The many aspects of beings, and the tendrils of suspicion. He's just the advocate.

I rollerskated into Jacksonville, my balls flapping my legs.

I was set to give a seminar on Life Choices, and it was entitled, "Life Choices".  I was sitting in a mud puddle on the sidewalk behind the Opera House, and I had like, a moment down-in myself, something of an epiphany.

Who was I to give advice?  Like I was supposed to be-what-perfect?  Qualified?

Who is ever qualified?  In fact, you usually want somebody that knows the perils, by experience, to give advice, someone who knows too well, and indeed, may have fallen prey to some of those same lifestyle pitfalls.

As they say, "tell your children not to do the things I done."

Broward of the Bounty, taking TP to his lover in an old Ford truck, the TP, the lover ahead in the road.

They built, it is said, the natives, the teepee with ten poles, tentpoles, a hole for which to let the smoke rise, a hold for which to egress the light, and release the darkness, to catch a glimpse of heaven.

I had gotten to my feet and got into my Malibu rent-a-beater, just sitting there, ghostly glow on my face from my phone screen, me looking at dancing girls on the "story", like that's a "story".

My ass.

I had put down that copy of Fartnoy's Complaint, not understanding its artistic merit, or why it ever got any form of award.  It was stereo instructions, and little else, a man's own anxieties bleeding-out onto the printed page.

Meanwhile I was out there driving around with that awful 1.8L death rattle of the Malibu, the manila envelope or the plain black socks of automobilia, between Checker's, White Castle, Jack In The Box, and I thought I seen a little sign for Cracker Barrel, maybe an Arby's somewhere in there, around the interstate and the motels and stuff.

"It cuts off at idle."

"I had an old truck that did that, but I fixed it and it would go on."

Paul's ass.  Kicked by an intruder.

Verily, verily, we can measure the scrotum folds of our consciousness by the indignities put upon those in the diaspora of politics, the ancillaries, the bystanders, the collateral, the laterals.

There was a big ass dog at sun up, and the others had just got scarce away from him.

Would that dog bay at the moon?

Would he?  Could he?

Time would tell, I wotted.