Scott's wanderings

Charla is writing this for me today:

At Sundays party, my young friend, Max, and his parents Polly and Joe brought a poem to present that Max had written in response to our numerous visits and growing friendship over the preceding months. As you may have picked up from previous blog entries, I am totally amazed by this 14 year old boy's insight and talent and ability to look at what's been going on with my present circumstances. To put what I consider to be a very witty and insightful take on my circumstances. Max had prepared the following poem entitled the Epic of I, based on our frequent discussions of life in general and the current situation. What is also amazing about this is that Max has the self-confidence to stand up and give a public rendering of his creation despite his young age and what would seem his limited experience. He has a certain strength and wisdom that is amazing to behold. The poem follows.

THE EPIC OF I
BOOK ONE
by Max Hoppe

Traveling through space on a disk of light learning through books
and pondering over your shoes.
For it is. Not the number five.
And then with a whoosh of lightning on a bed of stars, comes the great Humongous.
Speeding down on his chariot of fire,He is the Ayatollah of Rock and Rolla.
Yea my homie G-dogs, for the end is not far, so close in fact that you can touch it.
What a strange sensation, what is that texture? Purple I think.
Moses in the bulrushes, Hamel on fire.
jellyfish float through the green, grass sky, filtered through Marlboro lights glistening
with the sweat of all, I fly!
for the joy of naught and all comes Allah,
the king of kings striding with big steps up the halls of the elevator,
leaning against the glass of the monkey cage.
For all to see in.
Like a magnificent microscope for the amusement of the extraterrestrials
I sit and sip my thoughts through a twisty straw.
bending around and round with all its might,
that plastic tube like a serpent clinging to the tree of life!
And death sucks too.
Why oh why is it not, and forlorned is the loss of humanity.
For time and time again it all comes down to this, my friends.
Like the muzak song in the waiting room that you can't get rid of,
the parasites clinging to the bowels of aristocracy.
The bums sing a somber tune, a doo-wop band of depression.
On the side walk, a green ooze drips, traced all the way back from the sewer gators,
leaving an old, ragged doll in the underworld of society.
Imagine a horse on a lawn or a chicken on a bridge.
Hey chicken why the hell are you up there?
don't you have any common sense? Say chicken, you've got a lot to live for, don't jump!
For I nor the bird, can fly.
Down. Down. Down.
To the depths of hell you fly, or fall.
get out of my way you demons, I'm en route to China!
Where the tigers prowl the streets of gold and mine eyes for the likes of men do see.
For down in the subway,
no it's not a sandwich,
demented ravings fill my lungs and scream for the collapse of humanity,
for the death of thousands, for the suffocation of trees!
Have you no mind, man?
On late night BBC they play old episodes of British C-span. And I quote...

BOOK TWO

Thank you for all the bologna.
It was like rain on a winters drought.
The monkey's residue drips upon the many legs of summer.
And the people fly to and fro on sideways elevators.
love Jesus forever for all is one and one is two.
Masterpiece Theater on plasma screen televisions.
I ask: where is the restroom aboard this galaxy?
May you please usher me in the direction of the nearest automotive rest stop?
Where can I find the nearest hand grenade depot and would you like me to pay you in cash or bacon bites?
Falling for three seconds is like being in a supermarket with no milk or swifter deluxe
replacement mop pads for ultra strength cleansing power with a scent of aloe.
Viva Las Vegas!
Good night and tomorrow.
59, 51, 30, (winning lottery numbers)
If six were nine, would the hippies really cut off all their hair?
I wonder; traveling in space.
oscillating velociraptors dance to the hip-hop beat.
With style the golden Martians step forth.
revealing their true divine forms as middle aged women from HELL.
NO NO NO it is.
But I don't know why you say hello in Target ads.
Cajun Eskimos parade on Second Street.
Wish you well from five blocks down.
The earth's crust is like a pizza. and inside there's cheese.
Mozzarella.
Kalashnikov rifles above the moon, blang! bam! poof!
like a video game in a cardboard box melting,
oozing over your face like some kind of alien comes GODZILLA!
Stomping through the streets,
the grey green monster's only purpose in life.
Tired and weary, I sift through broken memories sitting in a poofy chair.
For not but not never, every time to do decide to go, for it is not often.
And then...
For why?
That cliched question that favorite pastime of the stereotyped philosopher,
I ask.
Really, there is no meaning.
My justification is over there somewhere, I lost it.
All I know is that I didn't get any sleep last night.
But yet again, there's always the possibility of...