Wednesday, June 1, 2016

Do You Know How Much A Gorilla Is Worth?

Too Not Good To Believe
But this is not time for change. I don't want this to fool you, so I’m warning you that this blog would be better if I was fully conscious and if I was writing from the perspective of a gorilla. If I was a gorilla, I would be blogging from the top of the Empire State Building in 3-D. I want to set up a Gorilla Academy as the last new school available to mankind.

Speaking Gorilla
This phrase stemmed from a period when the American legendary wrestler and great commentator, Gorilla Monsoon, spent time working in the city of Bern, Switzerland at a Cuckoo Clock repair shop. The clockmaker would insist on cleaning the face of the clock after the necessary adjustments had been made. On the point of sale with a receipt in the hand of a customer about to exit, Gorilla popped up from the workshop, located at the back of the store, and declared: “He just got his clock cleaned!” It was charming at first, but Gorilla did it every time with every customer after that, and soon it began to tire and he was fired from the job and banned from Switzerland. Whenever I’m asleep, it’s like I’ve been punched out by a gorilla in the middle of a monsoon. The more you learn about the dignity of the gorilla, the more you want to avoid people. For some reason, lately all of my dark thoughts are with axes.

It’s like I’m drugged out of my mind, but my head feels lighter than a cloud of alcoholic vapor. Turning onto the other side of the pillow, I wake up still drunk. The alarm goes off and it’s the sound of a soothing jungle, but something seems a bit wrong and everything doesn’t quite add up. I’m confused and laughing at my mistakes. Dreading going into work without taking a shower all weekend, I’m feeling the static electricity pulling at my hair, causing it to stand up. Everything seems crazy and it’s even more weird that my dreams are becoming real. Quickly, I grab a pen and paper and write at a time where I’m feeling sheer panic and I’m at the height of paranoia. Popping a few bedside pills, I write more and feel relaxed in the darkness of thoughts.

I put down my writing devices and check my phone. My phone has pictures of trees from The Enchanted Forest. As I check my Facebook profile, there’s links to the Hole problem. I check iTunes and my playlist is everything Nirvana and the Hole dark romance.

The Hole Problem In A Nutshell
I’m stuck in the 90s but Home Improvement is real and no longer a show on TV (my wife called to have renovations done to the bedroom bathroom). As I turn on the TV, the enlarged picture of a dead gorilla is staring me in the face. Kurt Cobain’s suicide is not being reported from Seattle, but The Fresh Prince Of Bel-Air is still a funky fresh flashback. The morning news is live from a zoo in Ohio. But why do I care about a fucking dead gorilla? And why am I scared I won't be able to afford banana bread when I'm free to write about the jungle of life?

I’m bad axe throwing every Saturday and convinced I need to take the sharp axe to the talking tree in The Enchanted Forest on the edge of reality. I’m reading The Legend Of The Wicked Path while passing out staring at a can of coke beside the night table of the bed. My head falls backward onto a pillow. I close my eyes and want to take an axe to the forest and chop down the talking tree from my fucked up flashbacks. Running faster and faster, the sweat is running down from my forehead. I’m madder than a gorilla with a sharp axe, but without bananas and fearing death from the animal response team. I’m looking behind me and see nobody. I’m alone in my dreams. I look up and see the tree that’s been talking to me. I hear voices, but the animal response team probably think I’m causing a riot on the golf course. Just because Hunter S. Thompson would golf on acid doesn’t mean I enjoy hacking. I fooled the animal response team. My eyes open; and now I hear the sound of a ringtone. It’s Sgt. Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club Band and With A Little Help From My Friends. I’m listening to a high-pitched radio frequency in my mind with nobody around except WRICH 109.9 FM and my new poem. I grab my phone, playing fucked up Beatles music, and I throw my phone against the wall. It smashes and the music stops and there's nothing but the legendary silence of darkness.

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