I have taken this time to grasp and grab the sword from my throat, like a ton quarried from the earth in the most violent and vigorous manner. One explosion of sorts that could only be found in the pants of boys who first feel wet, warm crotch through a pair of jeans; in nights when only bra straps pose as barriers - in nights when the clear sky moon beam screw reflects what could happen as a boy (wanting to be a man) takes off his watch and places it on the dashboard, in a chivalrous attempt to be more hero and less zero, on a warm winter night that was cold enough to make snow fall in the tear drop zone of a full moon that never seemed to move between park, inception, insertion, and slide; and then the pull out of quick rhythmic dance found in the deep tall breathes of a boy so wanting to be a man. Wanting it so bad that man inherited his soul, justified him being a man, and took from him the simple most gift that God could inspire - innocence.

How hot and inspired those nights could be while whacking away at the foundation, the solidify, of what it meant to be man. A man, after all, is a horrible thing. Something wrapped in passion and anger, all candy coated on mistakes and aggressions, while dancing to the sounds of misstep and false fortitude in a day spread thin with light and insight and left boundless in a day on a road that leads nowhere but to the next push of what a man can be. A man is left to think that it is a sin to be a man and found in the puddle of what a man should be. It is a conundrum of thought that could mess the minds of many young men who are now simply boys and through expensive bills (and penile injection) claims to be the men that only their dreams could lead them to be.

So what makes a man a man?

Simple things. It is not a difficult road; for being a man is as pleasurable to a woman as it is to the man who plunders the bounty. To stand up tall and grab hold of the woman he loves is something that may only become something that only a man, in his loneliest depths can grasp, something that little boys rock against a fold of sheets to enjoy and entertain and turn back upon the world with a wonton need that can never be comprehended by a woman in her darkest most grievous sexual hours. It is something to be left out of man entirely.

Man is something that reflects the existence of sex. He stands tall and holds it like a skinning stone. Once encountered he finds the smoothness, the sheen, the simple curves that can only be licked and lathered in the soul of symmetry. A shudder at something different (and beast like) is not the love of man, but rather the wrath of his loins as an over all mental release of what he may hold for all women as a whole. He holds tight to him the delicious entirety of it all while swallowing all a woman could have. A soul. A heart. A meaning. All entranced in the push of one pelvic thrust, but where does that put man in the greater scheme of things, where does that leave him?

He pushes hot crotch against itself in fury. He grinds to grind. He seeks out what will not be his own or anyone else’s because he is man and ‘it’ is what he has to seek out in order to breathe to push those lungs out and upward into the sky in a sense of passion that can only grind loins the way that lust carries itself with golden robes and blackened thrive.

Sexuality, and expression of such, can easily be a curse held above man in his darkest hours. He stands and tries to forget what it could be, with out sweaty love crotch stink and stank, to grasp in a tooth grip clit moment of ‘who the fuck will spank me next’ and ‘ who will grip my balls with furious anger’. It is a simple divide. To take or be taken. Who will fuck who?

Who will guide the glisten glide further than what could be imagined?

When you get there, who will take it that step further?

Who will call all that shit ‘bullshit’ before the next?

Why will I cum before you?

Who will clean up?

Will it be the paid woman brought in to do that for c-notes?

Will it be the mess maker?

When will it be ok to just be the boy who seeks out hot crotch, dripping into the night the stench of wanton want?

Something tells me it is the couch tonight.

I am right …

Sitting there on the bench waiting and waiting and waiting and waiting some more. It is so cold that your whole body is covered in little erect nipples. Hair not on end, but blowing just right in the solemn breeze of chilly morning sunlight that makes you sit up a little more straight and take notice of what is going on around you, what is to become of your day and the day regarding everyone else.

The cross parked perpendicular couple brawling out their public gladiator moment, waiving hands in fury, occasionally let down in some sort of passive acceptance of something that the mind is barely comprehending in the fury of heated words and scared remains of the words exchanged before in other like maddened exchanges. At their sides. In their pockets for just a split second because in an argument that is far too docile of a posture, too accepting of other's points. Arms crossed in defense, the classic sign of defense, while the elbows palm screw each opposing hand. Up and out and then back down. Above the head as if to beckon down deities that don’t care too much for either one of their behaviors to begin with, and certainly would not answer the call of a madman (or woman); needed defense for wrong done and being done. Back out towards the opponent. Fingers point and wag and shake with furious intention as if to drive home a point that the other one has never thought of but each knows full well the other one knows everything in it’s entirety, it’s history, their history. Now we all do too. No one likes a public spectacle unless you are at the Coliseum. A sense of unease and unrest settles upon the passerby’s and the cars trying to avoid the scene and contorted parking blockade pass by hoping that eye contact is not made thus calling into their vehicle the evil incarnate passed between these two people.

Mothers walking this way and that, hoping to locate carriages that will contain all of the soon to be bought cornucopia and still allow their children to dangerously ride however their toddler's minds deem acceptable, which is normally the furthest thing from 'acceptable' you could ever come up with as one serving of reality with an adult mind. But that certainly will not stop her, the mother that is - and the father too in some cases, from telling the child to eat a chill pill or a good smacking will ensue. Nope, never the case. I know; I have seen it too many times as the grocery lists get blue inked away into scribbles and the cell phone repeatedly chimes into the cacophony of devils with some tune that no one ever wants to hear again except for the person who chose the chime as their Ma Bell beckon. She finds the carriage and the child is quite upset that it is not one of the over sized chinsy race car ones molded in some sort of super plastic that inevitably every child wants to sit in, except for the child that really deserves the privilege but is so shattered and sullen that they would not dare to even think of asking for it to become a child-fantasy-reality of make believe caught somewhere between the pages of Thumbelina and Mother Moon. Kangaroo style, with feet on the axle, the child rides between Mommy’s legs so she can use the kiddie ass saddle carriage seat as a place to stick eggs, bread, and other squishables. Poor kid. His only saving grace is that he instinctively ignores the Springer episode as they pass.

Some one with a shoe size IQ shows up to clean off powder sugar dusted donut trays. This is their profession, their job. They imagine themselves as protectors of princesses that they will never meet beyond their dreams and that the sugar is evil crazy ass nutso nymph dust sprinkled around in order to entrap the soul of the one dressed in pink gowns with iridescent pointy hats that point to the heavens with their pennants of wispy shooting out from the conical point like salty slate ocean spray from atop a whale’s mind. Each tray another adventure in parchment paper as the each glass door closes behind shelves fully loaded with trans fats and diabetic electric chair rides. The muzac beams down from what the donut boy-man thinks is a lute player's ball high atop a castle top where mead and kings dance to the same jester rhythms and the bards topple over with so many melodies that jousts begin in far away lands just out of competition. To make the donuts would be a privilege, one he can not handle justifiably. He is happy to just clean up the counters, cleaner than his smock will ever be. His smiles are a lesson to all who pass but do not take notice due to self consumption and over bearing guilt of their own existence and take for granted moments of ability and serenity.

A fat Mexican man wanders outside to take in the fresh air of a Kool while awaiting the delivery truck to empty it’s parcels of not fresh baked (but  processed and wrapped in plastic with one of those almost non functioning ties of clips with a date that no one looks at) bread that he will need to shelf before things get busy, really pick up. It is going to be so busy today that he knows it will be a two Kool afternoon. He dreams of all the boating parties the ads show, the clubs that never close, the girls who love menthol and do so with a sort of divine ignorance that blocks out the cancer that will surely edit in as a reprecussion of short term reciprocation. He’ll never be there. The store is far too busy. Hell, he will only get to choke down cancer log huff ins all damn day. One now. One later. It is going to be a busy day. Breathe in. Cough. Breathe in again. Long day indeed.

It doesn’t matter much to the suits who are busy patting themselves on the backs, really cheering each other up because of made deadlines, payroll cut back quotas, really sharp looking aisles filled with produce and meat and milk. They have some people to talk to about overstock soon after they get their fifth complimentary coffee from the barista stand next door; God forbid they drink the stuff that steeps like river sludge next to the powdered donuts previously mentioned. No supermarket coffee for these supermen. They will yell with milky brown froth spittle collecting in mouth corners shooting out at a daytime manager that has nothing to do with what the over night guys do; no sockwater market brew, never - it is beneath them as is everyone they smile at. Soon, after the fifth round of yelling, they will collect again around the front end and pat each others backs again. Golf scores and handicaps will be exchanged. An off colour joke about strip clubs that they have to whisper to each other (so the female cashiers don’t hear) will be laughed at. No one will wonder what they are laughing at, they all know. Up stairs for lunch and a conference call or two. Back down to yell, this time about absolutely nothing. This time around it just feels good to them to yell, no reason needed (it is never needed if you wear the right tie). Suddenly, it is early enough to leave and they do so in order to get an early pick up rebate from the dry cleaners and then it is off to some girlfriend or wife that they can berate like they are an employee that they get to drive into submission and a good guilt fuck before they go to sleep, soundly I might add, and get up and do it again the next morning with lots of rich real coffee melting away their stomach lining and foul blood belly cists.

Bag everything up the right way, right away. Make sure your drawer tallies right at the end of the shift. You can punch in seven minutes after the hour. You can punch out seven minutes before. Shop stewards, representing the union and nothing or no one else, creep around like imps seeking out the souls of children to feed to the horned one's bellow below, the union president. Causing mayhem in their wakes, everyday, searching out the fragile to sell dreams of prosperity to. They buy each and every little morsel of hope. Fish in a barrel, sex with a hooker; guaranteed results. It is too simple. It is wrong. They do it everyday that they show up with their little union buttons shined like Marine brass at a fallen soldier memorial. Sleazing and seething around every corner, you can easily slip on their ooze. Slippery little men who live at home with their mothers and still cross sweater arms over their pastel Izods when they show up to collect checks on their days off. Slime with legs. Sludge with intentions. Bad intentions no matter how you slice the deceptive jelly.

I will be back there soon.

I am just waiting to get into the interview that I am 3 hours early for.

I will actually enjoy the 5 mile walk back home.

That five mile walk complete with blister conception.

That walk will be in the sun, walking away from the store.

Skin smoothes hot; hair bakes in the bask.

So nice to walk through the hills that go nowhere.

I can hear the music before I even get home.

Home, where I hang the hats that I no longer wear.

Home …

If I can just hold on through one more day, one more breath, one more day of forced fed reality and only get my head above the covers long enough to inhale and exhale and stand to do all those other things that I keep writing about and hoping to just exorcise from my skull, then maybe it will all be ok. At least I changed the damn music. The soundtrack was to the point that the cats knew all six of the songs. Sitting humbly in the doorway with crossed paws (you know the pretty little feline way of held composure), they see me click the music icon on the big screen and then they know, they know all too well. By the time the sax comes in they run, cursing at me, swearing at each other, and rumble wrestling past their water bowls in an attempt to get me up from this makeshift desk and turn the music off. The music never stops, nor should it.

Funny how only bad movies and jazz come in multiple parts with preludes and epilogues these days. As if there is nothing building up to or left behind from modern creativity beyond the bounds of it’s own presence and existence. It all makes me wonder too much, five a.m., sleeping on the couch; I could still taste the coffee, still see the screen, still read the words, still hear the music and the cats somehow can hear it emanating, exuding, from my head. Meows made mad by my music. The couch is not very comfortable. Laying there in the dark, crotch in hand, smiling at the ceiling behind my closed eyes, I resolve to change the music but never in exchange for a bad movie.

GET UP! DO SOMETHING! MAKE SOMETHING HAPPEN!

Life has begun to taste like salty cupcakes. Chocolate and sea salt may be fine for some but I like my salt big and my chocolate dark and I do not see my taste buds doing much for my brain chemistry union contract with my face fur if they were forced to indulge in too much salty chocolate; sounds like something from a French newspaper that is written by a lonely hermit and distributed to his two neighbors so they know how their cheese and wine production is going and how fat their duck livers have become. Such a sad range of Camus car accidents and never a disease or a Libyan agenda seemed better than to just frolic in the day dreams of motionless muscle disintegration and dissolve on days where the muscles wouldn’t be used anyway. I can’t even remember the last time I had sex. The last time my hair was touched. The last time a gentle fingertip ran down the side of my face and made me smile. To be untouched. When did Camus sleep with Salmon Rushdie anyhow?

Something to be said about the attractiveness of worth but I am not quite sure what it is. I rather swell on a tremolo bar of a synth playing something so upbeat that you mistake it for the romantic whimsy and gay smiles of the Romancing The Stone soundtrack. It is like crawling through the gizzards and innards of Reading Rainbow and never seeing the light of day through all of the fog thick happiness that never could be in you but only, and always, outside you. It seems like decades long ago that held the sweaty nights of 'fuck till you go blind', the mornings of 'start all over', the days when money was there and bills were not; security found in a false promise of security being secure, but it just did not work out that way now did it?

Chick Corea will cry me to sleep with his faux ivory ticklings that remind of the real ones that I used to sand out and bleach with peroxide that would make Courtney Love shave her head and take notice out of envy and accident. When the thick whining violins are not enough to string you up by your feet and make you want to puke out the world, when nothing could hit you any harder in the gut; the necromancy of wake up and fall asleep lose their bite and suck harder with each drawn gaze from neck to neck and back again. Stale gumballs that break teeth not bad breath. Not enough quarters, just enough death and seclusion. How hard it is to hang on and hang on you must for there is something for you to find in it all like a line from Joe Pesci in JFK, “an enigma wrapped in a riddle, etc …”.

Someone has pissed on my puzzle. The pieces don’t even seem to resemble anything that I know anymore. 10 million pieces, all interlocking and the only thing on the cover of the box is a square of red. Ten million red soldiers. It might as well be the miniaturization and deformity cuts of a communist army in the loins of Mao, the mind of Trotsky, the heart Kim Jong; “start up the tanks boys, I hear the revolution will be televised this time around”. My only little revolt, uprising, rising up - things I don’t even do anymore.

Nothing says lovin’ like something from somewhere and so the fade away begins, complete with spurs that forgot how to jingle jangle as they mime their way across the wooden boardwalk that goes into infinity and asks the simple questions that are only found in night time whispers from tots wishing and wanting to escape the sleep. They’ll even work on the puzzle to get out of the punishment of covers and comforters. Not much comfort there, huh?

I need recuperation from stagnation. I need an angel's breath to be spoke into my soul and to rise me up and make my Lady proud, to make the sun actually shine and not be some muted haze of what it would be from somewhere far beyond Pluto.

Dance to the kitchen to look at more of nothing.

Revel in the fact that there is no more coffee.

Look through my eyes that have grown flaccid with intention like the cloudy day reflection on a lake that no one swims in anymore.

Hold tight the covers and cocoon myself.

Soon I will bloom.

If not, there is apothecary money somewhere for dead buds.

Stand tall little soldier, the battle is about to begin.

War is loud and angry.

Especially so, when you are fighting yourself …

Every waking minute: a fast forward eyelid pull of full on jump up and throw down with gauntlets flung and face flap slapped; like skipping forward to the part in a game of backgammon when you curse bloody blue Mary crazy at everyone, tear off your shirt like Hulk Hogan, and begin eating the little hard marble wannabe disks as if you were Martini playing Monopoly in the tub. You all know that part of the game right? Right? It comes right after the other person cubes up for 64 and you still have three guys on the bar and you know you can’t win (it all went by so fast 'cause in your mind it was just one beer and a handshake in the porch lit sunlamp day light ago that you thought for sure you could win and it would all be 'ok' once the hot chick threw all of those weisswurst on the hibachi and the keg stands would ensue while someone went bra-less and someone else found a new way to put it on their head and call it a hat that no one had ever done before) and right before the part where you lose and throw away all of your Coltrane records in some sort of black out rage-a-funka-delica-obnoxious-oso event where you declare Dave Mustaine the leader of all men and if you don’t know ‘Hanger 18’ than you are some sort of anti-backgammon douche that needs at least cough syrup and certainly some Ritalin. Does any of that sound familiar? They must be Back East rules. I am quite sure they are documented somewhere. I know a burnt out surfer guy straight from the waves of San Onofri (right next to the nuclear power plant does he surf waves - like nobody’s business) that plays that way; with him it normally involves vodka - water glasses of the stuff, with minimal ice and no mixer at all (who the hell needs a mixer unless they wear pink skirts?).

I don’t seem too involved in many productions like that anymore, it’s mostly mellow ol’ me just looking for the path from A to B and the least resistant road. I am all about measuring impedance. "Give me an Ohm!" You probably would never grasp that by taking even just 10 words of one of my run-on sentence thoughts that normally curse the minds of small children and unsure housewives as they swirl like a dervish back towards the words only to realize that the words have done the hoe-down shuffle; nothing, once more, is quite as it seems - or really ever intended, for that matter, so the remaining 20 words in that particular sentence never get digested. I like, petition to, urge the readers to consume the words like flies; vomiting up onto each letter in order to digest them down as if each sentence could possibly be a buffet of never ending orgasmo literati embraced by a true use of the lexicon, the vernacular as it were, and all are happy kiddos when tucked in with words and colours and shades of reality that they understand. This is why it is the story of long haired flaxen blonde Rapunzel, not chair bound matted grease head Stephen Hawking. No toddler wants to be tucked in while hearing the tale of Stephen Hawking dropping a thick viscous lung-y down from the steer stick next to his chin rest and waiting for it to get just low enough that the plate mail wearing god of rescue can jump on and (like a frog with a furious hunger and libido) Steve can suck, fuck, loogie lunge backwards the knight. Plate mail and all, he is vacuumed up 6 stories and onto Stevie’s lap like a poster from ‘X-Mas with the Handicapped’; terrorists that shot Santa down and now deal with all the kiddos directly (screw middle men!). No, they much prefer that hot babe with the pale lemon juice locks that never quite could get out of the pubic lock belt and the tower of stone long enough to at least get to a Super Cuts or even a Fantastic Sam’s. Someone get on the intercom, “Moe Howard, paging Moe Howard! Moe, if you could grab your Capt’n Crunch cereal bowl, some hedge shears, and Larry Fine and meet us over at hairdo throne 6, that would be great! Moe Howard, paging Moe Howard!”

Nope, nope, nope. They don’t like those subplot run ons. Too much grey matter masticated. Too many of my favourite words and word combinations disco coked out around into the night of ‘which orifice was that’. They simply can’t keep up. It’s a verbal smack down of Jaco Pastorious quality. All I need to do is find Mike Nesmith and steal his green skully as Jaco would be proud. Yet Mike Barnacle still has no idea that he doesn’t appear on Chronicle anymore and the Globe really doesn’t like him; but ‘Birdsong’ plays on, even if it is Tony Levin at a certain playback point. Who needs a ‘68 Fender fretless P-Bass anyway? Not me. I mean these keys are certainly enough; certainly enough for me right now, these days, the ones that have typing done for me without nicotine on the pads. The keys are very upset that the worn down yellow warm up of shakedown and smoke down doesn’t occur anymore. I NEED a friggin’ cigarette. Jaco,you should give me a cigarette and I’ll pull out the knife and give back your hat. Come on, please, just one … just one?

Drinking down the coffee at two thirty on an unemployed night. I don’t know where I am going - I am not even live near a school yard and I do not know anyone named Julio and if I did we would have to talk about the other Mother Superior - the one who has the happiness and all of the doo-wop. No one can do me no harm! Well maybe the Columbian bean farmer is. Is Julio related to Juan or that damn donkey? Probably not. I recant! No one can do me no harm!

I have to get back to something. I need to get something done. I just want to stay up for ever and never close my eyes again because the days will move like old men in bathrobes, missing one slipper, and limping in an ‘oh shit! why is the linoleum cold under those toes and not the other ones’ sort of way. The kind of slow where a walker moves faster than the one pushing it, the one that needs it to walk. Eyes open so long, mind erased with a gummi stained in lead like a gangster who told Sam Giancanno to ‘go fuck himself seven ways to Sunday and twice if he was with that Andrews sister broad!’. The blood begins to flow like maple syrup on a cold December morning somewhere in Vermont that you would need six maps to get and inevitably you would still end up at the same boarding school with ski racks on every Jetta and Volvo driven by children in knit wool hats who bug you for contact with the outside world in exchange for Phish bootlegs that are seventh generation and dubbed over onto old Bread 8-tracks. Slowed down time. Time that has to hold labour rallies in your shaving kit because the stubble on your face can’t keep up with the Jones and you know you feel every micro millimeter poke out of your flesh and elongate before your eyes (which as I mentioned before never close). Impotency is for breakfast all three meals a day when it gets this bad. Did I mention that I want a cigarette?

If it all moves so slow that you can see everything coming would you really need to work again? Would you ever, under those circumstance and circumlocutions, need to ever write another word to confuse them? Would codes still be needed? Would words cost a nickel like they used to back in the days that not even that slug of an elderly bastard with the walker was around for?

Would I be as prolific with deer blood and my granite wall blog on the side of a cave? Would the berry juice stains really be worth it while trying to convey these ideas? How the hell would I get away with some of these sentences if only using pictures? I tend to think they may all look like one big hand, middle finger extended, giving the nomadic pack of sloped forehead fire starters the bird, or the pterodactyl as they called it back then.

And onto the bottom of page two, top of page three, and I have nothing but chest pains for you baby, nothing but chest pains indeed.

I am getting too old, too tired, too disillusioned with the allusions.

Too much fun in the mind of exploding mindlessness.

Tomorrow I get to write again.

If I am good and do what I am told to do, I might even get cookies and milk.

Stephen Hawking killed Santa Claus.

And all I want is a friggin’ cigarette …

All six songs (that's right six, I forgot one before) have returned to prevent me from reading or even being able to take it all on as a serious venture to which something, or anything for that matter, may evolve from all that is involved. To dream of the days of being svelte, having smooth skin, and thinking of aviation as avocation (such a silly man I have become even though I do not feel much like a man these days - a point of useless turn around - a cul-de-sac of coincidence and fruitless endeavors).

To spin around and just have faith, to nose dive down into the nitty gritty (I have sort of the beard now, don’t I?). Stale coffee death breath that exudes the raunch and filth of decay in one easy going greasy gust that does not seek to be cleaned or cleansed. Not knowing what tomorrow is never mind what it will bring. Thoughts of ‘never to be’ and ‘never was going to be anyway’ dance around like little children who have the bubonic plague and don’t even know it or need to know it because the game is going just fine. Pierre is out and only Francois knows why. Where is that rubber ball going and why is Pierre eating the chalk to the tune of ‘Sur le Pont D’Avignon’?

Mornings are getting harder. Sleeping is worse than a nightmare could ever dream of being. Old women and dogs and shoe dwelling children have more sustenance in their cupboards than I. I couldn’t even snap a penny in half and rub the two sides together never mind anything made of a silver amalgam or bits or whatever people rub together to emphasize their wealth or lack there of.

I am faced with the ever maddening third shift as an option come the end of the week, bearing on the fact that the women conducting the interview likes me (she certainly dug my baritone on the phone this a.m.). I almost went insane last time, I had my nervous breakdown as a result of the undesirable shift. It contributed highly to the dissolve of my first marriage. It helped break down my mind like a demolition expert trapped in a Tetris field exploding the falling fate block by block as opposed to laying them down gently and in geometric harmony. I picked a bad time to quit smoking cigarettes again, a bad time indeed (but being broke helps when it comes to the craving to store stop for a pack of my lovely little mistresses).

I shouldn’t write so long and tattered. My lengthy little pieces upset people. I wonder how people actually get through books. Oh yeah, there are not significant pieces of prose written these days or at least written with any sort of common rally of ‘need to read’. Twain would be writing for the back page of Time. Tolstoy would be on Prozac with the rest of the Russians. Burroughs and the boys never even would have thought about the Ginsberg connection to getting published - they would all be getting loaded and pimping out their MySpace pages in hopes to be voted up in to stardom on VH1. Bukowski would be at AA meetings all day and would be self consumed with coffee and some twisted religious commitment to celibacy. Salinger would have been far too afraid to leave the house much earlier on and probably would have been overlooked for lack of conversation with other human beings. Hemingway would have been bored with what being a man these days means and given up probably at 17 or so. Fitzgerald would have probably blended in just fine but no one would be reading him anyway - they would all have him slurring away on a pod cast listed on i-Tunes as something far more popular than it really was or is.

Too long. It’s too long already. I can hear the critics as if they are all holding each other’s elbows in some faith lock while standing on my toilet; the bathroom fan echoes carrying in their punditry to my ears. Delayed and chorused out so hard that Dick Dale would puke. Geddy Lee is in there (he is pissed that I hate him - his only motivation these days). See too long. Too much. Not needed. Everyone wants simple noun-verb-single adjective statements that are easily conveyed using American Sign Language (as opposed to Balinese Sign Language which is much easier to interpret while watching the hands dance in the bottom right circle feed).

This is how most would like to see it:

Life is bad. I feel yucky. Things are not cool. What do you think?

Except I would have to carriage return each line in order to space out the true, real meanings of the very deep lines of easy mental digestion. Puke! Good God, could you imagine? Oh wait, most do not need to; those lines are everywhere, all over, like devil loin lump seeds hoping to bear the fruit of the ever present short attention span that has throat choked away any redeeming intelligence and conversational ability that we have as a society (on the whole that is).

So to those who read, I breath a nicotine free air that is really much more acidic and thick than any smoke I am used to taking in. I feel like these lungs are breathing very unfamiliar incense that not even Rasta guys in Greenwich Village would dare to sell to anyone stony enough to still buy incense that isn’t blessed by a Baba something or other in a land so far away that it would make Columbus spin up and take ship leave notice of ridiculed hope and misguided desire.

Funny thing is, is that these pieces don’t really take me that long to push out. It is like greased up newborn slalom or bob sled rides blurred out by axle sludge and Dexedrine. The longest part is the comma and semicolon edits; occasionally the parenthesis or bracket birthing, all of which is done immediately post-post and sometimes the following morning if I just can’t get to the re-reads that night.

I will keep spitting them out.

I will press on with the press.

I am the flower found on page 22 somewhere in a dream of a picnic that day dream ate it’s way through a walk in the park.

Pansy, rose, carnation, or lily.

Never to petal or pedal fast enough, at least not for some.

The others gather with guillotines and thirteen knot rope.

Read on, as I sing 'Y A Un Rat'.

Pierre still stands chewing chalk ...