(Like the Muffled Roar of a Corporate Giant)
Welcome to my series of utterly honest
sarcasms, bitter to the core, each with its
own violently clever and overwraught (one
and all!) twist that makes one wonder if I’m
possibly this stupendous or if I’m merely
lucky to bend a few attenuated ears with a
garden variety of half-baked jokes, ha ha,
which are quite possibly aimed at countless
dull replicas of your very own self, Dear
Degreed Purveyor of the Enlightened (known
colloquially as Illusioned) Guess. A rather
lavishly fluid volume of, let’s just go ahead
and call them postmodern aggregations of
memoria, each one built, if you will, upon
its own wondrously appropriate paper head-
stone; each grave (or any assemblage of
graves) to be interpreted as nothing less than
a mockery of all poetic traditions, espoused
or otherwise; and yet, each blithe construct
is a scientifically sound disputation of the
very poignant, earnest, brilliantly straight-
forward argument or narrative – that is,
the very carcass – ensconced within each
brilliant contraption; individual ‘disputation
vs. narrative’ duets can by gosh downrightly
be summed up as disposable ‘get on over
yourself’ sermonettes craftily parlayed
tongue-in-cheekly as chorus to an endless
knell, and always a sly misreprentation
of the deviant, My Own True Self, sung
just as deservedly to all kith and kin who
spend their days, their nights, their final
breaths languishing in the company of
words, wordettes, and wordy wordisms.
In toto, I might add, because it should be
iterated, these incomparable casements
encompass a fabulously excruciating
excess of divinely harmonic redundancies,
deliciously rabble-rousing bon mots, and
just plain inimitable sentences, which to a
T are gloriously impossible to repeat
unscriptedly, and naturally inconceivable
to utter in completion without the loving
assistance of at least one strong arm
slipped deep and ever so slowly
up the utterer’s wazoo.
