Cosmopolitan Hitler

He was a poor young lad
Grewed up in the slums of a brickyard
Everyday working for his dear old Uncle
At the brickyard
Where he grewed up
Now this young lad grewed up in a brickyard
Where he worked hardly for his uncle
And he became muscular and strong for his demeanor
So strong he could work at a brickyard for his uncle
In fact he did so, before
Now this young lad became just a
Lad
His strength also manifested in his mind
So strong he could lift an idea
Two or three at a time!
nobody knew, not even he
Of his strengths.
You see, muscles are shameful
Anysome should know that
So he hid it until an even hour in the even
He did not read, but he wrote books
Books he read and learned from
He wrote the same book
Twenty-three times
It was a great book I must say.
It was called
Cosmopolitan Hitler.

Jigsaw

I feel it. I feel something new, something big. Could be good, could be bad. A giant jigsaw puzzle has been layed out before me. At first, I didn't know what I was doing, maybe putting and flipping over pieces that I knew made some sort of recognizable shape. That was easy and clear. But I finally realized that there is a whole and final picture, and I try to grasp all these billions of pieces at once and flip them over and put them together. I need to know the picture, the image, the bridge, that goal. I don't have it, someone stole the box, or I destroyed it, or it was never there. But I can't do anything because I am trying to do everything at once, knowing a breakthrough could be just around the corner. I want to throw away this puzzle and forget, I beleive it could work. Or I need help, real help. Someone, anyone who is good at puzzles. Or just knows about puzzles. I am destroying myself trying to reach something I don;t even know. Or is it building myself? I sometimes say it does, in some weird way. But I need to remind myself that it only happens in movies and books. Those are perfect problems and puzzles. Reality is incomprehensible, or so I want to disprove. I need to though. I've seen the trailer and must watch the whole movie. I know there's an end, a satisfactory end, to this puzzle. it could be a huge white sheet, but I'll be satisfied. It may as well be, every piece I found is the same. i want someone who finished the puzzle, has it framed in their house on the mantle. Drinks gin with friends, and late at night shows them his accolade. There must be.
One sixth of Bob Dylan is dead, another sixth has some gold, and my great Uncle is going fast. Stocks are falling, prices and deaths rising, ignorance spread like butter, knowledge like air and brains like tripods. The sun is menacing when it shows up and the water is like dust. Time moves too fast for its own good and my hands are always cold.
Is this where you have lead us Julius? Alexander? Titus and Napoleon?
Sometimes too few people lead too many people.

On checkboxes and wires

I love it how when you sign in somewhere online there's that little check box waiting for you that says "remember me". It seems like such an easy solution to everything. I wish I could check that box next to things in books or life or in trees or in eyes. I constantly forget things. I beleive I should carry around some writing paraphernalia to remember everything. It also makes everything so personal. "me" I love it. It seems so nostalgic like a woman saying this in some seductive manner and in an overly dramatic whisper to a once loved heart torn man. Riding off into the sun on some foggy morning. Its as I imagine Casablanca to be, even though Ive never seen it. I envy wires. They know where they start and where they end. Its a simple, purposeful life for a wire. Much like people. They can be used for good, 9111 calls or asking to go on a date. Or can be evil, used to prepare crimes or to harass people through the internet or telephones or television. They can be famous - when Dylan plugged in. Or infamous - strangling someones suicide. Most wires seem to have purpose - i.e like humans tend to have some sort of religious purpose or somesort. But there are those existential wires, loose and lost. Those still packed, children, fetuses, and recluses. Are they in pain? In freedom? Or awaiting to be opened? Most wind up tangled, lost in a rumble of other wires. Others need adapters, people need to adapt, wear masks, permanently. They are thrown, tossed around, replaceable. Too many, though, everything shorts. BAM! Fire.