Don't Cancel the Mars Mission

I desperately need to get back home. I've obviously been left on this planet by mistake. I'm sure that the beings that left me here are ready to pick me back up, but the planet known as "Earth" doesn't seem to be friendly to visitors, at the moment.

Really. What does this planet offer intelligent beings? Good coffee?

Resources? There are obviously lots of other places with concentrations of desirable materials, probably offering such goods at better prices. From here, the universe looks like a pretty big place. At least to me. To some others, not so much.

I, myself, am cheap. I’ve worked on this lump of dirt in many capacities. My needs remain simple.

I’ve clawed my way to the top of some weird heap, where I get to use my brain to make money. Why, then, do I feel like a slave, ready to break out and steal a ship and escape to some new place? Someplace where there is real freedom? I suddenly want to have some healthy farm-type pigs just so I can take them with me to this new place.

Single White Guitarist in search of undiscovered free places. Call me. We’ll talk, or pretend to. Must like dogs and/or pigs. Pigs are smart. Smarter than horses. Do pigs dream?

I had this feverish dream, when I was about four years old and living in a four room farmhouse in West Texas, around 1960, where I understood that the Earth was about to be destroyed, and that I had been deposited with an Earthen family for experimental purposes. I “felt” the launching of the destruction. To this day, I remain unconvinced that it was a dream.

I would like to proclaim the experiment a success. I saw what could happen had missiles been launched. I cleaned my plate. I washed my hands after using the bathroom. I knelt in front of the steel lockers with my head between my legs. After the fever, I felt cleansed. I sought rewards.

I attempted to cut back on masturbation.

Not like now.

Looking at the Earth now, I can see how it might look like a big mess, especially from a reasonable distance.

Why is it that these tiny creatures insist on fighting? What is it about this thing called “war,” which is abominable in all respects, that continues to occupy so much creature time? Raping the land, polluting everything, no vision of future, no respect for past, depositing money in tax-free accounts, frowning on every other aspect of sexual activity while masturbating to the beat of the drum of power…

Surely the ships can come in without notice, here?

My bags are always packed.

Take me home. This does not feel like home, anymore.

Perhaps if I met you on Mars, it’d be an easier deal. You do accept Rat Terriers, don’t you? MasterCard? Visa?

I’d love to set up house on Mars. I’m sure I would feel more at home there than I do here.

This place is pretty fucked up.

Unfortunately, I don’t see it getting better anytime soon.

I long to go home, again. I’m ready for you to pick me up. Take me home.

Dogs Can't Fly

Painted maroon birdhouse, poised on broomstick in someone else's back yard, completely abandoned. Watching, as the sun sets behind the purple profile, knowing that no bird, in its right mind, will occupy that space.

While on a beer run, stumbled on an “asian” woman at Wal-Mart buying exotic beer without a ring on her slender finger. Her lingering glance back now sits on the old newsreel. I shall have her soon. Very soon. Especially now that I am in the market for a new woman.

I sometimes need a woman. They usually appear, in some form. Usually in the form of a woman. Makes them easier to deal with, if you ask me.

Give me a fresh ride into town.

Flaws in scripts. Plots that aren't plots at all. Miserable excuses at storytelling. Pluck me off of this roof. There, at least, presents the prospect of a bit of truth.

A bit of truth might make me feel better. My feeling better is irrelevant, of course.

I have come to realize that I sometimes border on becoming a decent human being only through my thorough training by dogs. To this day, I cannot sit down without circling the chair a couple of times.

I hate that my lies, of late, are merely for profit. I used to have higher standards for my lies. Money has corrupted my lies. My lies used to be pure. I used to revel in my ability to lie. I hope that those days are not long gone.

I like dogs. I'd like to be a dog, if I could keep my driver's license and shit. And still be able to ride a bike. Oh hell, that ain't gonna work. I'm still trapped in this flesh, and I shall have to use this machine for the time being. Trapped as a human being.

I shall have to pretend to be a human being, again. And again. And again. In all likelihood, I shall never have children. That pretty much precludes me from possessing the golden fleece, don't you think?

Funny how the brain works when the body moves.

Now, after sitting in the boardroom of a money-making bank and banging out my opinion on capitalism and charity, or lack thereof in the good old U S of A, and driving 262 miles to reunite with my dog, I feel that I am not only on top of the world, but in its deepest ditch at the same time, and not exactly happy to be there, but content.

It is a "matter of fact" feeling. I am just there. I am just here. I am stuck here.

I used to know an artist, and she warned me about myself. I should know better.

Still, I am here. I’m a dog. I ain’t moving into no birdhouse. I can’t fly.

Later,

AJ