Normal
phishgod
Posts: 133
Normal
“Normal” has
no history
here, where
everyday is
Halloween, an
absurd theater
of abstract
concepts, tragic-
comic masks,
each behind
the 8
(black, mysterious)
ball, a
tunnel to
the unknown,
like the
uniqueness of
a Saturday
afternoon alone.
I had
a friend
once who
named his
dog “Normal”
just for
sheer pleasure
of standing
on his
front porch
and yelling
(while his
neighbors mowed
lawns or
washed cars)
at top
of his
lungs—“NORMAL!
Come Home!”,
but I
realize he
was just
imposing his
sense of
normalcy on
his dog,
and his
neighbors, now
that he’s
safely locked
away in
some asylum
after eating
too much
acid so
he never
came down,
but if
I ever
get another
dog, I
will probably
name him—
Normal II.
In the
cold blush
of a
silent winter’s
day I
wonder what
is normal
to an
icicle on
the eves
next door,
or a
snowflake in
my big
back yard,
how normal
is any
random grain
of sand
from the
vast expanse
of beach,
and if
each turd
is not
unique within
the imposed
structure of
normalcy created
by Mr.
Crapper’s device,
as if
each has
not had
some concept
of normality
imposed on
it by
the microscope
every other
individual observer’s
own experience?
(I wonder
often about
such things,
even when,
as now,
I am
out of
pot, and
have some
time on
my hands.
I wonder
if this
is normal,
or abnormal,
or whether
I am
normal, or
insane, or
whether I
am just:
a poet.)
On the
TV talk
shows yesterday
afternoon there
was a
segment about
parents who
entered their
children in
a contest
where judges
assembled to
give an
award to
the greatest
phreak, as
determined by
the number
of tattoos
and piercings,
the clothes,
the hair,
the makeup,
and I
am sure
this is
why I’m
writing a
poem about
normality now,
since I
believe the
biggest freaks
on this
show were
not the
kids, but
the parents,
and if
my daughter
becomes a
happy lesbian
or an
exotic body
art model
I will
be proud
and full
of love,
but if
she turns
out like
Newt Gingrich
or George
W. “Shrub”-Bush
I will
worry that
she has
been brainwashed
in the
bath of
the occult
of normalcy,
but then
I am
probably not
normal myself,
since I,
too, appreciate
Marilyn Manson.
Are not
the median,
or the
mean, just
the standards
for mediocrity?
I thank
my own
abnormal gods
everyday for
the outliers
which extend
the average
line for
the entire
geometric grid
of this
human experience!
Normal has
no history
here, and
everyday is
Halloween, this
absurd theater
of Life.
--February 22, 1997
@pth
“Normal” has
no history
here, where
everyday is
Halloween, an
absurd theater
of abstract
concepts, tragic-
comic masks,
each behind
the 8
(black, mysterious)
ball, a
tunnel to
the unknown,
like the
uniqueness of
a Saturday
afternoon alone.
I had
a friend
once who
named his
dog “Normal”
just for
sheer pleasure
of standing
on his
front porch
and yelling
(while his
neighbors mowed
lawns or
washed cars)
at top
of his
lungs—“NORMAL!
Come Home!”,
but I
realize he
was just
imposing his
sense of
normalcy on
his dog,
and his
neighbors, now
that he’s
safely locked
away in
some asylum
after eating
too much
acid so
he never
came down,
but if
I ever
get another
dog, I
will probably
name him—
Normal II.
In the
cold blush
of a
silent winter’s
day I
wonder what
is normal
to an
icicle on
the eves
next door,
or a
snowflake in
my big
back yard,
how normal
is any
random grain
of sand
from the
vast expanse
of beach,
and if
each turd
is not
unique within
the imposed
structure of
normalcy created
by Mr.
Crapper’s device,
as if
each has
not had
some concept
of normality
imposed on
it by
the microscope
every other
individual observer’s
own experience?
(I wonder
often about
such things,
even when,
as now,
I am
out of
pot, and
have some
time on
my hands.
I wonder
if this
is normal,
or abnormal,
or whether
I am
normal, or
insane, or
whether I
am just:
a poet.)
On the
TV talk
shows yesterday
afternoon there
was a
segment about
parents who
entered their
children in
a contest
where judges
assembled to
give an
award to
the greatest
phreak, as
determined by
the number
of tattoos
and piercings,
the clothes,
the hair,
the makeup,
and I
am sure
this is
why I’m
writing a
poem about
normality now,
since I
believe the
biggest freaks
on this
show were
not the
kids, but
the parents,
and if
my daughter
becomes a
happy lesbian
or an
exotic body
art model
I will
be proud
and full
of love,
but if
she turns
out like
Newt Gingrich
or George
W. “Shrub”-Bush
I will
worry that
she has
been brainwashed
in the
bath of
the occult
of normalcy,
but then
I am
probably not
normal myself,
since I,
too, appreciate
Marilyn Manson.
Are not
the median,
or the
mean, just
the standards
for mediocrity?
I thank
my own
abnormal gods
everyday for
the outliers
which extend
the average
line for
the entire
geometric grid
of this
human experience!
Normal has
no history
here, and
everyday is
Halloween, this
absurd theater
of Life.
--February 22, 1997
@pth
rockon,
phishgod
phishgod
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