better living through chemistry.

When the doors of perception are cleansed, we can hear Hubby #9 cursing all the way to the divorce lawyer's office.  Easy to hear him driving along in his little Triumph motorcar with the top down.

 I cannot tell a lie.  It was Velshi that chopped down the cherry tree.  String him up, if for no better reason than for his punishment to act as a detergent to would be ass-enders.

I almost came up with something nice to say today, something that might make people feel better about the current situation, but honestly, that crap flew right out of my head.  I was thinking about the common condition, how we share in some of our destiny, how things can intertwine, like bailing wire in the bicycle spokes.

I just have a hard time feeling real empathy for people, sitting where I am, as kind of a solitary figure.  Not that there is no hope for me.  Several years ago I finally started emotionally reacting to things in entertainment, as if I had real, genuine feelings.  I was surprised by this, that I reacted to something, almost like a regular person.

None more surprised than me.

Sounding the depth of things, and all.

Acting as a detergent for worse things, I suppose.

"They were dubious as hell.": a musing on past doings and undoings.

"Is this your girlfriend?" they asked, bemused.

"No" I said darkly.  "That photograph came with the wallet."

"Are you a collector?" they asked, coming back as quizzical as anything.

"Of hearts?" I asked in return.  "Of cunt rinds?"  I wiped my hands on my jeans, and looked around, as if not seeing where I was earlier, like I was just now taking in the scenery.

 They were dubious as hell.  Which was close enough to meet me near the mark, because I was being kind of cagey, noncommittal as anything, not wanting them to catch me in a good one, like what they did to other people.

"I don't have no collections of women, hearts, nor money" I said.  In my head, I could hear some 70's music.  Jefferson Starship.  The singer seemed to be talking about cunnilingus, which was an oddity at the time for FM radio music.

Then in my head, Seals and Croft, "we may never pass this way again".

It was pretty enough music, but I thought kind of mournful that it was only a thought to being with.  And what would have been wrong with that?  I mean the screws put sugar on their corn, sometimes butter, so things like, come full circle, you know?  Tony the Tiger in the mornings, random tapping on the pipes in case someone was paying attention further down the line.

And at the same very moment of innervation.  But so many moments had come and gone, so many of them had left my orbit, and some were less than memories, dead too far gone to be gossamer ghosts, nay, more faded even that that.

But its like heart trauma, old scars, where they can examine the heart and see old scars, seeing that there had been old heart attacks that the patient had went through, just come through on their own without Aspirin or the electric boogaloo.

As was the way of the saying, "its not what you know; its what you can prove", and we had people beating the message all around, saying like it was some kind of strange tribute being built, a pyramid or the Hanging Gardens.  But not so, for it was all belly-ache and people standing in line, and so forth.  Why, in the final analysis it looked like cat-fishing, satire, and of stolen data; when complaint was made about the stuff being thrown back in my face, of course, "its all in your head".

But its just their way, you know?  One admitted it was satire instead of some strange kind of tribute.  Private data, like text messages, emails, offline stuff on electronic devices and so forth.  Not as a tribute, but something that could be complained about en masse.  Sometimes provoking a death, other violence, and sometimes doing worse, functioning on a massive scale, like worldwide.

Dolemite Sans le Prison.

d

 "...when the gales of November come early, Lake Superior doesn't give up her dead." 

-Diego Leibfrau

the 48 as a legacy brand

Every end marks a new beginning, and that sounds Eastern enough.

It is not the end for Jimmie Johnson, as people were starting to wonder if he would soon be a NASCAR commentator, or taking-up some new role in the NASCAR universe.  But it seems Indy Car is what has become the new interest of Jimmie Johnson's professional career.  And as we know, Indy Car has collected some of the more mature talent of the racing world in years past, such as Ruebens Barricello and the re-collecting of Juan Pablo Montoya.  This commentator hopes that Danica Patrick will also find her way back to American open-wheel competition.

Honest, hard racing in some of the fastest racing vehicles in the world, on many of America's most challenging circuits: this is what Indy Car offers the competitor.  For the "only NASCAR" viewer the experience can be disorienting, as we have a pitched battle between Honda and Chevrolet, where NASCAR offers the usual American suspects plus Toyota, a more recent mainstream favorite.

Jimmie Johnson was admittedly unprepared, in "unfamiliar waters" during the recent online race, as he was new to the formatting of iRacing.  His dismal performance could draw comparisons to Richard Petty's farewell race, in which he went out in a blaze, his 43 car burning, but hardly a blaze of glory.  Commentators of the time may have thought, but dared not type that it seemed like the high time for the King to step down, to clear the path for more relevant racing competitors.







However unfamiliar iRacing may seem, Jimmie Johnson is not washed-up nor has he become a perennial back row field filler, but rather, while still holding that competitive spark, he shifts his focus to a new racing frontier, however on familiar American soil, with his foray into Indy Car.  This commentator fully expects the 48 to be better prepared next time he appears in a televised iRacing event, and I would not be surprised if he snags a top-10 finish.


This is also the era of the early retirement, with Carl Edwards and Dale Earnhardt Jr establishing a pattern for competitors to retire while still relatively young.  Perhaps they think of raising a family outside of the trackside grind, like Earnhardt Jr, or think more of their health, as there were reports of one-time youthful wonder Jeff Gordon having multiple back surgeries, which makes this commentator wonder if driving at competition speed, with all the bumping, might have been a kind of torture.

And we hear that guys like Ryan Newman and Kurt Busch are no longer "wunderkind", no longer the Golden Children of auto-racing, but more mature, experienced, dare we say "cagey", talents who seem to resonate more with the working man.  But Jimmie Johnson has been his own thing, sitting atop the heap without a good metaphor hanging around his neck.

In the end, I have only one question:  is Indy Car ready for Jimmie Johnson?

My virus reparations. Give it to me RTFM. From the "parking lot dialogues".

I saw a 30-something lady in a dress today.

And it was like poetry, the organization, the tandem of her hips pulling at the fabric.  It was kind of a soft, synthetic fabric, too, probably good for my feels.  I was explaining this to my co-pilot with crude hand gestures, and someone in a nearby vehicle looked at me like they new what I was doing, like they knew.

Maybe their heart burned there, too.

We have in our hearts

poetry?

 And maybe nobody feels like this, but I vouch not that I have the common vision, indeed, "a hell of a vision, ain't it?"  I however vouch a certain common linkage to the human condition, a kind of conduit, but then that dang superconductive mineral that is my blood.  The common experience, the role, the dole, the rote and the smote, here I sit simmering, emitting a waft of smoke.

I watched my tractor porn, too, after googling, I mean "ogling" the girl in the parking lot, both as per my want, and as both as far from me as the Pangean Pyramid on Antartica.

Tell me, Jean-Louise I Am,

would you could you,

with a ho?

Would you could you,

cultivate some bean rows?

Why then, Jean-Louise I AM,

don't you say what you know?

Rather than complaining

about your want of dough?

 Maybe then,

our sanity swings,

like our bedraggled freedom rings,

and here, from the wings,

I blog these strange things.

But not to shun art that challenges me, I should hope.

 It was a bootless labor to scamper away, I wot, that I couldn't not look, or even if I could not look, they I could not "not see".

I was made to see.

Then there was the melancholy song of the wolf spider in the evening redness.

I walked through the grocery, a monster, none of them knowing what springs were wound inside me(kidding here).  Up on the down side, down on the up side, and generally noticed that there was a sort of symmetry across the headlines, a death of one of Dr King's organizer friends, and then Tom Coburn kicking the bucket, too.  The balance must be restored, I wotted on that too, feeling that spring within move and groan under its stress.

But to say I couldn't turn away, it was a panorama, that.

What, so now I'm shunning art?  Turning away from murals that challenge me?  Why, this would not be the good blogging, the right stuff, if I gave it a toss-aside name including the world "ramble" "rambling" or "ramblings" like some of my friends.

Nay, I differentiate.  A preferred indifferent, an accusatory finger, the finger of scorn.  Stumbling and stammering about the basement rooms, I am, thinking on what kind of good blogging I can toss into the system.

I couldn't not "un-see".

I was made to see.

A Stoic consolation from the pages of Ecclesiastes and Marcus Aurelius.

Many people have a "wrong view" of the Stoic philosophy.  They think of the attitude as detached, emotionless, or defying the emotions, being "all tough and junk".  However the truth is much more skewed.

There is above all, a consolation for Stoics, which stands as almost a religious principle.

All that happens is according to nature.

This is the Stoic way of tamping-down emotions, trying to see everything as a natural function, even death, and therefore not react badly or severely.  Even death itself is a natural function, for just as we were all born, so to do we all someday die.  This was earlier written by Solomon, the realization that life is only temporary, and we can all expect our own end at some point.

The trick is not to ignore things, but to put our everyday lot into the proper perspective.  It was also Solomon who said, "time and chances happens to them all", "there is a time and a season for everything under the sun".  This includes the ordinary functions of life, which of course, include death.

But the Stoics have a "nuclear button" for helping to steel themselves against the storm of life:  negative visualization, which means that the Stoic imagines the worst case scenarios, as a way of preparing himself in that eventuality.

what slasher lurks in the fog?

 I was setting my thinkmeat to something, thinking of something unusually nice to say, so as to boost everyone's spirits.

Nothing immediately sprang to mind, though I had something earlier, but in a flitter of other concerns, I let that slip into a mental fog.

I was reading in a book today like the collected fuckery of the world is all a nest of interlocked fingers, like some hands connected, and in a time when we're social distancing.

I was giving a lecture today on a familiar, well-worn topic of interest, that being surveillance and popular discount stores.  They were looking at me like I was crazy, but I'm like hey, hath a not a Jew eyes?

Hath not the republic a set of great, big bug eyes?

Hath not one swerve to dodge the blade, or likewise, the blade not to shatter itself on the skeletal framing?

The collected milk-truckery of the world, how it all bounces back inevitably, with a jello-neck head bob, flailing limbs and random thoughts that bounce into one another like intermingling stations of the wireless set.

"and sparks fly from the grinding wheel....."

 one could be open regarding disdain for a given notion, but cannot rightly criticize the conceiver of such, lest there be some kind of offense between the principles.

There went Miguel Ferrer walking along with the Crimson King, kind of "hobbled by the usual corn cob", with his accustomed intensity and consternation, thought by some to be even a trait of the successful, like focus and concentration, but nay, he was just caught up in the raging river that was the world of the Dark Man, the Walking Dude: The Crimson King.  Anyway, Flagg puts Nadine on the elevator and as the doors close, she surprises everyone by saying, "WE ARE ALL DEAD AND THIS...... IS..... HELL."

What can I say to that, girl?  "Welcome to hail, baby.  Raise a salute to the sigul of the Crimson King."  Lost people dancing in the fire, seeming almost merry from a distance, but actually in torment, a quiet, reserved lucidity of their own failings, a sudden clarity about it.  Body parts flapping amidst the flames, as if in some futile attempt to take flight and achieve freedom.

Ye olde "mortal coil", departing of, disparaging and frustration of said.

Day 9 of Lorie rolling her sleeves up.  You know the stuff is getting real, folks.

A nation not on the brink, but just sitting there like a turd baking on the sidewalk.

It takes a Brutus and a Cassius, I guess, to go on bloody adventures while musing doe-eyed about "the republic!".

"That's some get!"

I walked outside to milk the cow and fetch the eggs.  It was a cool pleasant, quiet morning.

At the barn, I look up at the ridge beam, and durned if that spider had spelled me a message in its web:

"That's some get."

"Yar" I mutters to myself, pushing my old bones one to stoop down at the cow and leaning awkwardly to take hold of the utters.  "Natalie Portman" I said, looking towards the pen outside the cow stall, and there was Arnold the Pig, but nowhere in sight was that crazy philosopher spider that left the message during the night.

I was thinking long ago of how I charmed her and all her high society friends by reciting Elton John, but I thought, so much water under the bridge, so much having happened, and separately in our lives, that it would take more than Madness Across the Water or Goodbye Yellow Brick Road stuff to get over in her eyes again.

I went to sleep that night watching The Saint and Branded, with a plastic cup of fridge-cool tea beginning to warm between the arm of the chair and my thigh.

That next morning, a new web was up between the wall and the ridge beam:

"Let's see your Step Two, there, Huxley."

"Who the heck?" I said aloud bemused.  I fetched the milk pail and was getting a hold of the stool when a laugh erupted deep down in me.  "Oh!" I thought, "I'm Huxley!"  That dang spider got cute with me, then disappeared so I wouldn't see him.  There was only old Arnold, just absorbing his surroundings: the cool mud and the disappearing morning mist.

 

After the milking, I got on a ladder so I could reach the ridge beam, and gingerly, while balancing my weight, or at least trying to keep myself steady, I got out my pocket knife and carved into the old oak heartwood:

"Don't judge me."

 

I had sousemeat and eggs later, watched some AWA wrestlling then some Good Book program.  I was having like, a need for comfort, and even after all that ground-up organ meat and by-products and all that other filth, I was still hungry.  I wanted cookies and milk, or something like that, something heavy on the stomach.  There was something deep down, or should I see, high-up, like above the neck, in the think meats: kind of an emptiness, like existence itself was not enough for me, that I had to cross the valley towards the horizon, just to see something or something, and what I had no idea.

The next morning I was surprised as heck at what I found in the pens. 

There was my rotary tool with a grinding wheel attached.  I was bemused, wondering who had been in my stuff, got at my tool room.

But the most upsetting thing was etched on the ridge beam, where I had carved my message the morning prior:

"Donkey fudge."

The lowly philosopher spider, part-monk, mendicant, had mastered a subtle social skill of manipulating a given material to the point of making it kind of a pale satire of what it had been before.  Everyone did this, even the street artists that were so fond of painting their own names on the walls of other people's buildings, as if all the buildings were communal property, to be shared.

Just somewhere to go inside and pee if the notion should take you.

Crouching Tyger, Hidden 'merica.

weeee

"Thats God, Dookie.  Book done said, 'you said it once, I heard it twice', and I was like, yeah so you ain't got no prevent against forgetting, except that hole in your back pocket."

Hooptie dreams. A film scene redux.

MF was spittin'.

"come and eat from heaven's store

come and drink and thirst no more..."

  I was thinking.  This stupid kid dressed up like me.  Even put on a bald cap.

That was a demeaning readthrough, and believe me, I had sat through some humdingers in my day.  But hell, that kid was spittin'.

"Remember, Jason....  Jason, remember...."

I'm literally, like, "I can't believe sluggo here is about to kill me with a machete."

 I mean, Christ, I had just basically flushed a whole summer camp down the toilet like it was last night's meatloaf.  I had a pretty impressive body-counting piling-up around.  Then along comes this little MF!

He had a sort of spark, I guess, a spark of ingenuity, like the old Hero archetype or whatever, but he was like Enkiddu from the old story, while being a Hero, also a Trickster.  And how did I let him wrest my Hero mantle away?  I'm telling you: MF was spittin'.

Lord help me, though.  I couldn't help but remember.  

"and them two women thought the world of me...."

Thinking to myself, again, as it had been proven time and again, Elton John lyrics wouldn't always get me straight.

advice for when you have a sit-down with IAB.

Like they said in one of the big movies, a trope, "sex without love".

A kiss on the lips, unbespoken, unplanted, and the blogger unquiet.  A rollover during the Grey's Anatomy commercial break, snapping underwear elastic and clawing fingernails.

I had a dream of the republic, but how I saw no one in that but me.  How beautiful a dream, but how also that is so gone from me.  But to wake up the republic, perhaps, in a dream that more people could take part in, that more could enjoy: the pursuit of happiness and the endless fuckery said pursuit entails.

If I remember right, in that same movie I mentioned earlier, they killed a bunch of swingers by tossing a plugged-in radio into a hot tub.  They killed them, then got straight by selling the swingers' luxurious foreign automobiles.

But you don't get righteous when point A or point B is a dirty act.  Like you can't get clean touching money, because money is handled by so many people, probably even having an absorbency to actually hold germs.

You have to go to IAB and 'member, but 'member good, recount all the sordidness and get clean by literally expelling all of your sin out of your mouth, through the throat and across the tongue, just like puking that shit out, man.

I had a dream of that great republic on the hill, but in it was only me.

"What were you doing in the back part of the house during Grey's Anatomy, all alone back there?"  The self-gratification equivalent of eating a single potato chip.  But its that to say, "little sin, little guilt"?  Or are we to break Paul's explanation and called all sin a "sin unto death"?

I had, like, back then, so many moments of clarity, but of course, could see only me, like I was giving a speech in the bathroom, in front of my shaving mirror.  But on the expansion, the including of everyone else, the line and the potential fuckery therein is expanded.

The Constant Reader would notice a faster turn-around time on these pieces, along with some new methods of folding-in subtexts.  I have accelerated the pace and scope of my web writing, these days, when other people are hiding away in safety and health.  But does social-distancing and staying home account for all this futnuckery and skullduggery?  Quite not, entirely, while on the balance, we're simply here capturing thoughts to be enveloped in the ether for posterity.

not the time for political theater. "we're number two, so we try harder."

opposition party struggling to stay relevant, touching the third rail of delaying aid amidst the same talking points.

Meanwhile, Schumie was very non-specific in his complaints against the GOP-produced bill, and far be it from the two sides to construct a bill together.

Vote them all out, I say.  Every US Senator that is currently serving, as of March 23, 2020.

I think of old George writing the dialog, "we're down to the wire!".  He was keen early on to depict an apocalypse inside a news studio, and he would beckon his world to watch as news production was nationalized, as local stations closed due to the prevailing zombie menace.

He would say a few times, "they just couldn't 'get it together'".  And that phrase would stick with me, "get it together", the two sides hurtling towards one another like two runaway fully-loaded freights.  Later, at a further point in his end-of-the-world story, he coined another phrase, repeated in the work several times:  "kill the priest and burn the church!"  Like his attitude had advanced from dejection over the state, to a full-on out-and-out hatred of the system, meaning that he would as soon just go ahead and tear it all down, destroy it, rather than keep pleading for people to come together for the common good.

That was unfortunate of George, but then his work was speaking to the farthest extremes, which sort of explains why he didn't go farther in mainstream films: he was aiming at the fringes, thinking he had hit a mother lode of material that would relate to the mainstream.

Fact was, he just seemed not to like Reagan.  Sure, he wrote one while Jerry Ford was in office, but he saw an out for that, an end, and with the election of Carter, George decided to have a fantasy in the shopping mall.

Fantasy of not, he was keen on two points in the 1976/1978 piece: regular people were bad in groups.  and the opposition were a bunch of blood-thirsty thieves.

"They just couldn't get it together."

A pig in a poke: a western ditty.

I approached the water hole gently, kind of hobbling, blood going into the under parts, against where I had rid before for hours and hours.  I looked down at my aching dogs: a toe sticking out like a forgotten orphan from a hole in my boot.

There was one of them big girls in the water hole, naked, and right in the dang water hole, which both man and beast alike drank from all the time.

But my sensibilities did not immediately shriek at the sight, because she was pleasantly round, like a good kind to get in the saddle blanket with.  Ass like a Montana mule.

Her face turned pink when she done seen me.

"Were you ever married to old J.S.B.?" I called-out.  

"No, sir" she said.  "Who is he, anyway?"

"Wail" I says, "he's sort of locally-renowned ass man".

There was a song they sang at the gambling tables:
"Chantilly Lace
and a pretty face,
curly hair,
hangin' down,
make me act so funny,
make me spend my money:
ooh baby, that's what I like!"

"No!" she said, stifling a giggle.  It was cute as hell, I must say, then she spread her arms out and trudged forward through the water, causing a great wave.  I was thinking about her arms and round shoulders like they were great hams that I could garnish with pineapple medallions.

A voice cut through the sky from above, "airline emissions standards", and honestly, that random bit almost shook me from this scene.

"Workers first.  Airline emission standards" came the voice again.

"You hush-up up there!" I yelled, just as the big girl dived, putting her pretty round calves up in the air, and articulating her delicate feet.  I could wonder at the novelty, such a woman of heft having such little delicate feet.  That too, was cute as hell.

And I didn't need to get struck by lightning, or swatted on my ass to get me moving: my jacket was already half-off and I had already got to the edge of the pool of water.  I glanced back, and there was my horse standing there, coal-eyed, as if to say, "aw hell, here he goes again."

From the sky again, "its not time for us to let go of our core values."

"I done said to hush up there!" I yelled, setting down my gun belt, then unbuckling my regular belt.  "Fifty-four percent of the people, or so, disagree with your precious 'core values'".  Jesus, I thought, its like they were choking on fumes up there, if you listen to them tell it.

Woke as Tuck/Robot Dickens

I was watching Scair-peon with the incredible bouncing bambino, that bundle of joy.  Blanche was about to get fired from the museum, while Rose was busy with the suicide hotline, and Dorothy was having chronic fatigue.

Martha was like, "wow", and Tucker would come in and lay rail, stop to eat a biscuit, then commence back to laying rail.  Sean was half-asleep on the cell phone, still managing an intelligible word now and then, but with a trail of drool down his chin.

I was asking Rhiannon, "it gonna be a good day tomorrow?" to which she would say, "just keep smiling", almost like I could will it so if I kept a positive attitude.

"Stocks were down", she'd say.

"Good time to buy some" I'd say.  Because you buy low, always, and sell dear.  Like my cousin, shopping at Bi-Lo and eating deer.

I brook not what's not brooked at me, like, but to presume and make the world put off its orbit, stopping the world the wave of a hand, the digital Magneto.  Like when Laura wears a sleeveless top, I'm thinking, I walk shoe-less in the grass, I'm gonna get my toes wet.

Meanwhile, the Joker and his gang had a ship load of toilet paper, and the gang was all celebrating, thinking they could get straight behind such a score, but there was old Joker, lighting his match, about to set it all off.  See, he was some sort of new-fangled communist villain, who didn't pay his workers with money most of the time.

I looked over at the baby, who was still awake, watching Scair-peon with me, and I could see, in the tyke's eyes, a horrid reflection of the burning toilet paper, and thought: Sam Hain, an emblem of the lost future, the inevitability of fate, samnombulsim, and the kings from the sky.

Don't toss the baby with the batwater.

The little bambino.

The were all saying that the people came to look at his curls, but the truth was that its been a mobile country for generations now, and really, it was as much about the journey as the destination.

 I was reading Street & Strip magazine earlier, some pretty good stuff.  There was the usual like the regular run of "pro-street" Fox bodies, where the owners are like, "yeah I ordered some catalogs."  They mostly sit at in drive-thru lines at places, but still want rear spoilers and front air dams, while some even go ultra trick and opt for the magical plastic undercarriage airfoil.

Legend of the Bird with the Crystal Plumage

"There's beer in Chicago,

and them boys is thirsty in Mar-a-lago,

we got a run to make....."

Big Enos and Little Enos done throwed down the gauntlet on them old boys.  So bust-off the flaming chicken, burn on them radials and lay it in fourth gear.

Done switched off the ambient loop of ocean waves crashing.

But then we have, a sort of shadow-hand poetry,

which uses murder scenes to tell love stories.

"Oh drat!

Look at that:

naked fat man

got a severed hand!"

 

The Enigma Protocols. Put u lunchables in the basket, pls.

I was drinking a dollar Mtn Dew 20-ouncer at lunch break, googling Crystal's buttocks.  Crystal was at the Sam's Choice machine, and I was of course, twisting like a gymnast, unaware of anything but her ass.

The department manager watched me, like he was taking notes.  It was like some other stuff around me in that place: I knew I would hear about it later.  They would make sure that I did, however innocent the reference; though most commonly the reference was derisive and mean.

Or do I mean "ogling", or "ogre-ing"?

I was a single man, resigned to do nothing with any of those goons in that building, but definitely willing to glimpse on one of them, like get my shine on right proper.

Anyway.  The DM couldn't mack on her like I could, because he had sort of "gainfully employed playboy" image, where I was like a dang magician or something: an enigma.

Later, of the same girl, I noted to a group of coworkers as she walked by that I had the desire to wash her hair in a bathtub.  The youngest, Muhammed, got like saucer-sized eyes, like I caught him flat-footed with that comment, and he had no idea how to react.

Poem/rap: Corona Bologna/Legend of the Kershaw County Patient Zero

Stanza the First: Corona Bologna

comin' with the Mike Pence
name-brand nigga wit
Sean and Laura love
the Orange Julius president

The Co-Ron-Ron,
Doo-Co-Ron-Ron

Pull my light saber
to fetch the toilet paper
First you say
toilet paper is a lux-you-ree
Now yo punk ass screamin'
for the jacked-up dep-you-tee.

Second Stanza: Legend of the Kershaw County Patient Zero

What a selfish negro,
Kershaw County's patient zero,
spreading round that germ,
put Bojangles in a hurt
big mouth screamin' "EFF THE WORLD!"
trying to cast the swine the pearls

Big Mac Master
on the Pandemic Disaster
Ay-Ess-Ell
from the place we dwell;
not much info
there is a patient zero

"Somebuddy over there"
Chinese plague
up Camden way;
butter cross the bread,
won't stay on his homestead,
brookin' cross the lines
for a parallel design.

Teddy Hottentot to quit a year-round party in favor of hauling the mail/days of future splat

The center cannot hold;

the dog returns to its vomit,

Darkest before the dawn.

Rain crossing the woods,

now the branch,

then the treeline,

beginning to pepper the tin of the porch.

Once a hero,

even turned to a zero,

if for a while,

to be a different kind of cop:

plain clothes and oily hair,

no longer clean shaven.

Refusing to wear the official department color of the day,

going dark over an Eastern European vpn,

hardware abstraction layer meets SSL,

mouse interrupts,

hexadecimal memory address,

which he converted into binary,

but then had to put back in base ten.

The center cannot hold;

wait until you see the whites of their eyes.

Teddy Hedgehog to deliver.

 My kingdom for a cold beer!

I consorted with one,

saying that, you can respect craftsmanship,

you can extol cocksmanship,

and you can entertain an old king,

but beauty betimes is for its own sake,

then other times for the glory of the king,

and at its most ignored, when for the sake of the republic.

sentenced to be hanged: boys, get a trope.

 Horseradish and Tarragon,

maybe a Bay Leaf

makes everything so nice....

for a gathering of the mind and the matter.

In the elapsing, we observe the paradigm not so radically different, and after recent eccentricities, you would be hard pressed to point out any amount of distinction between the Then and the Now.

In the midst, have I too much anger?  Do I have, in the final analysis, too much take-out food?  A whiff of the old "sin consciousness", mayhap and yet I think the whole thing clinical, removed from societal norms, morality, being instead just a tapestry of tropes.

I still have questions about....

.....411.

The Decline and Fall of Western Civilization(folio the first)

Dennis Hopper(Lefty Enwright) was a'sangin' in the catacombs:  

"Lord of the Harvest....."

"....comes the time of reaping...."

"....I will come rejoicing!......"

"Must be one of our competitors, come to eff us up" said Jim.  "That health food bunch, or them sissies at Del Mar."

Enter Dennis Hopper.

"Boys, boys, boys.  You shouldn't never been doing this."

Jim: "How much are they payin' ya?  I'll triple it!  Cash money!"

 The sun was blotted-out, dead-like, during the truck series event.  I looked out the window, and could see sunlight here, but my familiar said it must be like an eclipse over there or something.

Kyle Busch won and collected the checkered flag.

"Its surely the end times" I said.  "There will be many signs: the stars cast down from the heavens, Tom Hanks reduced to communicating via his old movie dialogue, and yet many false prophets.  The Trump Twitter account."

Behold, the Fifth Seal was opened, and there was much smoke, and then there was the most famous citizen of Wasilla Alaska.

And hell followed with her.  There was then much sack cloth and ashes, gnashing of teeth.

A society that had at once bemoaned virtualization or the digitizing of social interaction, began to recommend something called "social distancing", meaning only certain pre-selected persons would be admitted to eat moose stew.  We would become reduced to a New York City kind of reality, where we don't make eye contact with people, nor give any other sign, not a grunt or a groan.  Car dealers would petition for a bail-out because of a slump in sales thanks to the deal-making handshake being discouraged.