Heavy Beverly and Effory Sharp Defend

Heavy light weighed heavily on heavy Beverly as she imagined Light’s light pressure.  Light, of course, does not exist, just light and the idea of proper Light superimposed on a minor, a student, a follower, or a trailer like a comet across the sky barreling towards earth.  Earthboundness being the problem of Lucas the Turtle on a line from start to faraway finish regarded Roger Rabbit at Rabbit’s End, at the foot of Jack and Jill’s hill and a foot from finishing, what a character!  Pandora’s Box of Orthodox spontaneity, also described as a can-o’-lightworms ‘n’ universal dialects if not accents and body-language.  A buncha beat-boxin’ Haw-stah Far-eyes, regional hastafarians, say goodbye! Because they are on a trip from God like the Blue’s Brother’s mission of musical missionaries, except more like the ice proselytizers in Mosquito Coast.  They team up with pacifist thugs and start drum rumbling or drumbling and the drumberling’s rumbling tummies they are numb to when the music hits like Sublime, Bob Marley, or heroin, although they are too enlightened now to try the hard stuff even though they once tripped on oxy.  Fuckin’ hippie lightworms.  Turtles all the way down, Sturgill!  It all means nothing, “Shut up! Ladies!  Eu cand vreau sa fluier, fluier, ah providence, ce enfantement!  Why couldn’t I have the ability to be cool?” I think as I whistle ‘Voux le voux couchet avec moi?’

The author frequently committed artistic euthanasia and then wrote about the gray skin and waxy pallor of the recently deceased, that morbid creep.  Barbeque sheets.

The infidel blood-dance is an orgiastic routine.  Swingers and fundamentalists raking hands over a loaf of theft sings ‘Happy Thanksgiving!’ despite enormous debt to foreign banks home and abroad.  “If only blood weren’t so revitalizing!” thought the thirsty throat gnasher, gorged on the flesh of the once living.  The heathen wears a crow cap and with the mind of a murderer concentrates on Depp’s worst role.

Black-and-white weather: good, bad, and/or etc.  Irrational and erratic thought-patterns published in black and white print have me sitting indoors wishing the weather were more weather so I would go outdoors and read.  Maybe I’ll just smoke the joint I started an hour ago and put out.  Smoking solo, solo cloud, solo weather experience.  This goes against any reasonable profit-driven motivation.  Commerce doesn’t exist in a vacuum unless you’re Hoover and we all heard about what happened when he took office!  (Founding Fathers will fill you in.) 

Effory Sharp miscommunicated the esoteric scripture of fluency because of her pitch, frequently falling flat. “Gee-flat-flat” chanted the one-note-wonder in monotone F within the choral din.

The danger in believing you are doing a certain action correctly digitates its action on the plane. If you were to correlate their features, you would discover a revealing insight into the human species as I am a part of, as a vessel for ideas from above or passed on through tradition.  There are really no new ideas, only rearrangement of fragments that already exist.  Striving for a more pointed perfection, expressing interest in the individual.  What I mean is to query specifics.  When your team is on offence, it is just to offend.  Undermine offenders, defiantly, “de-fence!” 

Who removed my wherewithal?  Where did my wherewithal go? If we were all truly all-inclusive, we could all be truly rich indeed.  If we were truly open to open-mindedness, we could be easily overcome prejudice inherent in issues, on issues, and around issues.  In his shoes, he issues a stench…

Llala Dimitri and Ray Blue's Intercession

Maximize potential: The stored charge hoarde.

The joy of being ‘fucked up’ is the understanding that we should take control when we are able, by contrast.  By contrast we were more in control before and hopefully we will regain control again.  The ‘fucked up’ feeling is overpowering.  Imagining a charioteer, as our ancestors might have, our arm’s duty is to reign the horses attached in order and in grasp.  During the fast going, refusal to abide could be fatal by falling, distractedly. Ingest sub-stance; receive understanding ye openminded.  Always have a fall guy.  Fall guy believes he has control when he does not.

The path is set, the roads are clear.
Fall guy sits. Lightning intercedes.
Shock therapy is administered to paddled temples.
A necessary jolt for a torpid recording
“I’ve always wanted a servant like you.”

It’s like we win the love lottery.  There we are, standing with the winning love ticket, thinking to ourselves, “Finally! I’ve put myself out there every day paying my love dues every day for this love ticket and here it is! Finally!  In my hands!” What do we do?  We rejoice! Is there any better weather that day?

Control+alt+plot – The Graphic Escape (a Romance?)

The power to be devout is a broad fool’s Cape finish.
Guns and friends without a manifesto run blind hoods.
The hip-hop literati take the power back, plans before actions, action planning.
Organize, strategize, fight, easel, big paper, Sharpie.  Llala Dimitri would?

The deceased increase as bodies pile without decay.
A limb wader would know no dirt of decomposition.
Patience and pumpkins bring seeds and seasons’ beings.
Doth thy greatness go unhailed? Never!
Diminish thy static nares.
Oh no! Upturned nay-ers!
An order to undo should be undone.
Dumpster dive for dumpster diversity.

We do what we do to survive, despite extenuating circumstances.  At least the circumstances do not continue to attenuate.  Multiples of sentience produce and reproduce until production becomes a postproduction decomposition.  Hmm…  When do we get to round up the social pariahs again?

A whoremonger, villain to these non-progressive types, complains about his relationships.  Seeing his static institutions crumbling, decides to break up, but this is normal to a progressive individual like a whoremonger.  Personally, I’ve only ever heard of two types of mongers, whoremongers and fishmongers.  If there are more mongers out there please let me know.  I would not like to shake your hand, both mongers seem fishy somehow.  Rumormongers are a thing now too.  Mangomongers?  Mango Republic outsources Bananas, markets to lonely women.

Do away with static like a cling-on, ye masters of tradition, tradition of eternal apotheosis.  Imagine all the people, like Lennon in Heaven, suddenly losing faith, and tumbling.  Imagine there’s no Heaven, we know it’s easy, do we have to try?  Is there a man without judgment and without the aspect of senility?

Skippers approach another massive wall at the border of an arctic wilderness.  Another hurdle fast approaching.  How much would I rather be cruising in my Dodge Durandango than be stuck in the 1850s on a boat in the arctic sea that I’m not even captaining?  I’d even rather be in an ’04 Kia Queequeg.  Where’s my tiki idol that I can put on my head and pray to as it meditates on me and maybe it’ll teleport me to a time and place where I am finally captain of this goddamned ship and not at the whim of some Virgin Ahab?  O apparition of matter, o monster who haunts the winds pinned against an ethereal pillar extending into Heaven, plasma state of the heathen.  Oh!  How could butterflies and Enya in blissful judgment be so cold and ugly?  Tradition of antithesis of eternal apotheosis, thanks Obama!

Intercession.

Sock Ray Blue!  “Poor guy didn’t do nothin’ to hurt nobody,” just his dog.

Relive torture because you deserve a memory photo action replay in high definition, big hits football.  Fractured clavicle, broken rib, cavemen died from less.  A bruised ego?  A collective imagination allows such things to exist.  “He’s suffering, put him down,” a hopelessly hard thinker expanding on a single yeller spot.  See Spot.  See Spot run.  “Run, Spot, run! O.K. Spot! That’s enough! Come back now! I’m not going all the way over there.  It’s too far.  Come back!  Come!”

See Ray.  See Ray blow.  Blow, Ray, blow!  See Ray Blue’s blown fuse.  See Spot twitch.  See Ray Blue’s invisible fence evident by yelping Spot and yard flags along the property border.  See Spot become territorial.  Growl, Spot, growl.

Chatty power walkers wiggle swish walking suits like crystal wrapped ham by Spot’s lawn and invisible fence, chew toy chew-chew trained not to lunge at the flying meat like heavenly swine.  “That’s married rack, tough tits, good no hump.”  My complaint is this country is filled with Puritan puppies founded by Ray Blue’s ilk, kith, and kin.  Any face would grow old around a big pugnacious mouth and a slack jaw.

Getting back to basics is getting away from complexes, complexities, and melodrama of an exalted elite class stuck in an elevated depression.  “Brothers!  Our brethren are broiling in their own stock!”  Gobbled the turkey, chicken cuckold, “A delicious dish,” the clockers concurred.  Ray Blue’s invisible fence extended to the coop, every hen was yoked with proximity stun guns, so would-be escapees were electrically fried thoroughly enough to prevent salmonella.  Last eggs like popcorn burst from chicken snatch cadavers.  The last exodus: a yolky kaleidoscope.

Ray Blue’s electromelanophreniogram:  lit. An electric (digital) recording of a dark mind.

America’s brain cancer: Vegas expands the desert’s grid into the Mojave, Las Vegas, the get-lit oasis, a high-energy spectacle.  Job creation and personal debt for the cost of a flight.  The attempted tooth scalper baffled the loan shark with his utter nonsense as his gums were severely inflamed from a recent pulling with unsupervised anesthesia and a hob gob wandering drunk with pliers.  This has been a fatal attraction to a fatal distraction to a fatal extraction.  Apparently human ivory isn’t selling these days.  The woozy autoscalper bled out face down in the Belagio’s lobby fountain having poached himself.

Life in Alexandria Edited to Fit Today (Monday, Five Years Later)

“Wining About Something – What WAS”

Barrel 27 Rock and a Hard Place 2007 Grenache, another flavor to be nano-stored in the G-protein taste-bud memory bank.  What the world needs now is ‘light brown spice,’ and in the wisdom of a chef, in a world where sugar is both the cure and the glaze, is there a place for ginger?  Sip. Savor.  Slither. Having a transcendent head-out-of-stomach experience, devastated emotions ferment beneath the confident surface of an austere air.  Reminders precede memory loss.  I prepare my mind like an old computer hard drive that needed to free space by getting rid of rubbish of the mind/body/soul.  Nowadays, what with processor speed, RAM, and HDDs the way they are, why delete?  By then my Monday was undone.  I was unhinged, by God, unhinged!  Long looks upon blank walls, I started to draw in pencil something I knew must be erased some day in the future and wouldn’t be worth taking a picture of if I had a camera.  Inspiration was something that came from the word interstitial.  I was reading Moby Dick for the first time, knowing how it would end, and not wanting it to… Something about seafaring seemed…not more romantic, but more robust than waiting tables for a year in a random place where I knew one person well enough to call it home.  Bourne upon ancient saltwater currents, breathing hour spans, wresting writing from walls if not superimposing.  I must have made a good impression, this one that got away calls me back five years later, she wants to drive all the way from Alexandria to Buffalo to make out.  Should I encourage what seems like insanity to come to me? 

“Sloppy Second Joe”

Fast-food pick-up artistry, I set the standards for low-grade loving, poorest quality acceptable for public consumption, entirely a gluttonous mash, musty mouthful. A bottle of life in one hand and a bottle of life-altering substances in the other.  Spun like a child for fruity loops swimming in box Jesus juice.  My biggest regrets involve leaving something unattended, unfinished, or unseen.  It’s crazy though, I try to be omnipresent, omnipotent, and omniscient, a god-headed ideal.  Informed sources reliably relate information intelligently. Uninformed, unintelligent sources attempt to deviate my attention from what is real into memory illusion, those things that I remember to be true, but in fact, aren’t.  Hence the refresher.  I arise late, headache, memory splinters, something asymmetric struggles to fit, my shoulders are too tight for anything to be easy.  The verb to be! The verb to be! Action is more becoming to the gentleman, but I, jilted ball cap, lo ego, struggling to find clean pants, muttering, sputtering, pulse pouting, scrutinizing, and glutenizing to boot, I need a good reason to go out and suffer my abuse.

“Camels, Dude”

What exactly happened on the other side of the needle’s eye?  I will never see because I got stuck, stuck staring at the loopy end and missed the metaphor.  A spasmodic insertion concluded my vision. The end.

“Self-Addendum”

Mortal men wallowing in the shallows of dolorous demeanors, haphazard blankets on the wall-to-wall apartment floor for a bed, punctilious expressions all around.  Imagining self-mutilation and living in the moment, doing neither.  Guts. Glory. Escher? Allin.  Jesus Christ.  Quality counts individuality by ones, and to each, ownership.  Owner, boner, a sketchy loner enters a bar.  Each and every effect of ethanol on biochemistry realized multiplied by herb, spice, and illusion.  The self-indulgence of rich slaves, the struggle for abundant resources leaves idiots stuffed, self-taxidermy.  Guts in the mess hall, spilled truth serum on the hands of a self-administrator.  Robots suck. Short circuitry is a tail chase, a bitch dogged affair.  Tongue in the short-hairs, active cowlick brushing the mane of motherly vanity, living the dirty life to get clean.  Should I work harder at earning more or protest rising cost?  What do you say we get high without memory loss?

Forget your troubles!

Forget your cares!

Forget your worries!

Caution: Bears!

National Hot Dog Day

7/9/14 @ 2257

"Genderless Mentality... or is it Wymentality? Only in Wyoming."

“It’s hard to understand what’s going on in my head. What’s going on in my head is hard to understand. Maybe I’m hard-headed. Maybe I have something hard in my head. It’s hard to understand. What’s going on in my head is not so obvious,” a lady speaking, “I’ve got no direction, I’m aimless and natural. Maybe I’m artless instead...artlessly natural and directed. I’m coy; I’m selfish. I need humor because laughter drains out of me through my mouth and pores. Fear would drive me crazy. So would imagined tickles. Once I slept through the eyes of a stranger.”

Are all wizards ambidextrous or are no wands ergonomic? Why does wizard rhyme with lizard and blizzard? Strange noises coming from my bathroom, a different type of whirring this time, a higher-pitched motor, the intensity, no, the amplitude of stridation*. A scribulent* trance common to ecstasy as a moral code like the hedonist assertion that there is no moral code but PLEASURE! Lots of it, most of the time.  Aim high! Aim high on marijuana! 

stridation - compound word of stride music and striation geology

scribulent - something that a scribbling scribe would produce.

8/11/14 @ 1108

"I, Hedonist" 

I awaken after a night of delirium tremens after a week of bending straws into cocktails.  It sounds like people fucking outside my window (I remember crows).  My mind has been mocking me all night in the language of Ulysses: “They looked. Murderer’s ground. It passed darkly. Shuttered, tenantless, unweeded garden. Whole place gone to hell.” What the hell is wrong with me exploiting myself for pleasure? Because I am then exploited by others for their own pleasures too?  My body looks worse than it did the day before. I am not being by best. I don’t know what to do to be my best; this is high-anxiety.  Jeff, Connie, Noreen: names in my book of falling behind schedule (from zero to one to zero *blip*!), imaginary sine up, ten thousand things to be present for, another RSVP not responded to.  Another surprise appearance?

Lights, salary, saucesauce!

The lord of social deviants, a Dadaist.

Even dogs know to hide.

New body a slop, new soul a void,

If I had the Devil’s wit…

Eve’s part of man, that other funny bone, a seed of cartilage and knowledge, tickled Adam’s man parts.  Here come the ouroborates*, otiose ottava*, technical backbone, lunch sac lung and peanut brain.

Ouroborates - worshipers of the snake that swallows its own tail

Otiose ottava - a pointless heroic rhyme (usually Italian)

8/11/14 @ 1216

“Fruit of the Mews”

A snake ingests the double-backed feline domesticati.  The snake swallows them both at the same time.  Mornings admonish the drunkard wasting melatonin, neuromelatonin, B1, and catecholamines.  Fucking catecholamines in my eroding synapse alleys, collapsing cell walls, and bleeding onto cellular sidewalks.  Cats yowl; catecholamines y’all!

                Cartoon shitface wolfman Jack, quail egg sea urchin vodka, shooting mollusk, special operations octopi.  Colorful hibachi Iphone games hone generalized ideologies, collections of gardens of imaginary flower estates, direct audio-visual stimuli: eye-drunkennesses.  “IDs please,” at Seabar, Colt 45, pinky up. “Woke up in my own New Year’s Tullamore baby vomit.  Felt like Hendrix had he survived?  Vomitus asphyxiation.  Chemical cause still a mystery.”  Pierce Bricks, Jeremy, and Cal.  House of spackle.  Moving offices, 15 computers, human resource moments.  Liberty hounds the unchaste.  One guy at the bar, a lawyer, knows all about beer, hops, and the surly tender.  He gives schizophrenic advice. Cougar impasse? Shotgun wedding? Rational fear? Sur la Caesar!  Ongoing semantics validate laughs, validate slaughters. It tells the truth about uncentered foci* (chronic distractions), staying trapped in seasons of suffering, circles in circles, fly swot? Antihistamine?  Here kitty!  Tend the till.

                High-speed Buffalo buffalo connections buffalo.  They send many a man flying high against gravity, waiting on tip severance from their diner, another day’s prating ends in rum.

8/22/14 @ 1219

"Sour Soul Salsa"

A soul, disregarded by atheists, is still a word that bears recognition.  In that sense it is undeniably real. What weight a word carries is essential to the bearer.  What qualities might a good word bearer embody?  Conventions of truth, justice, and humility, and the ability to nurture souls.  Perversions cripple the spirit, soul’s synonym.  If the space between things compel, free the spirited!  My noisy chamber of mush, I slug through, feeling hurled.  Weep ray; we pray prayers full of sorrow to ward off the heathen, society’s menace. 1) The chronically knocked-up freeloading loin laborer.  Drop the bundle!  Have offspring!  How far gone? Some manifestations sing to themselves.  Take my wave-riding, coal-mining friend, town drunk #2, Mike’s Hard inebriant, pale, white-grey hair, moustache, glasses, lives with his aunt down the avenue bus route, a real chucklehead.  Buried under the urban alcoholic’s concretisms*, the goods of evil, fruits of his idle hands and pleading eyes.  He has the tic gene of a chronic flincher.  Counter that with the composed older gentleman commanding the attention of the bartender half his age, getting away with sunglasses and a panama hat indoors.  Somehow his spirit seems less pure and more satanic, the way he makes his personality fuckable, the fuck dabbler, urbane cunt connoisseur, fresh to death and close to it too, as the last liquid soul leaves the body, she stirs with her hot hunger under his receded life-force and his rock hard rigor mortis.

Concretism – any type of hardened belief, usually in spite of rationality

8/31/14 @ 1100

Innocence blown by a zephyr (taken away by a light breeze), I feel pleasure around my junk east of Eden? West, God (the One)’s one story ranch in Texas, home of evangelicalamericans who pray so hard their shit blooms smooth-stalked roses.

                What is high school equivalency? What is the highest equivalency? An elevated/excited plane/orbit, Pluto and the violent death of nine probably Arabs.  Crack the Charmin code of ass jammin’ to Signs and Signifiers on jazz cigarettes.

                Digital clock starin’, seeing parallel separation between elevens, block gaps, mass between openness.  Meat sauces melt inside the cold cock and ooze out with auditory hallucinations setting in.  Here come the hip tricks leading susceptible persons into neon nights.  I would like to shut it off, but being employed to keep it up has its percodentals (managing nagging pains, man).

                What is dry country bliss? What desertified clustermonkey decides between God and Allah?  One and the same people who blow themselves up to compete.  The pride of the righteously inclined hangs from their necks, an AK-47. “Naked virgins, Dude.”

                Careless deeds’ seeds’ dharma of difficult experiences, respond carefully, and as if care were easy.  I can barely take care of myself! My own business! What should be of relative ease?!  The child regards the machine.  The man manages his personal relationships. Wrong so often, wrong as policy, incorrect institutions circumvent so often and what is the true cost of ink?  Consider value per volume.  Think, think…

9/12/14 @ 2226

"The Reason Ability"

“Distance, n.

                The only thing that the rich are willing for the poor to call theirs, and keep.” Bierce, A.

    “Keep your friends close, and your enemies closer.”

                “Know your enemy and know yourself and you will always be victorious.” Sun-Tzu

                My friend, the closest, always there, lurking in the shadow of loss and regret. Time and unprofitable energy expenditure, leeching lechery into the pit with your coal and pick-ax-nicker.  Fossil, that old timepiece, fueled sunset activities.  Carbon date me? Measure my radioactive bone. Ah, my head!

                I’ve been consistently tired lately, I know what it is, I’m bored, and it’s all my fault.  I’ve got to do something about my boring nature or I might stay asleep.  I think about where my soul might be going and then I shake my dick at it. She wants my soul (to Spoon), another succubus.  I do my best to give it to her but such a thing is hard to describe. It’s also difficult to explain. Metaphysics and organic chemistry restructure my cellular biology.  What part does the mind play? I psyche myself out, drink, and dream of nothing. You and I together? What is that? Do the math. It’s all in your head until it isn’t. Let it out, all of it or as much as you can, motivating myself as much as I can.  It’s easier to hinder, but what is progress? Determination of self and the individual’s ability to achieve higher standards, or higher degrees of good measure, high-society’s men on the central planning board or committee govern psyched-out country people, city and town folk.  Flag waving flagellates whip themselves into a frenzy of whipping one another and their submissive wives.  Why not?  Who has the reason ability?

--

"Poor People Plants"

Shades of eraser;

To care what some people think!

Twenty-eight blushes.

                 Psyched-out haiku: Twenty-eight colors, why not?  Shame redder. Honor bronzer.  Kiss and make-up; kiss the makeup.

                Sometimes it takes a very long time to finish something that has been started.  Sometimes I think to myself, perhaps it never ends that it will never be finished, but then I realize my unreasonable wishful thinking.  Of course it has to end.  Of course it needs to be finished before I die!  Time might not last forever!  Forever enough!  I have the comparative ability.  Compared to the rest, the best comparer was the discoverer of novel duality, truth of over half of all multiverses, and accepted by just half of all those with the Second Edition of the Comparative Universal.

                Meanwhile, historical objectivists objectify artifacts, fuckin’ urns ‘n’ vases.

                This one came from the Holy Scripture:

                “And he shall take to cleanse the house two birds, and cedar wood, and scarlet, and hyssop: And he shall kill the one of the birds in an earthen vessel over running water: And he shall take the cedar wood, and the hyssop, and the scarlet, and the living bird, and dip them in the blood of the slain bird, and in the running water, and sprinkle the house seven times: And he shall cleanse the house with the blood of the bird, and with the running water, and with the living bird, and with the cedar wood, and with the hyssop, and with the scarlet: But he shall let go the living bird out of the city into the open fields, and make an atonement for the house: and it shall be clean,” Leviticus 14:49-53

                He pardoned the turkey? Thanks, Obama.

                Central planners neglect lepers, preferring to throw welfare money at problems that could be solved by tossing hyssop instead.  It’s this type of orthodox thinking that’ll get this country out of the gutter and into the earthen vessel!

                Humaniterrorists (humanitarian terrorists) – people who truly believe in the fear that we all must have.

Twitter Profile

@odjdu <- the letters make a funny face.

021414

I am disengaged.  My disengagement is pronounced.  I love, but I don’t trust anything that I love.  Everything that I love plots to kill me.  Everything that I love seeks to take advantage of that love and use it to make a game out of me, to harm me, to do me wrong.  I don’t trust anybody or anything.  Therefore, I myself cannot be trusted.  I can’t even be trusted to take the blame.  I can’t even be trusted to know when I’m wrong or accept my faults because the things that I am attentive to may not always be the things that are right, but I attempt to be impeccable regarding the things that I am attentive to. 

I am attentive to detail.  Every little thing has to be perfectly aligned before it can go out.  It’s not that I’m OCD about it, I just need to know that I did a good enough job that it will go out.  My boss can trust me.  In that sense I am a tool.  I am a trusty tool.  My manager will say to me do this and I’ll do it.  My manager may say to me do that and I’ll do that too.  My manager, however, may not have my most long term interests in mind, I wear out.  My manager is only human.  My manager is not even just a man, she’s a woman.  I need to burn her, but I haven’t found the opportunity yet. 

If I could find the opportunity to change the way I am, wouldn’t I?  I am in Hell, bound for further Hell, and St. Valentine is not at my aid.  Why?  I can’t get a fuck.  I can’t fucking fuck.  Is a willing participant not legally required to fuck?  Love.  Who do I love?  I can’t say who I love.  I am not tenaciously in love.  I want to be tenaciously in love, but I get distracted, so I’m not.  I think I love somebody else.  I think about one person and then I think about another person.  If anyone close to me were to die, I’m not sure I would cry.  I’m not sure I would feel sorry.  I’m not sure I would give a fuck.

Why don’t I love?  I expect something in return.  I expect everything to always be even when the balance is generally not.  If I have the advantage I’ll keep it.  I want to be up and stay up.  I want to be buzzing.  I want to say the right thing at the right time and have control of the crowd.  I want to be a comedian.  I think I am a funny man.  Can a comedians love?  They laugh at tragedy.  It’s an attempt to feel good always.  The result is a depression punctuated by a few high highs that keep chasing an infinite plateau of  universal platitude.  The sad thing is, I don’t even remember all the few good times because I was drunk.

The sad thing is, I have lots of ambition.  I have plots and plans to pull my eyes through.  I have staggering luck.  I can get out of potentially rowdy situations.  When the going gets tough, the tough get going.  I can recognize a scene I don’t want when I don’t want one.  No, I don’t want another drink here, my prospects are limited, I’m playing the odds, and they’re not looking good.  There’s some old bag I could have in the bag, but do I want her?  Not with my eyes closed.  I’m a young buck and I want a young fuck.  Is that so much to ask?  May I have a young fuck?  May I have her with teeth?

The sad thing is, I have standards set too high.  I expect more of the world than I expect of myself.  I process what passes my desktop utopia unthinkingly, thinking about not this object under my nose.  Every time I sign my name to something, it says something about me.  What?  That I catch and release.  Time and space correlate.  I fish.  I am a fish.  I am a sponge.  I am an amoeba.  I am a protoplasm.  Stock photographs of every thong around, stock Victoria, KILLJOYKILLJOYKILLJOYKILLJOYKILLJOY!  Serious laughter with tears, the end of something lovely or awful. 

In the future, I fast forward.  Kerning boredom.  What can I do to make this go faster?  Do it quick!  RADOFF, the pride killing injury, yawning, fades into a blink stare.  Impulse tells me to take more out of regular force of habit to action.  All of a sudden I think this is smart, which is scary because of karmic justice.  Revealing intelligence limits excuses.  All of a sudden I’m all out.  I’ve played my last held card.  I’ve gambled every deck before I finished every bottle.  While they restock, I have another go around.  Casinos hyperbolize the American system of corporate capitalism.  Rich in one lifetime?  Quick!

ASAP’s Fables: A Reality Consideration;

Anything that exists as a part of one man’s phantasy can be made to resemble reality through art, but that one man’s reality can also be made to resemble phantasy through art. Thus considering the latter part, a surreal quality of happenings can be imparted upon daily happenstance through detail and delineation (or energeia and ergon).  This occurs especially with digital news media, where objective facts are repeatedly commented upon, thus spun. This excess deliberation results in a paronomasia of facts that becomes a sentient paranormality. The inculcated ideals of free-market-enterprise concoct a historybook of organized competitiveness both in the public and private sectors, to the extent that becomes a preoccupation of family life, a sacred microcosm in the sway of these tides. The private (business) sector where goods are generated and the public (governmental) sector where rules are produced, introduced, and enforced (in the name of regulation) bleed together at the party-lobby interface. Taken as a body of bodies and subjected to Freudian psychoanalysis, it could be said that the private sector (pun) is the libido and that the public sector is the ego of a country like ours. The libido focuses on obtaining its desires for power and reproduction of self (see conglomerates). The ego focuses on rules and defines identity (see conformity) and also power, which leads to the conflict or struggle between the two opposing parts seeking moderation by reason of best interest logic.  Best interest logic is examining what course of action will most likely lead to optimal optinormality.  Optinormality is a consistently beneficial state of being wherein one is buffered from extreme lows, but is uninhibited when it comes to peaks, where reality and phantasy intermingle, join forces, and merge or merger, emerging emergent seeing where thoughts pop into existence through the front door.  As math goes to Gauss and physics to statistics, there’s a good probability that you’ll need to know.  The basis is written on the stars where (typically southwestern) men of agreeable cogence assemble (usually in Vegas) to agree upon what is written exactly. 

What man is found both perfect and not dead forever? Jesus!

Betelgeuse was never dead, nor did it live a typical human existence, being a star.

The area of no leaving, that point on a map could be a veritable universe for an individual in a group-thinking culture.  What it is, what it is to become, and most importantly to most: what it used to be, all play a strained hand in the buffalo alternative outdoors, the end all.