I must tell you betimes that I am no confectioner. I can cook a little bit. Once a decade I am roused to bake a pie. That pie is usually fit for my friends, who in turn are never forced to be polite. Living of course should seem a laugh but not a matter of forced sentiments. Can anything be worse than the mechanic speech of companions forcibly chomping on bad pie? Yes, perhaps some things are worse. The last administration for example. Now I am declining from my grand theme to the dingy details. Perhaps we should force feed the GOP with bad pie?
But as this brief post is a confection…
I felt humorless today. Humorless and hungry. I get this way when I’m vaguely dispirited. Alright, screw it, I get this way when I’m pissed off. The angrier I am, the hungrier. It’s a wonder I’m not as big as Luciano Pavarotti. Clearly it’s time to make a pie. A pie made from long struggles with mankind, the pie of continual straining. A pie of thunder and fighting. A fit supper for veteran’s day. A fit supper for a nation fighting two wars it cannot win, declining all a day by refusing to pay for these foreign engagements.
“What about the children,” you ask? “Surely you don’t want them to eat such fare? I mean, for the Love of God!”
I say the kiddies should eat a baby version of this struggle pie. Theirs should be spun like cotton candy from the weight of sky and cloud. The sooner they start eating global warming the better.
Let’s add corrupt, unsubstantiated news; final innocence; desks and computers, (curse on those who use both PCs and Macs); dull cigarettes; pity; hieratic ambitions; new music; digital anything; the unsounded depths of Wall Street; proxy protesters; loud celebrities; druids, (yes, even druids, though of course by druids I mean the whole New Age crowd); cosmopolitan sympathies; rural nightfall; sweethearts; neighbors; alien sighs of the bourgeoisie; muses; wine and wine drinkers; the decaying woods; the immortal desolation of organized religion; old kettles, old bottles, old bones, old rags…
Things being various, how ’bout some pie?
Here’s pie for the thin lipped arms merchants; for all the snakes in the gardens…
Blood pays dearly for the recipe.
The pie of real estate and of commodities is only moderately satisfactory.
Do they eat this pie on the dead ground of heaven?
Are they figuring out the pie in China?
Do not go gentle into that good pie.
But here’s to a good pie, eaten fairly, sagaciously, a blueprint pie of hope and of communitarian lives…
Here’s to pie in the high fields, pie set before young and old, green or golden…
No more pie like dust or bleak twigs.
No more pie the scheme of generations…
How easy after this to make a real pie.
S.K.
Planet of the Blind 