The Stock is Low

The stock is low in all parts of the country, and the wicked dingbats that helped it plummet are on their thrones of speed, ready to throw the book at the ones that try to bend to rules to feed their mouths or feed their addictions.

Buildings that were once constructed with pure gold have been stripped overnight by wild hillbilly creatures with a lot of rope and an overly muscular inbred cousin named Jim-Bob to raise and lower each up and down these fantastic towers—only to go home to their shacks lit only by human hair to melt the gold down- attach it to tiny hooks and then, only to swallow them in a gulp of back country old fashioned radiator moonshine. If you wonder why, it is because after four days inside the intestinal tracts of Jim-Bob, these golden trinkets will look like your great grandmothers heirloom.

The dogs outside the hut will wail, the cold wind will give the house goose bumps, and the baby will be fed a formula of powdered milk and cheap drinking whiskey, so as not to wake mother in her inspired drunken slumber.

Yes, the stocks are low and people are selling their kids and cars, houses and writing off their hired help with items they consider trash but the help calls, "muy bonita!" Soon they will break bread over the same three legged table, whipping their children like dogs because the prayer wasn't over before he started grubbing into the monthly issued cheese.

Houses across the country are being salvaged for their books, the shelves themselves, antique guitars and all things made of wood only so they can be smashed and made into a huge bon fire in the middle of the living room in a ready made fireplace made out of their grand pianos guarding the home made chimney with salvaged bullets not yet fired but already covered in blood, guarding their fire and the few remaining bullets and books soon to be used as kindling. Their mansions will be skeletal reflections of how glorious and boastful life used to be, now the idea of being rich will be reversed when one hasn't so much property he has to patrol nightly from the devious drooling beasts that lurk on the edge of the shadows their giant houses cast.

No, It's a sad state of affairs in this country so pillaged and wise. We've become the broken bums of literature and fiction that has a half drunken bottle of George Dickle in his ragged coat pocket, in fingerless gloves we carry on about peace and life and liberty and helpful hints to reach the golden age God failed at teaching us. But We don't listen to him or each other- We flaunt our flags until they're in shreds standing half mast above the rubble of our homes and emotions. The Rich don't get richer. The Rich die Quicker. Hail to the Chief, here comes a grand slam.

Yes, it sounds like an honor to live in the land where the rich get fed to that broken bum with more etiquette than Queen Elizabeth herself- to me, that would be fine- That would be an honor- to be among the rest of my thugs, cripples and freaks, drinking lemon juice and whiskey, gallivanting next to a fire at three am lit by one part Earnest Hemingway, one part Tennessee Williams, two parts Ralph Lauren. If that were the case, You might find me happy, you might find me smiling without the Irish Coffee—But here in this land of the silver tongued devils, nothing happens accordingly to the book of revelations, it actually happens in the exact opposite way—In this town Called Brentwood—The meek are lying in shallow unmarked graves across this town, under liquor stores, under houses, balled up and stuffed into dumpsters like the result of a careless sixteen y ear old nine months after her mistake. Unaware and uncouth are the endangered remainders of the meek that wallow in this town—We are, they are dying slow, quick, painful deaths by the hands that support many rings of pure gold- They stomp us to dust, suck the marrow out of our bones and skin us, only to wear the skin of the meek just to fool the 'man that comes around' when the end of the bible finally succeeds. And once it does, Jesus H. Christ himself will be kidnapped and savagely beaten by this gang of metropolitan gang bangers, these renegades of Calvin Klein, these clumsy knights of Target and Martha Stewart.

These soulful rapists will be wearing the skin of the meek only to bury the Lord's only son with the rest of us spiritual beggars and the devil will have no help in defeating these lawless creatures that run amok solely between the hours of 9-5.