Archive
12/21/11
The Message
In whatever direction gasping stupefaction takes my dazed gaze, This sacred Christmas-season evening, at Café Inebriated, It's as if I'm staring into an unending meteor shower or solar flare, Watching the staging of a Machiavellian-Faustian adaptation Of a Shakespeare farce starring Oscar the Grouch, Lee Harvey Oswald, Mahmoud Ahmadinejad, Miss Piggy, James Earl Ray, Kim Jong Il, SpongeBob SquarePants, King Kong, and Adolf Schicklgruber Hitler.
Admittedly, though I'm not your most reliable observer, interpreter, I can assess the DEFCON 1 stress-quotient of a nuclear threat Welling up in the subterranean bunkers of this dog-eat-dog eatery, Transferred, intact, from North Korea, Iran, Jerusalem, and Tipton, Mo., Get a bead on these booze-infused suicide-bomber terrorists From Afghanistan, Iraq, Egypt, Libya, Syria, and here in St. Louis, Before they blow themselves, and me, to 72-virgin smithereens.
This Wednesday-night revelry is a Breughelesque Molotov cocktail Of primal tumult and maniacal, end-times apocalyptic giddiness, In whose black-hole moat I'm floating, treading, hopelessly, Hoping to drive my anxiety home, soon, to dreams' surreality-shredder. Only, the longer I gaze on this shrill, spirit-swilling commedia insaine, The more I understand and appreciate the real meaning of Christmas: Jesus was the message in the vodka bottle floating in Mary's womb.
12/21/11
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