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Showing posts from January, 2017

No bowl from charm (code for smoking pot)

Prologue.There are major goings on right inside the school's front office. This is where the neat desks are arranged into right angles. Prim and trim in front of the neat white secretaries with their tidy assistant pins pinned to their sharp lapels.
"O' can I get a picture please?"
Type type type, "Of course, yes."
Chapter.
The slow arc of light being thrust at the dusty screen aches like a spreading bruise. It's a hot knot shaped like a hound, a small fat hunting dog on a wide rug beside a glowing fire and an oversize bouncy chair. The long table has a dozen sleepy students sitting at it. They fidget with their pens and gaze at the dim clock overhead. The radiator bangs and a couple of the girls chins bounce when they nod. "We've taken advantage of the this rule before. Last week we saw it with Hawthorn. We're likely to see it again in Updike. Can anyone identify the rule I'm talking about here?"

No one moves beneath the steady weig…

The Folklore of our Economics

This is after all of that talk about painting and painting things clean and free from the sounds of value. - After PvZ, after SMJ Radio, radio, barn owl hoot, the tainted thing in the dry black grove on the pale clay mound. No chairs, no chairs or tables, no beasts, no beasts with guns in the back seat of my checkered yellow car. The walls of the basin are like cold tonic being served over traffic and the walls are like 8 foot high piles of dung in the center lane. The cloud of super-villain in front of us is drinking from his paper cup and he laughs a little too much like Frank laughs.
"Cold coffee is cold enough," He tells me from his mirror. He casts some blinker, promptly switches into the right hand lane. He slides in beside a great hovel of a necromancer then pounds the steering wheel for effect. "The market is a cultural construct, a series of black eyed occurrences. The market is all math that's been translated through the actions of determined transformatio…

Slip it in, not so vague nor lost just slip it right in.

The drawer with my business can be opened by angels. Flat and left folded, my shirt's in this drawer. Its purpose is worried. It's being more than the quiet that's settled in there. Drawer upon drawer and opened to this. I'll remember that boat once I've hauled out its line. I'm crossed. I feel as erratic as a cold winter rain. My eyes are frizzy and my skin is all hot from so much haywire, so much botched nerve speak. I'm alone. I'm sitting in a chair. I'm waiting at home. I'm alone in this room that's quiet and tall. The door's shut and the shelf is often bare. The general foam of this experience is standardized and it's limited by the nowhere presence of a convicted god, an angry god and someone else's god. None of whom are in here with me now. I'm battered and whipped and tossed at the straits. I am left of this shore. Alone with this cold and as wet as a cake, I am grand. I'm as a horny as a day fowl. If I could be …

Morning, dark as a wad of copper tasting spit

Party party party has an assembled goal at the end of every line item Reach out there's a glass eye in the fountain O' poach'd soup Marble in the hall Door in Door out - Out into a forever kind of space on SwingRoundTunes by the This Old Angel "We'll lose our sad cowboys first, they're in the front row. Then that other dirtbag, the self righteous pile of puke will do in the rest of us. After that it's going to be a long shared nightmare of hand wringing and broken sweats," Mr Mittens sets his bag of groceries beside the hot plate. Through a spangled haze of cracker dust and oily tuna stains there are sounds of the briefest of moans slipping through the deep blue walls. His humble eyes graze the table's top. There's a glass of water, a peach, a rose bright and blooming like an open heart that's on display.
"Here we are than," Says Mr Mittens. He walks around his hard chair and picks up a shallow dish. The water inside feels thin, …

Your hubris is piss drunk and swinging again

Four years. Four years of connecting our collective thumb with the working end of a hammer. Four years of never forgetting. Four years of trying to get the mosquito out of the tent. Four years of butter side down toast. Four years of Ted Nugent. Four years of broken shoe laces. Four years of spoilers. Four years of snooze buttons. Four years of one wet sock. Four years of catsup sandwiches on white bread. Four years of deciphering Furby gibberish. Four years of forgetting that it's, I before E unless after C. Four years before orange can be a fruit. Four years of missing pieces under the couch. Four years of missed buses. Four years of shark week. Four years of clock watching. Four years of practice makes perfect. Four years.

Any epiphany where sorry is a hard man.

"At first there's the bird house. Then there's a bee's hive and a short mountain. After that are two gas stations and an exam with many questions about, Poo."
"Poo?"
"Poo."
The chambers and the swivel chairs above the street are all empty, He-Man's gone home for the night. The Masters-at-Arms are waiting with the old clowns and the other wig police down the way. The pills are bright, there's a few on the table. They're in a lumpy bag. The word, vote has been printed on the side of it in blue with four bright stars.
"Lumpy bag of polished toads is more like it," The Masters-at-Arms grumbles from his stool.
"That's what's passing for goodly wig to wig talk these days," I mutter along silently while breathing in and breathing out. "The city has no qualms watching us as we go about our tiny spider-business. Cast a wide enough net and they might even find one of them unicorns with an eyepatch or a devi…

Let US/ We can funk you up

O' no I'm not alone nor lost at all My head's not stuffed nor filled from density My eye's aren't split to open No their seams are whole and dry I like to sing Let's sing again Around around the circle From now to when let's sing again Around around and then - Right around to Wrong, Miles Sharplie  "Ham," She gives him a rolling push before turning and walking away. It's brave enough to know just enough of what we do. Now there's also the additional effort necessary to produce any program or event at all. Then it all needs to be determined, to be considered before it is too. Rather than a worthwhile exhibition these things, any valuable or historical paradigm remains irrelevant until any and all things that substantiate them can be assessed. Then there's the curious removal of symmetry from any of our specific inquiries. "It's all becoming brief as any witness will say," I tell her over my shoulder from here inside the da…