Why?

is what I'm listening to right now. It reminds me of those jejune days, those salad days, those delicious fruit salad days, when I aspired to be a freestyle rapper who played his own drums, made his own sic [sic] beats. I would wear a blue hoodie and khakis and blow the world kisses of sly, biting, wry poetic prose. That was of course before I heard my own voice or listened to myself try and hit things in tempo.

I will compose below some sort of ode to this lost feeling, this dreamlike whimper from which I once, and again, so richly woolgathered. If you'd like to hear something legitimately good, go hear!, because Why? not.


I crank out style like I’m the flowing Nile looking downstream with one eye on the Egyptian rank’n’file. I crank out crap like I’m in the Guinness, or it’s the morning after car bombs and minions. I crank up up and away like anyone who’s got too much to know what’s wrong but really wants to sing-song along anyway.

I come home late at night but it’s only six o’clock. I catch the bus uptown but I wouldn’t mind if it stopped. I crank out theories like they were never meant to apply. I only apply myself to theories floating up so high in the sky.

I’m making history like I need a pass to go to the bathroom. I’m dipping metaphors like double-dare goo all over the wrong answer. I lack coherence like I forgot the sticky substance when I posted my placard.

I crank out style like I’m flowing down the Ganges and I’m about to climb the holy stairs. I crank out of style.



Alternates:
- They call me Keith Olberman because I once dated a nineteen-year-old, now I’m stampeding out of buses somewhere in the old world.
- I try to make out the delta but nothing’s coming together.
- I make music with my fingers, like a typewriter that’s got syphilis.
- I see rank all around me but I’m still so damn hungry.