It's A Firesale

I am unofficially bankrupt, financially and spiritually. What a bunch of lucky ducks that get to petition a lord with prayer to get them out of any self-imposed mess. They do not have to be remorseful because of course they are already forgiven. If they really screw up, the other American god, the State, will get them out of the jam comfortably, with absolutely no shame, and present them with their very own Obama-phone. I ain't no Casanova as my recent performances have proved. I ain't no Picasso, and haven't twitched a paintbrush in 10 years. My high-school fame cache ran out sometime in the mid 90's. As No one can now see from this example, I never was a Ginsberg or Thompson (Hunter or Jim). Lance Armstrong, I will never be. I am too timid to ride with the pack and could not keep up if I tried. What I am is someone who squandered the best, and potentially most productive years of his life sprinting from reality and wallowing in self delusion. I am a cartoon that got banned for being mildly offensive. I am the band that got signed, opened for the opening band in two cities, and was unceremoniously dropped while somewhere in Wyoming, with an exploded radiator and crabs. All my eclectic collections need to find a new home with dusted shelves and protective glass. I am a lousy papa for my inanimate babies. It is a steal. Cheap enough at twice the price, as I am told my Grandfather used to say between sips of hooch and glances at dirty postcards (two things I also love).