Its is most often that we take our refuge in the darkness; yet the light brings comfort and joy. It is the nighttime that is peace. How could it be, then, that we contend, pretend, thrash in the primordial instincts to reach from our entrances towards the orange bowl that could so easily destroy us?
The darkness is snug.
All perfection is neurosis; peace is the absence of neurosis. The quiet mind is of no use, without report--but an empty dream they sell "us" that we chase. We collect paper, but do not hold it; we trade goods for no purpose often but our own odd pleasure.
Next we lament discarding our pleasure: greatest illusion. Prevarication in facing sunlight.
Then life is pretense. Sold on a coming of peace in life, and some in trade or indenture in the name of lasting peace.
Every team of mine were defeated in their rivalry contests, today, as I worked, then returned home.
I got taco points from the Bell. Fuck the sunlight. As darkness swallowed the daylight, I had snackchip-flavored tacos, the meat falling from each as I lifted them from their joyous cartons.
"Story of a day..."
My ass was caked.
My ass was a cake.
I caked my ass.
My ass caked other asses.
I missed the "december 24" story from my favorite show, as work presented itself; I queued it up as the weather dipped below the freezing point, the house quieted, as I wrote a verse about ass-cakes.
I bought non-sweet snacks, flavored cigarettes, of perversity embedded in neurosis; I worked the stacks in that same neurosis-
-tacos fought against the ignonimous light, ignonimous amongst the narrative, here.
Intl Delights.
My ass is a fish.
Cash had a tin plate with his ten-pennies. It dangled as he stumbled-shambled towards the ignonimous wagon, teetered, jostled in hopes of the wagon.
Jewel's squeezed coins had him the riding pony, but they didn't have him new boots: I could see two toes in the stirrups, and the stirrups were worn like an old men wallets. He was shambles in his own way, favorite or no favorite. He stumble-bummed like the others, but had his damn pony, and was the favorite, her Joseph, her favorite.
He prolly wanted to upswing on the pan: retarded man of farming in the night for his pony get; haunting crops, unseeing steps over, around seedlings. I would upswing Cash's pan, were I not eye-level with it, were I not young, were my mother not a fish.
I would knock Cash's pan in an arc of aflight ten-penny brads.
I stumble-cajoled all about: betwixt and between the two, older than me, more preferenced, consulted, given those nice chats in the quiet of closed doors: but I was young, naught but eye-level of Cash's work-get.
I am, it might be, a fish.
November concluded in raindrops for the weary fronds. Beneath the umbrella were two people and sundry thoughts of the usual of what makes people differentiate themselves from themselves: unusual thoughts of usual things. It would be inhuman to reach conclusions amidst such profundity; one can only salvage his hour.
Maryland's Infernal Order of the Preacher Bird.
From a week of finest storytelling --> retrieving the pimp cane from the wasteland of a vacant lot --> to cakewalking cloudfooted, in same, a cake walk. All Saint's month bid a due in mists that crescendoed in a deluge of dings on aluminum from without the window, drops of rain from the heavens to a welcoming bit of land.
he could help me so good if only he knew my goodness I'm showing I could get what I need if only he knew
In the beanfield, he lost nothing, deposited nothing, and he then meditated, alarmed at the realization of how empty he felt, which is the human conundrum of depressed persons. Submerged in feelings, unable to grasp meanings of such, claim in horror that they are in fear of their own apathy. If anything, he lost decibels, decibels expelled in the air like so many fumes.
He and them stared, and in his conundrum he marked the space between them, not physically, but that gulf of emotion betwixt his own catharsis and their nusance calm. The group played as if entertaining royalty, and the supposed royals stared like goldfish. Clyde waxed; he stared, too, and they stared at the innervated musicians at pains to entertain a crowd of people that had gone silent, and stared, too: the crowd that wanted most of all a human connection. Perversely, such was the topic of the music, in its own conundrum of love songs, rape victim ballads, what they also called hair music, and yarns of things like lightning strikes in infested cornfields, tired farmers, truckers in the dark of dashboard light, cowboys that lived in the words of schoolgirls.
Twas neither November, nor March, but June, and that month of June was a run into a sauna light by floodlights. The grass with healthy and green, and the crickets had gone silent to hear the music, or was it really to hide from the music? Stars glowed lazily. Humidity was increasing. The time of the moon was in the hands of the other celestial contrivance, the solar body.
if he only knew he would help he would turn it to the good but not tell diddy or darl or cash or jewel if he knew he would hand the bottle to make it good but he didn't know so he could not help
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