The Kevinning, thoughts out of season.

The blog is like a womb...

There goes Kevin, in blue swim trunks, with his snorkel and sand pail.

So many awful woeful remembrances come to mind, starting with "there goes Kevin", and I can but imagine that sometime in the past, a dog of his, like, passed on into eternity, and he was pickled over it.  "I didn't memorize Sonnet 129, teacher, because my dog died."

"My boy saw something in the water..."

We can but muse as to the whisperings of the natural world, and strain sometimes, our frontal cortex, to make a mental mapping of various meanings, distinctions, and the processing of elapsations.  Is nature itself as awkwardly elastic as our own minds, or is it all discord?

They were talking about Anastasia on TMZ and I was all glued to it, sugar-glazed fingers stuck to the plastic, and there was Beyond The Rim, On My F*cking Reconnoiter, and all, a bunch of survey reports about various parts and distinctions, in their own right, of a uniqueness, such between night and day, the atmospheric dividing line between night and day, and Rome, as we know, is the light of the world--Mount Doom, and all, Sauron.

Kevin scissored his legs--it goes without saying, almost--foolishly, but then what is all compounding against nature, but foolishness?  This was Kevin, the Robert J Oppenheimer of Marlboro County nightlife: that self same Kevin that wanted to slip a twenty into the managers underwear.

Merle Haggard, of a man, that Kevin.

In all his broken teeth, his cracked and bleeding fingers, nature agrees loudly: this is a man!

Anastasia screamed in vain...

We oscillate between prophetic dreamwork and so forth, subliminating the daily claptrap and all, and we process Kevin somewhere in there, sometimes taking center ring, and sometimes, busting a nut somewhere off in the confine of his own truck, alone and angry, snarling as he spasms, not knowing the true meaning of pleasure, not wanting to un-steel himself, but shooting the rim anyways, because nature compels him forward, his own motive power, that little itch in his hand, and a stray thought.