I'll haff my swerve hangin' out the window.
Meanwhile, dat woman, like she da dang Ayatollah of Cooter-Hola, and all the other, the fast turnover and now all but four hours television news cycle. "while the print stuff is making", as they say, feet on this desk, stogie ash on the starched shirt.
"Uhhhhh.... dey talks about us" says one fictitious personality, in my mind, "and we talk bout dem."
Being, as it were, the most cynical playwright on my rural road, I mean, people think I gave up on humanity, off my countenance, like I just couldn't be moved. "I shall not be moved" as King David was apt to write.
Chicks like guys that register to vote, like they have a least half a care about what happens around them, not just servicing their balls, stuck in their own swerve, where my swerve, at this "mid-life juncture" hangs out the window: a caffeinated, iced thing, my genie, like, as if to say, how many times have I got juiced and then logged-in to talk smack to the entire world?
You're just a cynical playwright, Mike. Even a simply scene of a man sitting at a writing desk is like a "fuck-you" to the world. Its as if, I got juiced, got my swerve on and sat down to write and was saying, like:
The Ayatollah hisses and spits
but still
has no Oreo cookies in his fists.
Or the Ginsberg way:
I saw Walt Whitman today fingering of
the dew water on the veggies
in the Whole Foods
making sure
the water was at least cool
Or as of the Bin Origen household:
so much depends
on a 16-piece family bucket
and a red True Temper wheelbarrow
with a solid no-flat tire
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