four one one

4-11!
today's the big day.
all mary j. blige an' sh!t.
ALL the information.
today.
y'know, slowpokes, the 411.
like the operator?
that's right mr. telephone man,
there's something wrong with my line.
it's crooked, i think.
the day, though, is straightforward.
of course,
everywhere else in the world,
today's date is written 11-4.
naturally,
i prefer it the american calendar way.
even though it makes less sense, really.
an ascending order of temporal duration = logical.
still,
the disjointed bossy boss way makes today cooler, by far.
(and i don't have to wait until november to get excited.)
win!
***********
vikings.
that's what's up.
i'm feelin' especially hoarse, norse, and without remorse.
yellin', rebellin', and not tellin'.
today just feels like the kind of day for barbarian berserking.
really,
almost every day could use a little living hard
in place of the usual hard-living.
but especially today.
why?
because i'm thinking about all the sick old men i know.
older than their ages, even.
it's like long life, from concentrate, that never ever got diluted.
so it's thick with experience,
but still a little bitter.
you get it.
all the extra days just kind of got packed into the short hours
of everyone else's early times.
and now they're almost over.
long nights, hard times, and hot fire.
the hotter it burns, the quicker it consumes.
thing is,
it's sad and it isn't, but both at the same time.
i mean it;
these old and crusty, rusty, busted duders
have seen and done more in the time alloted them,
than most mediocre mincey muthab!tches
could ever hope for in twthrice as many lifetimes.
cliche', maybe,
but no less true.
of course,
there's always a cost.
now i've got a couple of lions, in winter,
right in the middle of spring.
racing to the bitter end.
different kinds of men.
a berserker barbarian battle beast,
a scolding, scandalous skald,
but both important lightning-striking vikings.
like wotan's havamal says
in 'the way of the norsemen':
wealth dies,
friends die.
one day you too will die.
but the thing that never dies
is the judgement
on how you have spent your life.
.....C'mon.
-that sh!t definitely goes to eleven-
i only hope that when my hourglass runs empty,
my final wheezy death-rattle
comes out as a bellowing battle-cry...
glad is my fate at the glorious finish;
never quiet, never soft.....