Satin sheets and sprawled fan girls of obedient and disdained ivory pallor. Guide around through the marble and soapstone and hope the nights end the way the days wish they had begun. Never a day like that for me. I almost saw one once but it evaporated like tire puddle juice on a Baghdad lunch hour.

After today’s excursion into the heights of trees bearing the fruit known as the avocado, I know that those wet dream days of never to happen are even farther from materializing before my very eyes. I do have about twenty avocados awaiting their smooshed, smooched, smoothed and smashed death into the afterlife called ‘guacamole’. They line up on my rear porch banister like little bread line casualities that had fallen victim to communism. What would my little green to black hand grenade buddies have done if they had to have had suffered through a Kiev winter? Probably as much as Pushkin would have.

I have a pinched nerve in my neck and shoulder and constantly remind myself how much I want to use the phrase ‘you are getting on my last nerve’ - as well as the heart attack demensia that faces those with poor cardiac history. I guess there is a time and a place for everything. I am still amazed that I am attempting to get out yet another essay. I guess I am a fibber. A purveyor of the white lie. I am tired, but I guess not tired enough to jot down the thoughts, the day. It must be the mental flossing, fondling, fiddling, molestation that exercise can do to one’s melon.

I think I just saw my high step avocado soldiers tour guiding mini nukes through my railing red square.

I stayed up too late last night. I went to bed at 8:30. I was up at 12:30. I woke up, after that, about every hour. I had dream mares, galloping through my Elysian fields forming the well combed tails, or tales as it were, of stallions. I am the stallion mang!

In the fogged out Technicolor blur of deep dream reality hearing memory blur I thought I missed the alarm and was arising in full panic sweat neurosis at 6 a.m. I rattled through the clamber and clumber trying to get to my consequence on time, as I dreadfully fear my return to the pokie. I ended up in one of those fold down, fold up trucks with an ex-girlfriend, a dog, a small child, and two DJ’s that kept talking about how hot my ex was and how great their show was. Their pimples kept growing bigger and bigger until they became pustules of boil like mountains. The whole time I was convinced someone had stolen my desert camouflage four wheeler which would have constituted an on time arrival and left me bereft of the mindless chatter with the dog. I woke up on time and made my way to the coffee pot.

Coffee is becoming my big mistake. I drink one cup and envision my heart stopping. I like the brewed bean beverage but bereave it’s behemoth boost. I now just know it will confuse the old machinery. I can’t even use it as a means to stay regular anymore, as I am out the door upon the five gulps it takes to annihilate a cup. Shitting my pants on the walk is something left to Kerouac or a Staurday Night Live skit. Oooops! I just did!

I am growing a full beard. I am not sure if that is laziness, depression, or a hard ass look that I am going for. I look more homeless than hard ass, so I assume it is not the latter.

I am not sure what the beard means, why the avocados make me happy, or why I fear the sleep I crave. I guess I should be grateful that I am conscious enough to recognize any of those questions as a ponderance of mental rent. Oh please make sure I get back my deposit. I have kept such good care of the grey matter while I have had it. *Wink - Wink*

I think of the Pizzicato Five lyrics to “Such A Beautiful Girl As You”:

“Gozen jyuu-ji
sukoshi sugi bathtub ni
hitoribotchi
mada kyou wa
nani hitotsu yotei wa nai kedo

yukkuri to jikan o kakete
kyou wa shampoo shiyoo
omokiri shower de nani mo kamo
kirei ni arai nagasu

kimi mitai ni kirei na onna no ko ga
doushite naiteru no
kimi mitai ni suteki na onna no ko ga
doko ni mo inai no yo

gogo san-ji
hate mo naku
itsumo no onaji yume o miteita
kao o mashiri
tomodachi ni
Guuzen atte wakareta

Kinoo yori kaze ga nan da ka
tsumetai hare no hi
bonyari to madogarasugoshi
tada machi nagameteta

kimi mitai ni kirei na onna no ko ga
doushite naiteru no
kimi mitai ni suteki na onna no ko ga
doko ni mo inai no yo

Honto ni kanashii tokini ha
Nakebaii suki na dake
demo doushite nakitaku naru no ka
jibun demo wakaranai

kimi mitai ni kirei na onna no ko ga
doushite naiteru no
kimi mitai ni suteki na onna no ko ga
doko ni mo inai no yo

Gozen reiji sukoshi sugi
Bedroom de hitoribocchi
nemurenakute dareka ni denwa o kakete
nemureru kedo”

Which is translated as:

“It's a little after 10
in the morning
I am all by myself in the bath
I don't have a single
plan yet today, though

I'll take my time
today I'll shampoo
I'll wash away everything
as best as I can

why is a girl as beautiful
as you crying?
there is no girl
as wonderful as you anywhere

It's 3 in the afternoon
and there's no end
I saw the same dream as always
I unexpectedly met with the familiar
face of a friend
and said goodbye

it's a sunny day and the wind is
somewhat colder than yesterday
I was just staring vacantly
at the city through the window pane

why is a girl as beautiful
as you crying?
there is no girl
as wonderful as you anywhere

during really sad times
I had better cry as much as I want
but I don't even know
why I am crying

why is a girl as beautiful
as you crying?
there is no girl
as wonderful as you anywhere

It's a little bit past midnight
I am all by myself in the bedroom
I can't sleep so I call someone
I can sleep now, though”

Don't cry my Lady, I will for the both of us ten fold, as I already have. You are a beautiful girl, my beautiful girl. Remember what those last words will be - words spoken to you.

I think of these lyrics and crave the protein that will make my muscle tissue stop their incessant whine and whimper. They crave a good steak or a dish of beans and rice.

My Lady would be enough protein, enough to devour, enough to rejuvenate.

All of it makes me wonder ‘why‘. Why in a good way. A way of wonder and wang dang doodle, but never enough to make me stop. I awake and walk. I work it because it would be a shame and a loss to let it work me.

I take my own advice a Hell of a lot more than I used to. I know me better than anyone else, right?

My Lady gives good advice. I miss her. She would recommend bedtime. A nice little AC snuggle. A little snuggle. Is there anything better to the ol’ cerebral gourd as a snuggle (never mind how good it physically feels - it feels great)?

I say no!

My Lady asked my Step-Mother if she needed anything before she went to visit my Dad today. My Step-Mother responded, “Nine eas of cohn from Barbiaz”. When she received them she smiled and said they were, “Pahfect”. She pulled back the husks and through the corn hair, saw they were good picks. My Lady knows how to pick 'em!

My Step-Mother reminds me of a Bostonian version of Little Richard, especially in the recent Geico commercials.

I have good news, "I don't have much of an appetite".

If I go into farming, I know my Lady and I might have a shot at it.

Bed would be best, as corn takes too long to boil and eat - never mind the husking.

Go Huskies!

I will return, maybe more frequently than you would all like.

Return I shall, return I shall …

I take the chance on the granite ledge. To think I am back up in the saddle spurned trying to get out my quizzical and cryptic jargon, even with the baited breath of exhaustion warming my nape. My calf locked up today and made it almost impossible to stride ahead, foot after foot and imprints left only with slow painful attempts. The walk happened through the fading Crayola sky blue as I grimaced and cringed through. It is amazing what we can all over come.

It was presented to me recently that I may be a bit too manic and aloof in my duties as a scribe than I would care to present myself as. This momentarily perplexed me and then my centric view bubble popped and my hot air seemed to mix and meld with all that we inhale. I realized that I could not change it if I tried, at least not with the level of glee consumption that I have in sitting back and proof reading my maze walls of literary confusion that erect as I type into this box.

There is much to do about comments, counters, and consequence of conviction. I get my hits. I get my comments. I get my gratification. Would I prefer it to be on that damned to all Hell New York Times best seller list? Yes. Am I happy I get it anyway that I can? Yes. What is a man to do with a locked up calf?

I would like to let people know that I do prefer comments, even if they are of the “Hello, How are you, Good post” variety. I don’t need gratification of soliciting nature but I do like to know people are reading and this micro cosmos forum greets with open arms the splendor of a recognition statement or two.

I know my politics don’t jive, jibe, and jerry curl with the World but lately it has just been the prose and play of thought that I would think most people to enjoy. Maybe I am wrong. Maybe my literary tastes are comparable and in the same bird bath as my basking shriveling political drivel drool. I thought that to not be true, which is why I have always kept my poetry separate from my writings here. All of my ‘bonus’ posts have been of this ramble on format unless there has been breaking news, such as the execution of Stan ‘Tookie’ Williams. I guess when there is not a chance or hope, there is no turn around. Damn those blues progressions applying to my go get ‘em, hit ‘em, get ‘em, garrulous gaud.

To electric slide, boogie-woogie, and line dance my way into what I have to say, the medulla oblongata stretches and strains through a warm up of sorts. If this were a live club jam, the crowd would be heckling my ass off right now and hoping that I would consume the drink they bought for me in order to avoid some sort of jaded misinterpretation of ungratefulness, all while a’ stuttering my spine top.

I laugh a lot on the work duty with a fellow who is about ten years older than me. His name is James. When I say we laugh, I mean to imply that shovels sometimes fall as we giggle like 7^th grade boys poking and prodding our criticisms into the hyde of our teachers. I can only hint away at some of this activity as it mostly revolves around the racism post that I will be writing upon completion of the program. I do not have a shoe phone like Maxwell, Hell I don’t even have his hammer (silver or not), so variant readership prohibits such commentary.

I am not reading much these days. There were no good documentaries on tonight. My news has become more fluff than a stripper or a Barbazon student could grasp. I just had the need to write. To clear the air. To lay it down onto Snydly Whiplash’s railroad tracks and pray the train would not come before Underdog. I had to write.

I have many percussive and horn driven audio maladies to take me through the prose, the tired, the dread of tomorrow.

I have written a lot lately. All put together, the text should make some sort of great text to be found etched and chiseled into a stone wall in a tomb that no one would ever dare to enter. Light the torch bright, I don’t know if there is a map but I know it is dark.

Please lay down the comment. Let me know. I am no shadow beast of intimidation. I like to have readers don a countenance.

I will return to politics but I will always have the ‘bonus’ section of my scribble scrabble scribe.

Scribe is the word of the day. When someone says it, scream real loud. Thank you Mr. Reubens!

From Frank Zappa's "Son of Orange County":

"And in your dreams
You can see yourself
As a prophet
Saving the world
The words from you lips
(I AM NOT A CROOK)
I just can't believe you are such
A fool

I just can't believe
You are such a fool
I just can't believe
You are such a fool

I just can't believe
You are such a fool
I just can't believe
You are such a fool"

At just after 7p.m. P.S.T., I have about nine hours until I must awake and make the walk again.

Ten more hours done and gone away with. That feels damn good.

If you ever are forced to walk the walk that work for freedom makes you take, then I suggest you move and sweat everyday. The days consume themselves with much more gluttony that way.

I will be back on the weekends to continue this diary of sorts.

I hope, when she is older, that my lover of green tailed lemurs learns a tid bit or to form these texts. I hope I am there to answer her questions when she asks. I know it will explain a lot about year five.

Does anything I write make any sense to anyone?

Is it far too what ever it is to get?

Do you want to comment?

Even if you lay down the line of hate I will respond.

Tell me I suck and that I should step slowly away from the keyboard. I will give you a big fat Greek kiss. Make that cheek steady, I would hate to offend by offering up a lip shuffle.

I wonder if any of my relatives read this.

I often wonder if anyone reads this - maybe the counter is a coded glitch.

A glitch that makes the gulch, sucks the water from the reward knowing full well that water is the reward.

Yet another play on words that dances through the info highway cycle as I wonder if the fishing net caught.

Do you fish?

I work hard and write.

I will keep doing both, regardless of what they say.

The granite ledge is well polished. I wonder who manufactured this Earth birthed splendor?

Not me ...

The most beautiful of days slip through one’s fingers, becoming condensed into marimba and vibraphone scatter and shatter, dented cans of milk that no one will buy. Hoping to make the pink flowers on the tree outside my office window dance hard, make the girls with shakin' back sides jealous. They don’t. I won’t. Before I know it, the day will coax me to bed and the cocoon of quasi relief will hold me tight, tighter than any Mother has held a crying child. Hush now child, don’t say a word.

The countdown to slumber and the week's locked chest beneath the Sea leave a foul metallic melt in one’s mouth. Pick up that jaw and file down the teeth of the day. Taking a bite of anything is something to appreciate, significantly more so if it sustains. Over ruled!

I have been trying to be agile enough with my subject matter that it will cleanse with ease and entertain at it’s best, with no make up flaws and cans of staged truss glory shining hard into the lack of imperfections, the reader who may find distaste and gag reflex reflections upon ingesting, or even sniffing, my normal banter. I can smell the reds and blues and yellows and greens as they fuck into bi-lateral and complex colors that we take for granted due to the laborious love of the Sun and it’s light refraction. Liquid love lazy lewd, spewed into our pupils like porn star splendor. Everything is in shades and that has as much to do with black, white, and grey as it does not.

Shake your shaker. Make your maker. Stake the steaker? I prefer my BBQ rare unless it is the trichinosis darling with all of it’s oinking splendor and Islamic vile. I never did get the hibachi up and running this weekend. My big bad barbeque buddies would balk at my bemused and bereft being. I laugh and hope that Monday does not come. The walk is already hurting my tootsies.

There are breezes traipsing and tip toeing through my air that remind it is not so hot. With all of my newly found week sweat, I don’t find much that hot anymore. Except for things from the oven - I have not lost that much of my noodle. I still use oven mitts, maybe the only mitts that I will ever use between now and the pine. Make my nails ten penny ones and drive them home hard as the seal is made and the children cry because the riddles will no longer kiss them to sleep.

For breakfast I called my daughter and in her five year old tone of wonder, bewilderment, and wide eyed awe she explained that her cell phone connection was “not good and we should touch base another time“. Her words, not mine. She has the phone and I sit looking at pink flower tree blossoms. She was told to repeatedly talk to me as the green tailed lemurs danced in front of her at the zoo. How am I supposed to compete with a green tailed lemur? I can’t.

The little homo-primate with it’s prehensile tail has been in the Sun all day. I have avoided direct contact with the rays of the solar globe since I arose from my brief departure from eyes wide open. Dodging Sun rays can be hard work. You need the carbs and protein and all the various B vitamins you can gut suck to get it done, to charge it. I view the sun like the wicked West witch took on water - like the Titanic melting into the ice of non existence. No Sun for me. Although, when I tan, I tan spectacular. My berry brown baked bean shade has come out from my work down at Maggie’s place. I don’t want to work on Maggie’s farm no more. The ball of sky fire is hoping that Maggie will soon drop dead as well.

I am alone. I am lonely. The empty condo does not talk back when I rant and rave. The cats flee from my confused and disheveled path. The look up, as if to say, “What the fuck is your problem Mr. Writer Man?”, I know they just want food and water, distilled water at that. Cats don’t like chlorine and fluoride and magnesium and sodium. My cats would be drinking Evian if they had their way. They are sending secret memos, typed out with kitten toes, to my Lady in the middle of the night, praying and plotting their way to the cool French waters that they curiously watch her consume. They think they are better than me. They want to be like her. I wish my Lady would return from Boston tonight.

I was looking forward to nights of full bed; lack of rock and roll, toss and turn, as if tempurpedic had a clandestine operation to immediately replace my queen size spring junkie for some Mr. Good Body triathlon of a sleep pad upon my co-slumberer’s departure. It did not happen like that. Every fifteen minutes my body craves hers. Hours early I arise and look in every abode crany for her smile. I wish she would come home and interrupt my solo sleep. I want to wake up all night long and smell her night sweat. I want to whisper ‘I Love You’ into her ears, knowing she won’t respond but feeling ear to ear, cheek to cheek, smiles as I do. I want to throw my leg over her in a straddle only appreciated by her receiving my love and maybe a long forgotten stable nag that only gets a ride once a rum run - the latter of which she is not. I miss getting our hair tangled in the pillows as we pitch and parry over promiscuous padding. My Lady loves me. I miss her. I want her to come home. Full grown men could surf in the tears that crest from my bottom lid as I think of the week to come, the week that comes to fruition without her.

The hallowed hall echoes of now and then and what’s to come pinball and ping pong and then just pong between my well paid four walls.

Trebuchet my mind, heart, and soul in her general direction. She will find me. She loves me.

The Sun doesn’t get in unless it RSVP’s.

The breeze knows how to make me feel like a thin man and not the drenched sweat bastard that I have been known to be in recent years, months, and days.

My fridge is full.

My cupboards may want more cups and boards but they still make the Old Woman in the Shoe want to come by for dinner.

Television works.

The radio can crank up through it’s static stalled braces as if it were a lispy wispy raspy cheek spatter spitter.

I have written three essays this weekend and still had energy to laugh and cry when they were done.

Hours, hours, hours.

More time than I have fingers and toes.

How many fingers and toes does a green tailed lemur have? Do they use their tails to count?

And hours still again.

I still have my 180 to go.

Seems like that 180 has been an exponential 360.

Spin, bitch spin.

Where, oh where, could O’Reilly be?

Not here, I am away from the pulpit till the equinox screams, and scream it will …

I am a nick knacker. I get a hard on for bric-a-brac. I love little mementos of hard worn luck and hours of lost and found with the flared out disco collars of hide and seek that I do not even realize that I am participating in. Life to me, at times, can be one big disco of memorabilia.

I have traveled coast to coast (before I listened to Art Bell or George Nory). There are only eight states that I have not been to. They are the eight that I would love to see, be, and breathe in on a cold morning when it hurts to inhale and the lungs shudder at the thought of shutter.

I have driven. I have taken the bus. I have trained it across. I have taken the plane since smoking was allowed and food was free, expected. I remember being eleven and flicking those little magic metal lids in and out of there simple, loving, pleasurable squares in my arm rest.

My third flight solo was when I was twelve. I had a brand spankin’ new Sony Discman. If you remember them or remember having one, then you remember how hot damn they were. I was listening to Iron Maiden’s “Number of the Beast” when a college student sitting next to me decided to show me the newly released “Power” CD by Ice-T. Half Naked girl with nipples all a’ flailing, bad ass dudes with bad ass garb, loaded weapons trying to be concealed. I put it in the Discman. I listened to the whole thing while drool fell from my gullet and pooled on the tray. I was in love with flying.

When I was fourteen I had a single mom hit on me and try to pull a hot-cha on my ass. I sprinkled pepper from the little double nostril packet onto my TWA omelet and hoped she would ride me. Needless to say she didn’t. She wasn’t a teacher, I was not her pupil.

These were mental keepsakes but I was always looking for the physical ones. The little things that mean absolutely not a damn thing to anyone except the holder. The holder in my little miniscule realm is me, I am the key holder. Who is the gate keeper?

Rocks, stones, marbles, bottle tops, acorn top whistles, sticks in a certain shape, little plastic do-dads that meant something to someone at some point and now mean more to me than the previous holder will ever know. Labels, ticket stubs, forget dig em’s that people once forgot. I do not forget them. They clutter my cerebral depository. I withdraw from that bank often as it is my only account to hold me accountable for the counting.

Like bubbles in a piss shot water bowl, I wonder why they are so brief and what they are meaning for the time they are here.

The recent round of trinkets and nonsense that I have collected, scavenged, retrieved, and foraged for; are three golf balls (one a red stripe and since I like that Jamaican brew, needed it’s reminder), a horribly pitted glass marble that would make Bukowski’s face look smooth, a pure white stone of cleansed presentation that looks like a marshmallow that would make the Swiss Miss emmigrate from her mountains, a big blue plastic star to remind me that I should have told my elementary school teachers that there were better colors than gold anyway, and a fabulous little new purchase owner's pamphlet on the Hula Ho of which I mentioned a few posts back.

I put them all in glass jars like the organs of a victim. I hold them tight as if I know someday they will come in handy.

I know when I get on the Mothership, that only exists in George Clinton’s mind and the bowels of Louis Farrakhan (two seperate ships entirely), that I will need them to be the only white man on the ship of funk or the alternate ship of righteous benevolance. They will be my passport to yet another chapter of travel and mementos of the surreal and non materialistic kind. The kind that overflow waterfalls and makes the mind drown in what could have been and what is.

Like bizarre vocals from gender confused voices mixing baritones and falsettos as if that is just the toll of the road, the bridge, the causeway that has cause.

Boxes and crates and shoeboxes that hold what never could be without the card board frame. Pack ‘em up, stack ‘em up, rawhide

Yates, Mr. Rawdy Yates. Telephone call for Mr. Rawdy Yates.

I feel lucky.

Lucky enough to break the weekend into three melted pieces like the sucrose napalm of a microwaved jawbreaker.

Yes, microwaves change the molecular structure of anything that goes in and out. I believe Trudeau that much.

Paddy-wack; I am a wackin' Paddy.

Wrap me up in ribbons, I am sure there is a tree with presents; enough for you and me.

Stevie Wonder holds my hand as the Nothing dissolves Atrail’s bobbins.

Sew me up and call me a nasty boy, souvenirs in hand …

When I was dropping the fabulous L - B - ‘s for my wedding back in 2000, I took great pride and consumptive pleasure in ingesting yogurt. I also thought I wanted to be married in a Hindu ceremony. I ate yogurt, with it’s high protein, low fat, organism benefits; as if it were the one food product that would save my entire life. I actually had bemused myself with the delectable mythology of dairy micro organisms as a way to tickle the lack of tonsils as a way to continuously eat the cups filled with goo.

Amongst the highest on my Roman seal were L. Acidophilus, the Caesar. The Sentinel leader Bifidus. The Statesman L. Reuteri. Also amongst the ranks could be found the man handler savage L. Casei. All Roman leaders of great worship and even more desirable consent. I now find myself at the heels of the new Caesar, Hypotenuse.

The golden seal of new mythology. The feel better moments and thoughts that purvey the mind of a man walking 3.5 miles at dawn. I don’t walk the line, per say. Screw Cash. I walk the Hypotenuse.

I have that damn stroll of sweat down to a mere seven sections between seven to nine minutes a piece.

I know sprinkler times. I know of the sprinkler, during my 6^th phase, that ricochets liquid drop racket balls across the street sign hoping to slow motion impersonate an Ice Cream Vendor’s cart bell as it spews forth it’s Quaalude stutter of Evelyn Woodhead’s speed reading course, drool from an old man’s chin.

I know when the other water sprayers raise their heads and salute my walk with splendid ticker fury and vigilances at the gaze of their dawn leader’s strut. As the cars sway their headlights from full to full, as the water glass coats the roadway on either side of the thirsty median. Their hushes and shushes make me stride deeper and longer.

I feel the hills and valleys. I smell the smells of Earth’s morning eruption. The soil, the sulfur, the sage. I taste them. They distract from the exhaust. They increase the pace of the stride.

I know of the three little fat old women and when they walk.

I see the cars and when they leave. I know who is late and who is early.

The man who sleeps in his car on Trabuco Canyon makes me wonder what has left him tossing and turning in the auto, as his foot presses against the brake casting red shadows for me to speed walk through.

I see the marching band line up on the bleachers of El Toro High School awaiting practice.

I wish the lazy son of a bitch who needs multiple snooze hits from their double chime - pause - double chime - pause alarm clock would just wake up on time.

I know the fastest way from A to B is to walk that triangle slant. My whole saunter - speed saunter as it is - becomes an analysis of licking the short cut. How much time can be shaved off? How much time can be saved? Will I have time to find my cigarette stash buried in the leaves at my destination place and huff one down before the Jeffe arrives and says 'good morning' while insidiously hoping to make me sweat more than I need to because I am the white man?

I eat Earth for breakfast now.

Even the two Mexican men that join me from their wooded short cut at the half way point know I am pushing it, moving it, making it.

They wish for the left overs of what I taste, yet dine as full as me when it comes to the breakfast of dawn’s smells and motions.

I wonder where the cars are going.

I know what lays before me.

The walk hurts more than all hell

Beelzebub cackles. God smiles.

Either way I press on.

I know who you all are.

The midnight walkers. The late sleepers. The one’s with dogs. The ones catching the bus. The ones wishing, hoping, they won’t see my fat scary ass as they pass and attempt to smile while they wonder "what is the sweaty man’s deal".

I think of Townes Van Zandt and his fabulous lyrics that mutter about through my head with the power of a James Thurber cartoon:

“Sometimes I don't know where this dirty road is taking me
Sometimes I can't even see the reason why
I guess I keep on gamblin', lots of booze and lots of ramblin'
It's easier than just a-waitin' 'round to die

One-time friends I had a ma, I even had a pa
He beat her with a belt once cause she cried
She told him to take care of me, she headed down to Tennessee
It's easier than just a-waitin' 'round to die

I came of age and found a girl in a Tuscaloosa bar
She cleaned me out and hit it on the sly
I tried to kill the pain, I bought some wine and hopped a train
Seemed easier than just a-waitin' 'round to die

A friend said he knew where some easy money was
We robbed a man and brother did we fly
The posse caught up with me, drug me back to Muskogee
It's two long years, just a-waitin' 'round to die

Now I'm out of prison, I got me a friend at last
He don't steal or cheat or drink or lie
His name's codeine, he's the nicest thing I've seen
Together we're gonna wait around and die”

I am happy to not be the man with the airplane glue locked within his jaw worse than tetanus.

I sweat hard. I walk hard.

I am the man you don’t want to pass in the purple blue morning.

All Hail Hypotenuse.

He is shaving my time 1/5^th fold …