Wednesday, March 22, 2017

the valley of the shadow

Lord show me what I fear, so I don't fear it no more.

Careful what you ask for, little shaver.  As in the tale of the monkey's paw, you'll have zombies at the door.

These petty anxieties add up to a rime of sweat at my temples.  And yet I will not relent, lest they should overtake me, growing into substance.  Which would be a real drag.

Petty anxieties.

Pretty anxieties.

Pixies beseeching my soul, threatening to reach up and drag me to hell!  Beckoning upward, to reach the light of this daylight world!

My intellect my only armament-scant solace, that!

Monday, March 20, 2017

912: everyone is suddenly a blue dog?!?

The 1960's called, and they want their foreign policy back.

I had a haircut and a shave.  Spiffed.  Suitably spiffed, in my own terms, and ready for love.

I think of Confuseus pounding his shoe on his desk, swearing all the while to bury the greatest nation on earth.  Better pack a sack lunch and invite some friends, boy.

We don't roll over for nobody.  Not even the Leftist Minority, loud as they are.

Don't worry; Donald will win handily in 2020.  Still wont shut them up, but still.  Less ammunition for rogue talking points.   Dems working alongside KJU to undermine the American government.

A leftist dogpile of selective outrage, poured out on our elected officials; democrats destabilizing America.

And none with a clear argument.

And I shaved again since that time I mentioned above, where I had the haircut.  I likes shaving.  Recommend it.  Hair cutting once took a periodic role, almost religious in its implications.  Beset on all sides by the Walmart jokes?  Cut your hair.  It was like that.

I cut my hair as if shedding the collected filth of the world, and I always felt like I came out of the experience of the hair cut, in a word, fresh.

Saturday, March 18, 2017

The Weekender: alone with your mad thoughts

Man, you are like a living, breathing Pink Floyd album!

Sitting there, easy chair, hard feeling.  Man, them thoughts burn a hole right through you, if you let it!

I should have took you to golf.  I should have, I know.  You know I worry about you.  I might be the only one that cares.

But I can call you back off of that ledge, now, can't I?

That girl and what she did.  Shut up!  I can't take anymore!  You'll drive me mad, too!

A sound?  A counting?  I've heard it before, too, in the night, when the house is silent and still, the sound comes to me through the ringing of white noise.  It's the heart we both thought we lost, and it beats still.  It lives.

No, I'm not trying to scare you.

We shouldn't play with dead things?  I must disagree, and I know you don't agree.  You think so much on those dead epochs and bloody battles.  I don't have to tell you.  You know the substance of all your mad thoughts: these things that consume you.

Maybe something dead wants to play with us?  Okay, maybe I am trying to scare you, now.  Sit down.  You're lying; you don't have to bathroom at exactly this very moment when the hour is getting late and the talk is getting heavy in its importance.

Imagine a heart, drained, but still beating away, lying on the cold damp earth beneath this very house!  Disembodied, yes!  And why?  Because its just an emblem, my friend; the owner of that heart is long gone.

Very well.  If you must.  I've become tiresome.  I've worked you into a fervor at these hints of the past-a dead past, that is. 

I'll give you your peace, if only until you awaken again in the morning, in the cool, silent house.

Wednesday, March 15, 2017

Feeling intimately the circumference of her circle. Bad advice, I wot.

Where does she get off telling me, like she a math teacher. I'll show her numbers that don't add up, and even imaginary numbers, theoretical numbers. She don't want to get in my radius, lest I get my hands on her diameter, feeling intimately the circumference of her circle. If I wanted warmth I'd have looked elsewhere, or donned a pair of wax wings for which to fly towards the sun. "You come to my center, you enter, the winter." A man is too crazy to have a regular relationship with a companion, don't you think? That's why we cry over obscure subjects, or if we drop a piece of pizza. Imagine the cheese sticking to the floor, and all you pick up is a piece of cooked dough with some marinara gore on one side. Or a snow globe shattered on the floor, with snow falling between the rough-cut floor boards, to the place were pencils and pennies and paperclips go. "Rosebud" he says up top, in the chair. Nobody under the floor but us chickens.

The perfect bracket.  You try.  God laughs.  I wouldn't even spare a try.  I can't do too much glorifying of student-athletes, because I like for them to "keep their feet on the ground", not be broke celebrities.  The lost productivity!  My bathroom!  But I'm sensitive in some areas, like a city girl-a mousy type.  The office has a pool, a dead pool!  Win a pizza!  That self-same pizza I had last night, and none to be the wiser, but Dad.

Tuesday, March 14, 2017

From whence a thrill may yet come....

sourpuss. as of the eating of those odious yellow citrus. all I will say.

Chris Matthews and the hysterical vomiting.  The machine takes in and then outputs based on its input, like manipulating a prize horse's diet to control his poop.  If Barry Obama sent a thrill up his leg, then I ask, ala Hannibal Lecter, where does Donald Trump thrill him?  Perhaps, yet, a good wrenching of the scrotum to wake up the man in the bubble.










Jesus getting the Heisman. Crazy shit, man. Blew Twitter up.  We didn't even know Jesus could ball, but we're all sure, if he did......

Heisman material, all the way.

At the mercy of the Lunar Calendar, and feeling a bit fagged.  Bloodsteve Boll is now a raider.  Raider Bloodsteve, anti-Nazi warrior.  Feathers and eye-black and all.

No-flap warrior, here.  Master and Commander.  Maybe I should forget all this self-denial, buy a six-pack and go fishing.  I DON'T do it.  I deny the placid toilet rim my essence!

A caffeine buzz can overcome a manic low.  I just found this out.  Booyah.

9/12: Sunspots

the livid inflamed hand, like something from a Dali painting about onanism.  fingers stitching and fumbling about.....

I have horrors, but this one does not permeate the surface of my psyche; so it is not that I lack fear, but simply that this vision does not provoke.

So I am not without fear.

Just not afraid of a sickly hand.  To be perfectly clear on the matter.

....reaching high into the air, hoping blindly for something....


Sunday, March 12, 2017

I have the right to expect absolute privacy.

Not only, Mister Comey, do I have a "reasonable expectation" of privacy, I expect absolute privacy.  That last is conditional I know, and probably only achievable under specific circumstances.

But I do.