2022: The Lateness of the Hour Revisited.

It was, "once more into the breach", another noel, another yuletide, another chance to get it right.

Beans.

Tasked to control the crisis, was decided, "we'll buy them houses".  And I thought this sounded like government wisdom, that full-fledged citizens crap in city parks, and the immigrant gets a free house.

"We'll buy them houses", and this when most of their own voting bloc aren't homeowners themselves.

Its what happens when we put lawyers in charge, I wot.

The serialized pillaging and the "just add water" go-to news story for the right side of the aisle, the story of "a crisis".

We'll take a kind of spherical geometry and run in through a spatial matrix, and me, I'm having a prophetic vision, laying at the Lateness of the Hour, thinking how so often, the kids are raised by phone apps, and only yelled at by their helpless, busy parents.

Not that the parents don't care, but they're panicking already, up to their nips in quicksand of child disrespects and broken vows of citizenship; and New Year is, at once a rebuttal to Harris Faulkner, and also an elegy outlining the very Lateness Of The Hour.

It was the rub that the robots thought they were human, and the humans wanted that certitude of the robot mind within themselves; it was penis envy, maybe, for the plasticized circuitry.

"But I want to go the prom too."

I want to throw up on the Class Presidente's shoes.

Zapatas Ellas.

Any way, in spherical geometry, optics are terribly misleading, and the angles arch and curl like limp spaghetti, if one traveled along a ray and measured with compass, caliper, took the measure of the thing, such would be befuddling and muggawumping and generally the think meat is sort of a gutter pooch innards sausage that came around and flew across Harris's scalp, then made for the door.  

Tasked to head-off the crisis, Time In A Bottle, and the Lateness of the Hour, "we shall sit, still, like a colored stone in the bottom of an aquarium until our prey comes close."

Gypsies Tramps and Theives....

"I was sixteen; he was 21..."

"And Papa woulda shot him if he knew what he'd done...."

I had kind of an ovoid construct in my slumber, an open rear fascia, and front fascia that dissolved behind the co-stars back, and in mid conversation, out-of-body, I floated along the city street, looking at the colors they had painted the bricks lately.

The place was an annex, this dream-slide Hell's Kitchen back room apartment I was in; a cot, slats, Black Mariah, and an actual honest to God kitchen at the back open frontage.  Why they had the kitchen open to rear parking, I don't know.  I didn't ask.  But they gave me a cot, and I shut my mouth and took it, but to say I shut my mouth wasn't a thing, because Black Mariah was asking why I was speaking so, so unusually, beyond the usual bleeting and gleeting, a spermecium tendril of Black Mariah's beguilement and wonder flapping along the century old floor boards in the old store building, flapping like a confused snake, and damn if the front wall didn't disintegrate, and a spirit-floated my own person around the corner staring at the pretty ugly painted brick.  The 150 year old painted brick of would-be historic shop buildings along the main.

In the advancement of time,

there was a marked Lateness of the Hour,

in which personage stared into a haze of Azure.

What does thou in thy mind have, love?

Only thee, my pooch tiddy mammie dog.

And there was plenty of straw under the porch steps.

Plenty of straw.

Yon lay-about, the donkey balls sweat,

but thee, in they near comatose, sweat not?