Serena is telling lies again.
Lies I cannot authorize or memorize.
Lies about numbers and birthdays and numbers and sigh,
Tell the truth, Please no Lies!
Be it birthdays or numbers or some kind of tangled disguise,
In the world of all worlds, 126 outwardly thrives!
How could it be?
In what reverse backward universe are we,
Where 626 could possibly be greater than 126 by any try?
It’s madness, sadness, groundless, a categorical lark!
It’s unsanctionable tomfoolery,
Like a madman searching for a circuit breaker with a flashlight in the dark!
It’s wholly arguable, completely unreliable, and what else can I possibly say?
A veritable smorgasbord of ideas right now to relay,
After all, and so to speak, it cannot likely be forgotten,
That only 126 has reached the closed minds of the begotten.
And it has to be sure, more in fact to be accurate,
126 has stolen the hearts and minds of the discriminate,
To reach above and beyond what is circumstantially eternal,
To become the greatest of great numbers, both internal and external.
Additionally and because I feel I must share,
126 claims a route, a freeway, a thoroughfare,
That cannot be denied, and the virtue is inarguable,
Can 626 claim a resume quite as valuable?
Or does it fall short, as I suspect that it does,
I cannot help but thinking 626 has virtually no buzz.
Route 126 goes to Ventura California,
Where does 626 go, Patagonia?
While that is sort of cool, it doesn’t quite hit the mark,
California is sunny and warmer and therefore leaves Patagonia in the dark!
Tell me! I beg of you, no more lies!
Can 626 as a number maintain the same kind of acclaim? Or fame?
If so let’s hear it, right now, I’m dying to know!
If there exists a Route 626, then where does it go?
Does it take you to a peaceful, circumstantially placid place?
Or does it take you to a dreadful, unforgiving space?
I would surmise, and you can call me cavalier,
That if Route 626 exists, it doesn’t take you right here!
Not to California! Not to this warm, welcoming state.
It probably takes you to some godforsaken place,
Like Arkansas or Oklahoma or maybe, Oh wait!
Don’t tell me it takes you to West Virginia, because that place is certainly not okay.
In fact that would be terribly, terribly unfitting,
For a 26 of any kind to be hopelessly sitting,
I’ll risk being called an arrogant maverick,
If it means I can save a 26 from those terribly unworthy hysterics.
And oh here I go being that unappealing California snob,
But I suppose it’s much better than being that ugly Texas slob,
Or that pretentiously unaccustomed New York snoot,
Or that Chicagoan loot, Oh shoot!
I’m off and away,
As if I have nothing else honorable or important I could say,
I’m indulging in tangents in the vein of Kerouac or Barton,
Completely long-winded ways of recounting absolutely nothing,
Yet I still persist because I have failed to make my argument,
That 626 pales in comparison to 126 in almost every possible assessment.
I have no more words, no stories, and no anecdotes to tell,
Nothing at all for June, nothing trite or trendy to sell,
Except I suppose petty whines and ineffectual complaints,
About birthdays and numbers and ugly collapsed little veins.
I would like my future sticks to be honest and circumstantially free,
But these words are affectations of my sick mortality,
So thanks to Kerouac and maybe Burroughs too,
For showing me the way to devastation, degradation, and something equally lewd.
For now I have no thoughts, no opinions, and no irredeemable dreams to recount,
Nothing but ridiculous indifferences to tout,
These affectations I speak of so eloquently won't do,
I have to know at least that to be true,
But I am sick and tired of nothing, nothing, nothing else fascinating to do,
So I try and try for my words to have meaning,
Even though I have long captured the insignificant reasoning.
These days I've been smoking and writing and smoking,
And writing and drinking and drinking and writing ---
And swimming and tanning, and swimming and discerning,
Swimming and writing, and smirking and learning.
But this is the end, there isn’t much more to write,
I’ll give you Serena, just one concession of right,
The number twenty-six can certainly thrive,
In a world like this where fours and elevens ultimately fail to survive.
And impress! I’ll say nothing more and with a veritable sigh,
Because I’m not very good at rhyming and ordering, all affectations aside,
I read about an inspired poem and got the sensation,
That I could switch it up just a little and spring some kind of important revelation.
But it helped not at all so I’ll state one more time,
How cool 126 is and how terrible I am at the rhyme,
I’m very illiterate when it comes to this literacy,
Forgive me for this and I’ll make it up with proficiency,
Next month when I have more time and an inspired way,
I’m pretty sure that I’ll be able to say much more than “Happy Birthday”.
