I murdered my television with a twelve-gauge shotgun and Continue reading »
called it a sacrifice
I called it justice and then
someone called the police
after a few days of questioning and solitary confinement
they let me go
with the promise that I would
purchase another television set
and I did
bigger, better, more expensive than the last
with high definition and surround sound
I fell to my knees in divine worship
because no matter how many times I kill the fucking thing
I always crawl back to it on my knees
picking up the pieces and
begging for more programming as
I plug myself back in
Lloyd indulges my weakness at the bar
a little hair of the dog that bit me
sinking its teeth into my subconscious mind
and tearing it for all it’s worth
wine, liquor and beer
just enough to satiate
just enough to hold it all back
just enough until I snap
-SJR/BSP ©2009
Journalism: From Alcohol Soaked and Nicotine Stained
Most weeks are slow in the news business. How I got to this point is a long and sordid tale of misinformation, carpet-baggery and long-winded promises sold to fools standing outside of the wagon that reads: magic elixir for sale! Geraldo had his nose (and reputation) shattered by television Nazis and he unsuccessfully hunted for Bin Laden with no watching him. Wayne Gayle found the American dream in a nightmare directed by Mickey and Mallory. But those kind of things are not the norm, far from it in fact.
The journalist’s daily diet is lean; no salt, no fat and no goddamn sweetness to any of it. This is a meal for infantry: hard to swallow and plenty of it to go around. It leaves a stale taste in your mouth long after it’s finished and the only thing to wash it down with is wounded pride and student loan debt.
Barbecues and ballgames, that’s where I am at – covering elementary school plays to take pics of the little darlings as they shit all over King Lear. There are the local supermarket price wars and government committee meetings about neon signs. I can wax poetic on whatever scraps the AP left out for the rest of the dogs to fight over. I can write poetry about the people in the obituaries and I can take long, long lunches with bourbon in my coffee mug and cigarettes in my ear.
It’s like joining the Navy and being told you will fly gold-plated jets and stomp around the earth like Captain America on speed. There is all the goddamn action you want, enough for insatiable appetites and bet-wetters alike. Fucking-A – blood, lust and greed abound – this is America! You know full well it is all a lie but since when has that mattered where America is concerned?
I have tried to quit journalism many times and my reasons have always been righteous. I am currently pursuing undercover work and foiling underground flesh peddlers. It is a strange world. Some people get rich and others eat shit and die.I imagine I will fall somewhere in the middle.
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