Rant # ?

Rant # ?


I don’t take Prozac,
sorry.
I guess I fear the tasteless frosting
that coats most people.

“-ooh look!  It’s somebody’s
   birthday!”
 “-did you color your
   hair?
   I really like it!”
“-hee hee hee!  No rest for the
   wicked!”

All these pleasant plump
T.G.I.F.ers,
who spend Sundays with their noses
buried in Maya Angelou books,
gad!
with their fat free cookies
and JC Pennysâ Career Suitsãâ,
all these women
band together in the office
dependent on their daily ring of hollow muzak compliments,
constantly getting older
and fatter,
while eating more and more
fat-free cookies
and decaffeinated coffee
and diet soda,
but they are not the type to watch soap operas.
-oh, no!-
but their books are like soap operas:
“Clan of the Cavebear”
“Beloved”
I’m sure you’ve seen these
War and Peace-sized monstrosities,
they ramble on and on
so that these pleasant
pleasant middle-aged women
can temporarily exit
their flat worlds
and smother
their gray KZST minds
with fat-free stories
and cinematic walls and door and ceilings
so that they will never have to leave the movie house.  The orchestra drones on and on, playing music that stirs your heart to glory and your stomach to nausea, yet somehow you actually never really notice that it’s there, and you forget, in the sickness/euphoria, how expensive the popcorn is , and how the guy next to you laughs like an elephant at all the wrong parts, and there is always a banal, politically correct, positive and placid ending to every tale, and these women (yes, the office women, who two pages ago spread their plump sweaty legs in my mind and gave birth to this disgusting red scream of a rant) never want to leave this movie house.  For these women every day is a new scene in some audience tested, mass-marketed, shitty film and they all pray to die
before the credits roll
and it’s time to actually
GET UP
and do that high-dive leap
into the searing realities
and the beautifully
perfect imperfection
of life’s parking lots.