of bugaboos and extended paragraphs, a free range of expression observed.

 

We've established this by now: things that anger you, control you.  Without that, the powers of the mind tend to seem limitless and entirely unfettered, unless da wants chocolate pudding.

Some things still takes precedence.

For instance: my ass.

In the grand scheme, across the muddy thoroughfare, 

men make their fortunes, 

or spendthrift there way to a satisfied belly, 

or else they sit on the boardwalk like tumbleturds and jelly.

Cody came at us with a new angle, as per corporate guidelines calling him to make some adjustments.  He said, his ink was part of his religion, and thusly, it was protected by the Supreme Court and the Constitution.

No word yet on Cody's titty, despite 17 million with bated breath, and the world turns as it always has, even despite those expecting disruption, dissipation, and other bug-a-boos, and storyline hinged on the status quo, and expectations disappointed,

but random, more phenomenal aspects phenigrated the heavens, as of a fortuitous rain of fortune, people stepping forward, and people passing out, passing into the great beyond with a little Fentanyl dust on the tongue flesh.

if you.

*if you put a cat in a box, punch a few air holes, but not with a samurai sword, while the cat is in the box.

*get that bitch, Leatherface.

*all right, all right, all right.

It was detritous, dark, the discard pile, and I was a monolith with a light bulb over my head, dosing and roping-a-doping, perhaps, as it were, fooling even myself at the quiddity of the bedraggle, the vast feeling about of it, the prodigious lamp in the confusion and all, and as it was said, "if he had a brother, look in the trash can", and I'm like, maybe, but they said he was a crackhead, and widely known, where in the interim, he merely slept while selling his prescription meds for gas money, for the proverbial hot dog and deflated tire, of a conveyance, flatly beat-up, riding and with a hotdog, a simple crackhead style hotdog with simple fancy catsup on it, riding and looking to get over, perpetually, "oh say can you see?", who he could get over on, that one, cast and thrust about by things he loved best, and bent on the lesser natures of all else, two shoes, as it were, brothers, two from the trash can Godhead Doug's proverbial acreage of abandoned farmland turned pine forest, dug ponds and so forth, holes with water, and water in holes, and milkweed, cat-tails nearest the damp, and perpetually chasing his own tail, and if he was surprised, it was rank fuckery of a different sort, and you could walk right up to him and pet him, while he appraised your dearest goods on the black market, like a pair in the trash can, to the landfill with him, I reckon, our best destinies, our blackest thoughts, and words made manifest across the universe, taking a titty-kiss to the dry land of dissipation, collectivism, Marxist mutual masturbations of people who spend more on their hair by the month than any real person spends on grocery and utility, but to wit, of that, a kind of due dread about the painted plywood boards and the ladies walking along the thoroughfare, and one sited me, and was looking as if studying a cockroach or an interesting pattern of chocolate bar on a discarded wrapping paper; I was there, and I stood there, of provenance, screwed to the sticking place, down wit'it and up for it, brooking love and light to the peoples in my head, having my usual soy sauce and vinegar that brought my heartmeets into the waking mode of activity and doings of the usual sort, but one could get used to about anything.

I suppose.

(My spellcheck hawked on the word "masturbations".)

And how about the re-lensing, how the "ni**er in the woodpile", in my own ontology, became a mongrel eating from the trash can?

And to the pig-dog bastard Walmart manager that called my new-dead brother a crackhead, that despite the asshole having a full-load of wire information, Lord how they are, I will get that son of a bitch if we both live long enough.

And I'll slap his namesake counterpart into the floor like a piece of trash.

Moral of the story, don't have the truth and still put stink on me.