to put ice and sodas in. The top had come loose and started jiggling on the less than smooth road we were on. So, his kryptonite? Styrofoam.
Me. Metal against gravel or tar...especially a shovel for some reason. I'm done. That twitching fetus on the floor. I can be talking and laughing and joking and ready to take on anything, shoveling away snow with my PLASTIC shovel and someone else will suddenly hit driveway with their METAL shovel, and I'm done. Baam. Like that. Mid-sentence.
And it's one of those slow-motion-twirling-round-and-down-as-motor-control-over-speech diminishes-to-that-of-a-person-who's-just-had-a-Novocaine-injection-and-I-all-but-collapse-or-do type of done.
Now kryptonite. Those are rare tiny fragments of Superman's planet Krypton after it exploded that rained as meteorites onto Earth. My friend and my Kryptonites can be purchased at any local store...for cheap.
And so, if we were the superheroes, all the criminals would have to do is rub Styrofoam together or repeatedly scrape metal on gravel. Not only would we definitely not get our own type of "Bat Signal", we wouldn't get a call. And if we called them: Thanks guys, but we've got this one handled...and as they'd hang up, we'd hear them laughing out: It was the SuperZeroes again.
So, your kryptonite?
No? Me, neither. Okay, I do. Bet you do to. Example:
Several years ago, a friend of mine and I were going daytrippin' to a beach over an hour away...you know, a real beach, meaning there would be a lot of girls we could pretend might like us...not that we'd go up to them, as there'd be no challenge to it they'd like us so much.
Anyway,
We had to take a highway there and we're going about 65mph, when suddenly my friend - who's driving - starts in a voice rising to a scream: Make it stop, make it stop, make it STOP, MAKE IT STOP!
And he SLAMS on the brakes, screeching us into the breakdown lane, leave part of his tires in a zig zag skid on the road. 65 to 0...like that. He grabs his head and holds on, breathing out and goes: I can't stand that.
Stand what? Styrofoam on Styrofoam.
It was the cheap cooler we bought to put ice and sodas in. The top had come loose and started jiggling on the less than smooth road we were on. So, his kryptonite? Styrofoam.
Me. Metal against gravel or tar...especially a shovel for some reason. I'm done. That twitching fetus on the floor. I can be talking and laughing and joking and ready to take on anything, shoveling away snow with my PLASTIC shovel and someone else will suddenly hit driveway with their METAL shovel, and I'm done. Baam. Like that. Mid-sentence.
And it's one of those slow-motion-twirling-round-and-down-as-motor-control-over-speech diminishes-to-that-of-a-person-who's-just-had-a-Novocaine-injection-and-I-all-but-collapse-or-do type of done.
Now kryptonite. Those are rare tiny fragments of Superman's planet Krypton after it exploded that rained as meteorites onto Earth. My friend and my Kryptonites can be purchased at any local store...for cheap.
And so, if we were the superheroes, all the criminals would have to do is rub Styrofoam together or repeatedly scrape metal on gravel. Not only would we definitely not get our own type of "Bat Signal", we wouldn't get a call. And if we called them: Thanks guys, but we've got this one handled...and as they'd hang up, we'd hear them laughing out: It was the SuperZeroes again.
So, your kryptonite?
A Poem To The Working Person
The phone rings
The dog sings
The clock brings
Life into my day
The eggs fry
The toast is dry
I say goodbye
And am on my way
The ride's the same
But whose to blame
I forget the name
Of who I'm driving
I reach the shop
My car I stop
My briefcase I drop
As I'm arriving
My boss is mad
But he's wearing plaid
And so I'm glad
At what he's mad at
The hours pass
They're done at last
I'm home so fast
to my welcome matt
The dog sings
The clock brings
Life into my day
The eggs fry
The toast is dry
I say goodbye
And am on my way
The ride's the same
But whose to blame
I forget the name
Of who I'm driving
I reach the shop
My car I stop
My briefcase I drop
As I'm arriving
My boss is mad
But he's wearing plaid
And so I'm glad
At what he's mad at
The hours pass
They're done at last
I'm home so fast
to my welcome matt
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