Wednesday, January 17, 2018

But yet the dullest gleat of foul grease also flashes in the hot pan.

What days we have had!

I have heard the chimes at midnight.

Bobbie Root.  He exalts and congratulates himself, as if in perpetual discovery of his own prowess.

He himself knows not what he can or will do?

His exaltation is akin to the joy a child feels upon using the training pot successfully.  Think of the lad turning to see a small brown evacuation in the pot.  Even the parents get in on the act and congratulate the lad.

I have heard mine own husband cry "COURAGE!" to the field.

I remember an earlier still incarnation saying "I love this business".  He was trying to be the post-modern TNA John Cena interpretation, reminding of sad summer Shakespeare failures in the park, and other such assorted combobulations.  A sad miss, it was.  I hated when they tried to mirror or duplicate their more popular competition.

I'm slacking on the dice.  Can't even have it off without a sniff of the black pepper.

Achoo.  Cousin Marie sledding down the hill.  My cold nose sweats and my hot breath coalesces like so much smoke in the air.

Wednesday, January 10, 2018

Mama was in the ICU.

Y'all remember Mama?  Well.  One time Mama was in the ICU.  She was in her bed, barely able to move, buzzed-up a-twitter on pain killers and sitting up shouting for Deddy.  Deddy had been in the ground seven year then.  At the funeral Mama wore sunglasses and played it real cool.

Solving multiple variables in quadratic equations.  Satellite accident in PRK.  Unfortunate.  Right on Un's palace.

But I got a phantom phone call.  I was busy when the call came in.  Someone else answered, then went to fetch me.  By the time I got there, there was only dead air on the line.

It give me the fear, that something had gone wrong, and I would be the last to know.

Hold the football, Lucy.  Like a good girl. Good ole Charlie Brown is gonna tear u arm clear out the socket. 

Friday, January 5, 2018

on the buying of a book on rectal photography

As it relates to the curve, I was lagging.  I was a bit behind it, you might say.

At the BN bookseller, there was a volume in a dusty corner that caught my eye.  Pink puckers.  Rectal photography, explored, in depth.

With searching fingers, I settled in with the tome, and looked at the secret hidden parts of professional models.  All the while, I thought, "everybody has one", but that technique did not lesson the taboo titillation I felt scanning across those pages.

X marks the spot.

I could then consider myself enlightened and maybe even on the cusp of a dream, but what kind of floating phantasm I could not say until it at last would come upon me!

Open, says me!

Those monstrous stone-carved legs in the sand, and the signage carved: "Look upon my works, ye mighty, and despair!"

Two riders were approaching, and the wind began to howl.

My self-control lacking, I set forth into against the winds, for that far horizon: a line of dark gray against a celluloid sky.  Get meat, ye shutterbugs, for the captain is heeding the prize, even in this gale!

I was uncomfortable down there, off the pictures.  Even so, the novelty was wearing off; the sight of the anus exposed was becoming a familiarity, and in that, the sexual element was rapidly eroding.  Not even a nip on the "bright lights" switch would throw a spark, and the effect was worsening.

Like an azure sky of deepest blue...

The Diet Dr Pepper was room temperature, like any true Epicurean prefers.  You see, ice and cold temperature change the uptake and puts water in the beverage, and hot is just strange and unpalatable.  Therefore the vintage is kept lukewarm, as if it were a middling church spewing from the mouth of the Lord Jesus.

Innervated, interested, and befagged.

On teevee, Wiley Coyote draws a black circle in a rockwall, into which the speeding Roadrunner enters and disappears.  Bemused, Coyote runs headlong into the black circle, finding only his skull clanging into an earthen wall.


Tuesday, December 12, 2017

One-sided True Wuv.

Poo-sie.

"as the miller told his tale...."

She looked at me like she wanted to bite my neck.  Feral piece.  Natgeo-style.

binomial or even tri-nomial nomenclature.  Wayne Lee Ray country.  Where the plates are styrofoam and the dish is humming.

"like a parasite lodged in the fur of the beast"

Two cops were standing there, ready and waiting as the couple said their vows.  The dog was in the car.  The baby was on ma's gf lap.

"the heart that fed"

Does he or she make you feel great, in some way?  Do you touch greatness at all, or pretend and silently hope and soak your pillow with tears in a stupid haze of infatuation?

"I need a bath, granny; I've been playing in the trash again."

Pooo-

--sie.

(Come in under the shadow of this white Grand Marquis, and I will show you fear in a handful of dust.)

Did he smile his work to see?
Did he who made the lamb make thee?

Friday, December 8, 2017

recursive factors in polynomial expressions: an observation

truth/

I'm reading a book about the smartest man in the world, and snacking on Wallsmark dog food.

Palestinian victimhood.  The loser writing the history book.  "sophosticated" anti-Semitic Europe.

I have to call Confuseus and get his perspective, because he's such a successful oligarch and all that.  A quiet conversation, maybe with some hand gestures for further illustration or emphasis.

We are what we hate.  All of us.  We became what we hate while we watched Dancing With The Stars and Franken was on the plane with that woman.

Hamas Morning Joe.

The two-state solution and the new Iphone.

A random element makes an unstable situation volatile.

The recursive that keeps on giving.  A tin pot for you to pour your hatred into.  Something for Greg Gutfeld to talk about, other than his pants and his 1982 hairstyle.

:a variable that pops up one side of the expression.

/truth

"I'm a hugger" says Senator Al.

Tuesday, November 28, 2017

betimes I muse to myself: Watchmen on the Walls Pt 1

It's 1985 and I'm playing doctor.  Not on a teevee show, but with a few naked family members, children like me.  That's how it starts.

It's 1998.  My father tells me there is no future in watch repair.  He implores me to go into Nuclear Physics.  Advanced armchair studies of professional wrestling.

It's 2009.  Time has folded in on itself.  Nothing feels new anymore.  I'm waiting for a Senior Prom that will never happen.  Brantley hasn't dyed her hair yet, that I'm aware.

It's 1999.  My first pet dog is dying in the roadway, on the warm pavement.  He jerks once and is gone.  I keep trying to explain to little D-Bizzle that it ain't his fault.  The dog chased the truck.  No D-Bizzle fault in it, at all.

It's 2005.  I'm standing in the middle of blank acreage that I intend to build into a coffee farm that competes on the world market.  The call center people are all from India, in India.  Little Boy Blue and the Man On The Moon.  Lone Wolf and Cub.  Meatwad, Master Shake and Frylock.

It's 2010.  My life was over.  I was reading William Blake and having nary a care in the world.

It's 2017.  Trump is president.  And so I'm back from outerspace, and I find you standing there with that same look upon your face.

What immortal hand or eye,
Dare frame thy fearful symmetry?

It's 1996.  Scott Lobdell asks in writing as to what holds a man together while pulling him apart.  He stole that line.

What dread anvil? what dread grasp,
Dare it's deadly terrors clasp?

It's 2008.  Somebody lost a dog and put that fact on a sign in front of a bridal shop.  I unplugged my computer from the internet.  Privacy is a dying ideal, merely a talking point for pundits.  Myspace dies.  I got psychoanalyzed by Doug.

It's 2010.  I sing some of "More Than A Woman" to Magnum JSB.  He cusses.

What ominous wooden spinning wheel!
It carries the weight of an entire river on its axle!

Hamlet is not just a story about a fat girl.

we are but poor players that
strut and fret our hour upon the stage

Tuesday, November 21, 2017

I know a little(about love, but honey I can guess the rest).

You.  Sending out signals, because you sat for a couple of hours and your belt buckle squeezed the blood out of your groin, giving you kind of a pleasant mid-coitus glow.

"You keep moving the goal post" Senator Franken says to Attorney General Sessions.

You got the glow, anyways.

Photographic evidence.  And other such nonsense.

Winona Ryder, first woman landed on another planet.  Not expending precious battery power to cook her powder stew mix ration, but instead trying to charge her smartphone so she can post a quasi-erotic selfie on Facebook.

These things are transitory, I muse, driving along, but here I'm ready to stop the car and stomp some ass.  I don't put up with no foolishness in my car, or playing on my phone.

Text-book life changes.  I'm approaching the mid-life crisis, and yet I muse further, it was like life opened up after my most recent move, with career opportunities and continuing education.  I'm sipping at the cup, eagerly.

I have enthusiasm.