Evil Elves in the Age of Absolution Divide

Evil elves work in filing cabinets.  That’s a fact!  They work at whittling.  They whittle every little thing they see until the whittled wares reflect their gnarled and moody mirror images.  They are the dust of the sea and the waste product of sea-mites.  The dust of sea-mites that feed on amoeba corpses that would have plagued the entire eco-system.  If only we could wash the water!  Alas, the water must be blessed by a priest lingering in abundant seed money.  Lingering also is the belief in blessed water being holy.  The Word dislodges sea dust and disinfests dusty sea-mites.  A single step to eternity means nothing much, but to a single man it could mean infinity. 

                To some our little games are purely political, to some of cosmic importance.  Law makes me tired.  It bores me.  It stops my breathing.  It makes me ignore things.  When you are on the outside looking into windows of understanding, you are intrinsically without the comfort of the interior.  I live within laws of rules and physics while toeing the injunction line of chastisement.  Nobody desires undeserved punishment, not even Jesus, abiding by the big man above.  You, who are usually unique in your lack of singularity, n’ary a player shall pass the gamer without heed.

                When life hands you a gun, kill yourself, Shinto.

                When life hands you a typewriter, typewrite something.

                Something. Something thus is eternal over nothing because of this, despite inability to divide.

                Some. Thing.  This. Here.  Right now.  Save yourself.

                Save yourself the indignity of knowing something that is not true.  Save yourself that infidelity I know so poignantly.  Save yourself from the flavor of regret, that bitter rue.  Do so with direction.  Do so with heartfelt honesty.  Seriously.  Earnest honesty just sounds goofy, and it is important to express joy when times are good or natural emotion will be misplaced.  Now I’m tired of kneeling, so I’ll stop.  A neighboring report is heard.  Deadhead down!  What else is new?

                Blithering blathering, that heartfelt honestly, memory is the echo of words in my head, a frequented section of cavernous river before the batty feast, catching frog-flies with a snappy tongue.

                “How does he do that?”

                Biology.  Read a book, a scientist’s babbling brook.  Reading near the shore? Touche!  That’s transpositional!  I respond to the sound of the Barenaked Ladies, those filthy Canadians.  “But their cities are so clean!”

                What I hate worse than that is that 2:30 feeling and relying on an energy drink to avoid it.

                If I were truly self-sufficient, I could make it on my own and be a transcendentalist.  Live stress- free!  Death, that grinning hard-on, saint’s a bitch beating bishop with impossible chastity.  We know who strokes who’s ego and it wasn’t a ghost.  The Ghostbusters were saints on call, helping each other out of a turn-for-the-worse with pulsating plasma-guns aimed at impurities inherent in nature like a white blood cell’s dirty membrane.  The con-artist could fool the pants off a naked man running.  He would say, “It’s all about illusion and timing, and alcohol helps (to augment fantasy over a sense of balance).”

                A chiropractor is the saint who cracked my back and restored my proper nerve function and the bastard who convinced me that he was my savior.  It is important to relax sometimes, but not too much, too often.  Imitate posture, if only for the lady in the carriage, the carriage’s bearing, the axel, and the wheel is rotund, just how I like my bearings, without all the boxy mish-mash of pugilism.  Yet, it is right to fight the fight for what we believe in, so it seems while bashing one another without yet being bashed-in, for what we should fight for is what we should love living therein.  The bloody turnstile, that revolving door of hopelessness, again-and-again, etc., print!  The deranged metro panda let loose was captured by a tourist with a gun who thought the panda was coming right for him when it clearly was not charging at all, but acting surprisingly melancholy instead, in spite of the beautiful surroundings and lovely people with guns and other side-arms in their vest pockets.  The panda, not even disconcerted, was shot in the face by this phrenetic orientation.  The gun will be sorely missed by the abusive idiot who gave it up only to reside in a federal penitentiary as a political prisoner for his right to smite passive pandas!  …amongst other sociopathic crimes against humanity.  He will be sorely missed by his best friend, Dave, who ironically was also a panda of close relation to the recently deceased panda smote to death by this tourist’s lofty handgun.

                Why am I drinking V8 juice from a coffee mug?  I’ll tell you why!  I…I don’t discriminate cups to the dishwasher who happens to be Hispanic.  Panic in Hispaniola today as deputies scrutinize an issue of routine significance.  No one knows what all this fuss is about.  NOBODY!  Nobody can figure out what all the fuss is about.  True.  If you will just remain calm, collected, and cool yourself now… breathe deep.  Echo the refill.  Relax.  Everything shall be brought to justice in due process time.  Just you wait.  You shall perceive that truth to which you had been previously blind before, your forgotten history you chose to forget, thus the more grievous, heinous, and absolute!  Absolution of the celestial tribunal, random acts of kindness to be bestowed on beings below from beings above.  Youth is a fallacy.  This is the age of absolution, of forgiveness for your sins if you ask and forgive yourself.  Save yourself.  This is the age of absolution.