Archive
03/29/11 - (2)
Good as Gold
I grow old; I grow oh so much older than trouser-rolled older-than-old That nobody knows just how old I might yet grow, Let alone how inconsequentially no-longer-young I am or am not, For my still rolling my own toke-smokes, of pure Colombian Gold, In JOB cigarette papers Decorated with Alphonse Mucha's Art Nouveau odalisques, Getting higher than a kited Madoff check, on little less than no notice.
These days of guaranteed-eternal-youth fitness clubs, Longevity is Struldbrugian. We're the gleam in Tithonus's undying eye. Anyone who doesn't outlive his/her statistically predicted age Is considered an anomaly, throwback, total misfit, Deserving of incarceration in infinity's incarnation of a nursing home — A freak show located on the edge of the No-Known-Address Ocean, Where it spills into the mouth of a jet-black whale named Moby Death.
Tonight, I ponder the possibilities of endless senescence, immortality, And gasp, in absolute dazzlement, wonderment beyond astonishment, Realizing that, with a father living to ninety-three and a half And a mother exceeding the outer limits of ninety-five, My chances of surviving to be timeless plus one, Outliving existence, eternity, growing into the responsibilities of godhead, Are as good as Colombian Gold, which never grows old or tarnishes.
03/29/11 - (2)
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