There’s talk of investigating the monopoly
created when LiveNation bought TicketMaster fourteen years ago.
The Department of Justice,
who approved the purchase,
thinks there might be inappropriate practices generated
by the purchase that they approved.
Imagine.
TicketMaster had already been monopolistic
all on its own
and then coupled with a company in a parallel company.
What did the law expect?
Geniuses, all.
The results, surely, will be illuminating indeed.
They came across the water
in all their finest
from all the seas that could be seen
and many others.
They have come to us
for only a short time
and we welcome these mighty invaders
of our shores.
We offer our dwindled supply of virgins
and our plethora of other resources.
They may ravage as necessary.
All that is available is theirs for the asking.
We are a simple people,
here in the town of Later York,
but we do what we can
to make our possible conquerors comfortable
so they come again
for returning invasion opportunities.
On the roof of my building they built a house.
My apartment isn’t big, but the building’s square footage
is much greater, so the house is substantial.
Thatched roof, fake chimney, push open windows.
It’s like a real-live house, for real-live tenants.
I can’t afford it, but I took the tour
for people who want to move in.
They put artificial grass out, to give it a homier feel. Weird.
They even added a dog, for effect.
The little thing went over the side.
Now there’s a fence up,
so a kid doesn’t go the same way.
I am hoping this isn’t too much for the apartments beneath.
The architect must have planned for that, right?
Planning is what capitalists do, right?
Right?
The veins are flowing faster than before
and we are travelling more and more
and more and more through thickened arteries
broken further down,
limited by construction,
unplanned destruction – like the occasional bridge
going down.
We seem to need more of our byways
and are doing less for them.
Soon, no doubt, they’ll explode
(or implode. some ‘ploding gonna happen)
and we’ll be left with no byways at all.
It is not a time I relish.
I think that I have never seen a love like yours with old Jim Beam.
If you could feel such love for peeps, you wouldn’t seem like such a creep
but as it is, you’re just a drunk, and so your life seems solely sunk.
You could try twelve-stepping your way out of this,
but haven’t you walked that path a dozen times before?
Maybe there’s some other potion you could drink
that could get you off of that first potion you can’t stop drinking?
I’m just spitballing, trying to come up with solutions,
working outside of the box that you’re seemingly stuck in.
There’s gotta be a way. Maybe there’s a way.
I wish that you could find a way. A strategy, something to say
that could make rise a magic spell from which you would come back all well.
But currently, you’re still a drunk, a punk, who stunk of skunk and junk.
Keep working. Keep trying. Maybe you’ll get over bourbon eventually.
Maybe you’ll get bored of it someday. Maybe you’ll age out of it.
Possibly, in your forties, you’ll be too mature for it. Let’s see.
Maybe your fifties, then! There’s always time. There’s always hope!
Keep fighting the good fight. It’s the right thing to do.
Be a good one, full of cheer. Blow the candles, once a year.
I know that you are fine enough to expel all the bad stuff.
Just stop being a sad drunk so you can live life like a monk.
Monsieur Moonbeam, thank you for visiting at night
for your watching over me, keeping me free from the fright
of the hunger in the dark and the hunting after marks
and maintaining me well into the light.
If not for you, Monsieur Moonbeam,
I’d fear for many in this city with all of its gleam
and all of their nighttime wanderings
leaving me constantly pondering
just how long until the blood is streaming.
Because the danger always lurks
and the threat of me can never be shirked
and though I often go off in the murk,
you save me from any evil workings, Monsieur Moonbeam.
So thanks, Monsieur Moonbeam, for all that you’ve done.
For protecting the city until the arrival of the sun.
Without you and your support
I’d have long been on some cop’s report
after the death of almost everyone.
With safety assured, due to your brightest rays,
Monsieur Moonbeam, you come down and deserve great praise
and none are harmed for another night because you’ve been right there onsite
due to your purely defensive haze.
Since I can rest until the night comes,
I’m ready to relax and eat what I can of future’s crumbs.
I will rest inside of my den
until I next see you again.
Farewell until tonight, Monsieur Moonbeam!
Everywhere there’s lots of pigeons
living pigeons lives,
speaking in their pidgin English
before they take their dives
sharp with taloned knives
and hunt for breakfast.
In this place of pigeons, pigeons
tend to fly around.
All about this city, pigeons
darken the whole town
as they all track down
the best donations.
If you’re looking for a pigeon
by the name of Sal,
then you might seek out a pigeon
that you can call Al.
Those two are real good pals.
They’re often together.
There is little more on pigeons
I have left to say.
If there’s more about the pigeons
you’re looking for, today,
go somewhere else, OK?
I’m out of content.
I’ve been really getting into oranges lately,
just swallowing them
like I bought a bunch of ’em
and I want to eat them before they all go bad.
They’re pretty delicious
and I bought in bulk
so there’s a bunch left to go
all filling up the bottom of the fridge.
The fridge is big again,
much bigger than it used to be:
big as like a man-sized apartment should have.
Big enough for a whole lot of oranges.
Aren’t you glad to live in a world
where there are all these oranges?
If you don’t keep bringing it up,
I promise you,
no one else is going to bring up how you were fired for drinking monkey cum, no matter how funny it is.
Really, if you don’t opt to make a literal Federal case about it with the literal Feds
in literal Case, Montana,
I don’t think anybody else will know what you’re talking about – especially if you stop talking about it.
Really, the phrase “monkey cum”
is not going to make sense coming from most people’s lips,
and the assumption will be that you’re talking about having a cousin of the human species arrive at your doorstep.
Do not clarify.
Just let the whole thing go.
Don’t get hung up on it.
Relax about the monkey cum, man,
and don’t bring it up again.
This fictional genius I just created just let me know
she re-engineered a busted old motorcycle
she saw lying around.
“I had a few hours to kill,” she explained,
and showed me the goods.
It was a forcefield-contained,
earth-environment sustained flying bike
that could take you into the atmosphere.
“You should be able to get to the Moon
in about three and a half days.
I call it the Upcycle.”
I nodded. I don’t know much about spaceships.
“Looks good,” I said,
“Will I get bugs in my teeth?”
“We haven’t sighted any astro-bugs yet.
Maybe you’d be the first.”
She wanted me to fly her Upcycle.
“But why me?” I asked.
“Convenience,” she said. “If you go off on this adventure,
I won’t hear your music downstairs for a couple of days.”
I was convinced. “I’ll do it!”
My training took mere hours.
The cycle practically drives itself.
This is my last will and testament.
I hope I die before I get old.
TO BE CONTINUED…?
jonberger 