Beer For Breakfast

A good God damn good morning to you. Oomph! Yes, this is an accelerated culture. Sick to death of the millennium. Y2K is boring. Fuck, I hope it happens. And what does that mean? Will people die? People are always dying. Will the world come crashing down? I'll be amazed if we survive. I'll be surprised if we all die. Death is the devil and he lives in our man made kingdom. Perdition here we come. If this is the penultimate climate, grab your hat, here we go. 

 Lately, which means off the top of my head, current events have been well bloody. Let's see. Oh yes, floods in China. Heat wave in the States. Earthquake in Turkey-more than ten thousand dead. Death toll rises. And people die. Sounds like the biblical proportions of mass destruction are on the way. Seven signs to pay for our sins. The man standing at the corner, the crazy, smelly, drooling one, with all his doom day predictions, is about to be right. Someone is going to be smugly correct. 

 And if you are reading this in the year 2000 and beyond, don't think you are out of the fire. This totem is a joke, rendering it ahead of it's time, if not timeless. If it's unremarkable too bad. Just bad luck, but that counts too. Laughing all the way to oblivion. There is no tense or time. Rhyme or reason. The poets struggle with linear infinity, it's constantly out of their grasp. The future, and death in general, yours and mine, is contumacious. And it can scare you so much that you forget to live. Tomorrow will never come. So cheer up because it might happen. And not only the apocalypse, but you might get run over by a bus or hit by a random stray bullet. You never know. The same as if you didn't know the definition of art. Trust me you don't. 

 And America. Hanging on to be the last great dynasty. Bam bam thank you young mama. Ouch. Her hymen is broken, let the blood flow. The average American is to blame. The average American is the most despicable being on Earth. The fact that the average American is not aware of this, just proves how ignorantly unaware, he or she is. With their PG ideals, vast knowledge of disposable nothingness, they offer little sympathy besides ridicule. 

 Silly American icons of the past hold up the future. Elvis as hero. Love affair with John Wayne, the gun toting cowboy. Smashing other countries fight for freedom. No longer worried about the American Revolution. Our forefathers would not like to visit the future. Everyone is killing each other, not for freedoms, but for money, insanity, personal expression. Guns are evil weapons of destruction. Plain and simple. Those hunters out there claiming it's sport, why don't they join a bowling league. How far removed are we to understand that killing a breathing, living, moving thing is wrong? Life gets harder, except for the average American, and fans of Ronald Wilson Reagan. Who by the way, if you buy into it, is still alive and discussing politics with Elvis and John Wayne. 

 So people die. Not that there is a dip in the population. Babies are born faster than cancer and MS spreads through my personal friends. This pisses me off. Bad luck, and yes, that counts too. 

 Lucky. It's damn hard to get lucky these days. Why do all the pretty girls need to have babies? Why can't they stay single and thin? Too bad they step off the auction block of sex. We need pretty single girls more than we need mothers. 

 In one sense of the time, history in the making- yesterday, the worst you worried about was your neighbors spreading gossip. A rat pack wannabe, behind his bar, talks the 50's talk. "His wife drank too many martinis." "Who was fucking who last night in the wife swap?" "And did you hear they were cousins?" Or some such shit. 

 And then you had to keep up with the Jones's. From 70's to 80's. Make love Brady bunch style. All those people ended up rich and fried. One happy family as it all went south, into the New South where they just abolished slavery of African descendants but Mc Donald's keeps hiring. 

 I've been writing. Still can't spell, but that didn't keep them from publishing me. I jumped around the room when I got the news. At first I was like, fuck yes I fooled them, then I thought of all the strewn effort filled hours I put in with no pay, not wanting pay, but work. Struggle, thought, perspiration, desperation, raised respiration, inspiration, bump, grind, doing crimes and opening the blown mind. All for what-rhetorical question. For me, of course. I'm a big mean bastard who cares for no one but himself. An egoist with low self-esteem. And I suffer. But hopefully you enjoy Pax Acidus. This is art, even though it isn't defined. 

 I realize how far I have come. And where it went. And death is around me. And I realize I was the one who was being fooled. Not foolish. And I deserve more than the fuckers, fakers, were willing to pay me for my story. The effort is never wasted, just unappreciated, under- appreciated. Flame on. Fire in the belly of the beast keeps breathing. Acid indigestion, the artist's burp. And what do they do? They sit back in indifference. Let it rot. Get soft. Left in the cellar of darkness where cooling agents go to work on the written word until it's watered down for consumption. 

 It's all or nothing in this game, like all the games that count, and I am still in the nothing. I have the total right to feel happy about my story finally getting to print. And in the end, who is fooled or who is foolish is still in the jury chamber. The decision is yet to be reached. I won't be around for the verdict, even though it will be young, fashionable, trendy, academic but not intellectual. The debate is never final.

 Today I get up and do nothing. So much without leaving the bed. I get an ear of corn still wrapped in tin foil from the barbecue last night. Grab some garlic salt, and an ice cold beer from the melting ice it was sitting in. My girl is still in bed asleep so I put on music nice and low. 

 I open the beer. Eat the corn. The sun is coming in through the window. My girl stirs in dreams unknown. I gulp the cold beer. Reflect the way it rushes down my throat. 

 The songs are melancholy arrangements sung in croaked voices, gin soaked, cigarette smoked, down and out and broke. It's uplifting to understand the disturbance these men went through from the distance of the cushions. Beer in my hand. I am content. Until I finish it. I get another beer. There is plenty left over from the party last night. As long as the starving artist mystic never takes up stance while I am lying low. I believe the lies told so truthful. Beautiful tumbles in the hay. 

 Beer is best in the morning. A loving, delirious, glorious blue eyed playboy cunt with full stand up voluptuous tits-beer is Heather Graham! Tripping through life, staggering and mumbling and slurring, whispering the seductions you can't help but believe. Beer is the juice you need to be free. Just a few sips and you are there. A few more to try and make it last. It holds you in, tells you the sweetest lies, like everything will be okay, beer keeps the enemies at bay. Sails you away. Nothing is better than beer for breakfast. So sweet you don't mind going insane a few hours later. 

 My girl slowly stirs in her surroundings. Waking up with sleet in her eyes. A smile on her face when she sees me drinking. A few days ago I asked her if I drank too much. She said I drank too little. And she liked me best as a miserable depressive bore who is writing no matter if it is shit or not. Effort made is better than nothing gained. 

 First person, present tense. Valid. Today at the table. Take a seat next to me. Let's eat this feast. Drink the wine of it. Cry the tears of it. Life influenced on survival. A universal make-believe. What is relevant should be told. And told to whom, when it makes sense only to the self. Somebody, somewhere, someplace, will understand, not after too long, forever far away. You don't do this for yourself even when given no other choice. I hope you enjoy Pax Acidus. 

 She understands. To her anything is better than living in the bullshit. Man made, force fed cow shit we are all made to swallow. The manure of gutter swelling. The day jobs that eat nightly at our souls. And the lack of imagination of the masses to do anything more in effort than to flick the television remote. 

 Technology that aids in intelligence and communication-good. Technology that aids in ignorance-bad. It's so simple they should teach it to kindergarten kids using PC's. But so many miss the lesson. Or they forget so much in life that they carry on like they never knew. Has life become so hyper-concentric that we need to dull our surroundings? Are we hollow at the core? Modern life with all it's advantages, and people growing stronger, are we all withering away inside? I don't believe all the doom and gloom. Life has never been easier, or harder. That's the nature of the way things work. That is the problem. But at least it's left up to the individual. That's a good thing, as my girl sees it. And the reason I love her is for her perceptions. 

 She knows that sometimes I won't get out of bed, like today. And the low life swallows me whole. It's easy enough to get fucked, shucked like a raw oyster, down the gullet of mediocrity. The fear to create stifles the sane, even though everyone is not an artist. Encourage children to finger-paint up until the age of ten and then let the fireman (for the girls), ballerina (for the boys), dream take over. Kids need to be left alone. 

 The once beautiful single independent girls are now boring overbearing mothers. These women are taken out to the pasture of personal shame. The suburban goddess of Penates. Some reward. So they fester it upon their offspring. Teaching the birds and the bees so their kiddies won't get fucked over. The children just have to be special, damn it. 

 So I drink my beer. I need to work. Not at a job. But to sit and do what I do alone at the computer. It's never easy, but sometimes you can make it less hard on yourself if you become a bastard to the world. Never trust a man who doesn't drink. Never read a writer who doesn't muck it up, a personal emotional fuck up. 

 Writing, the sweat that doesn't get paid, the respect doesn't come until it's over blown. The bleary eyes, arthritis finger tip touch, the encouraging word left unsaid, but it still moves onward. The only option left for the educated chess player, independent thinker, the used book buyer, the person uncomfortable in their skin, who have no social skills, or community standing. Lay down in the low life. Alone. Married to the belief. 

 There must be a better way of making a living. Ask an actor. I know a guy who despite his obvious talent doesn't get the roles. He is a young character actor. Maybe it just takes years. He will never be a Tom Cruise. Both blessing and disguise. 

 But making it come true, even though it's not said, is the greatest challenge. The lucky break. True talent will shine. Ask Van Gough. He cruised the Viper Room. Was the guest star on the Ed Sullivan show. 

 Talent is everything. Not luck. Dumbness helps, a numbness abounds. You have to leave your mark. If you wait too long the passion will pass you by. And I have known much better writers than me, witty fucking chaps, who when it comes down to it just couldn't hit those fucking keys. Oh, it's so much easier to be a critic, a fucking petty, pedant manipulator who wants to curse the spirit instead of giving it the chance to soar and fly high in the sky. You know way up there, past the parent perception, raising the level of expectations. Being the fool, letting it all hang out on the line. 

 I run around claiming to be the best fucking writer on the planet. The fact I can't spell never hinders my exuberance. Never enters my mind. Not when I'm in the thick of it, can't even spell but working at it, worrying, whoring, getting published, all the while my peers, who always had the talent, too much knowledge, but never the get go, the rush, the cock, the fingers to do it, sat jacking off getting old. All my writing peers who put down nothing but incomprehensible nonsense, rely on a squalor inducing sesquipedalian. What a put down, a spit in the eye of overachieving triumph. 

 I have no time or thought for that. I come to big words by mistake. For I have the morning. And my beer. And all the world and the left over. Too soon to tell what is happening because forever hasn't arrived yet. 2000 is a hangover away and if you blink you'll miss it. 

 My girl wakes up. Finally, fully aware of her surroundings, finally getting a grip on life, a new day. She goes straight for my dick, good homing (horning) devise. First gabbing it playfully, and then sliding down, she puts it into her mouth. She sucks me off with such skill. Where she developed such astounding technique I never asked. I drink my beer. As I drink I look down at her. Her head bobbing up and down.

 I take a Polaroid. And she works as I bask in the pleasure. This is a voyage well worth taking. 

 Travel agent clientele pay big bucks to reach a destination where they feel at ease, looking for pleasure they can't get at home. There is money to be made in the leisure industry, so it's not a bad scam to get in on. Hotel bell hops, waitresses in the sky, flowing boat drinks with fruit and umbrellas in them made by tanned bartenders, put you at ease, to please you, even though through the fake smile even the most dull patron can sense the inward seething. They all make the vacationer feel like they have arrived at a location that offers better prospects. Not for you, for the bucks. But the living dead don't get a holiday. The beach bum has it right. Why not live in paradise if you want sun and beach. The choice is to make it your life. And you should live the life where it's not necessary to take a vacation. 

 Permanent travel is the best occupation. Open up the senses. A tourist can go anywhere and never experience what it's like to leave home. A traveler learns and explores, not looking for a catered western ideal of comfort in a third world country. Be a traveler, not a tourist. 

 I come as I sip the beer. My girl and I both swallow everything. Take it all in kind. Open for trade and salvation, for something that is all bodies of inspections. Never afraid. All raised concern and praise. That is the truth. The cost of living left behind. The truth is found, what I believe it to be. That's all that matters.

 After I come we both sit sucking. She keeps me in her mouth. Keeps me hard. Lips rounded, and tongue doing calisthenics. Come and saliva trickle out her mouth. She sucks. She enjoys sucking my dick. She told me so under no pretense. I drink my beer. I come again. We both swallow life together. 

 "Wow! You can only do this when you drink," she says licking her swollen lips. 

 "Yes, but most guys can't do it at all," I tell her. Not knowing if it's true, but other girls before have been amazed at my ability to stay hard after two or three orgasms. No need to ruin both our fantasies. 

 That is beyond her. Above me. And she goes down for the third time. My cock remains stiff. I'm now throbbing, almost spent. She works the magic around my pleasant sensory glands. And I come again. Behind my eyes fireworks explode like sperm at a circus. No morals will be learned in this morning story. I drink my beer.