Thursday, December 06, 2007
I sit here with mad head a buzzing like a lark on Saturday. Dammit, no, not like a lark on Saturday, but on Monday, when his head is full of whiskey and the future asmatter with gloom, with doom, with 5 dollar hamburgers that taste like 3 day old cheese. There will be no control, no comeuppance, no one will get their just desserts, only their due diligence, and then some, they’ll be under the thumb and smashed by the glove, it’s a day I pray against and guard the door in wary eye for, knowing that one day soon brutha anti-love is going to be knocking down my door and professing a new religion one of a boot in the neck and face in the ashes. It’s one that I’m hoping to avoid, so I gets in my hovercraft, but mofo ain’t fast enough, can’t outrace the man teamed up with the other man, and when they got a plan? Something to root out the love and germinate hate seeds on the planes of your local neighborhood and dairy? Well, shit, then the shinola’s what been tethered to the barn and fully taken advantage of, which of course ain’t cool, and then likewise obviously what you can’t do shit or come hella highwater to knock it down or out, but it’s impotent, it can’t respond, there’s nothing left to do but acceptance of a new condensation, an updated list or rules, and aggamemnon or Solomon or not none of those fools is gonna suddenly come through with a magic whistle, don’t believe that shit for a second.
Tuesday, December 04, 2007
Antithesis of overly wrought diatribe. Post zen manuscript. What does a chihuaha and a Grecian urn have in common? They’re both receptacles. Tip your waiters slash stewardesses. So the point of me sitting here & typing on this, erm, board, is to elucidate phrases composed of words formed of (orangutan and an ice goblin) letters. Dissuade me from said opinion if you are able. If I am to pound on this magic platform until something comes out that could possibly serve as some kind of record, then Xan’s ice will melt & Jayna’s animals will grow infertile with age, because I just can’t do that, you know, bushwick bill style, if there’s one in the tub bring another on board, Halloween fell on a weekend, and then you’re in my trap. Like larvae to the egg. Don’t analyze, don’t even preconceive what that notion might be, in fact, actually, post conceive, decide later what it might have meant & make sure that you’re wrong, because if you’re right, danger will robinson will not be enough of a warning to push the kind of envelope you’ll need to be at least pondering slitting open in a neat & orderly fashion. Name me a story and I’ll tell you the character’s main operating motivation. Gone with the wind? Bitch needed some land. Menace 2 Society? Bitch needed some land. It’s all about bitches needing land. If a bitch don’t have land, he/she gets feisty and starts testing boundaries. Take my dogs, with whut when they whyfore exit the yard, I gots to get my taser out & point it at them and such, but never pull the trigger, not that they don’t know that that shockalocka ain’t comin, they know it IS, because back in the day I whut shocked they’s ancestors, but now, it’s pavlovian and shit, they drool and then I stacks my donuts. Read about it during your 11 o’clock news. We miss you, Hal, the fish, damn son, they ain’t been sleepin no kind of REM since you whut went & gone punched that big ticket. Tell them all that old ass opinionating shit you gots off your dome at the pearlies, kid.