The shatter of boxing mats.

Chapter 24 -- Sundries

There are other things that you can consider when spending a life out on the road.

The following are pleasant examples:

-- Air fresheners by the windows will note a cooling breeze.
-- Television can be piped in through the kitchen and dining area
-- Each gallon of discarded waste can be recycled.

Now, with all this convenience, you are literally at the mercy of the people who run the restaurants and survival stores who provide your accommodations.

You should take advantage of the situation.

Its time to talk, fellas.

In an era where nostalgia reigns supreme, there is a sublime artifice in the extant -- _the_ extant -- of our meaning.

You follow, right? There couldn't be an intermittent heartflob, a pointless dissection of what ants do for fun.

Of a desperate unwelcome visitor overstaying their welcome.

That has been the continuum, of course, every second some little girl in kindergarten is quoting you verbatim, coincidentally, and its not even interesting when she says it.

Its an easy callous to roost and chew on: once-contemporary admirations have aged into styrofoam shrines chipped and moldy; New generations punch their way to the same pitfalls in unrelenting waves; your past is set and your future is bridled; most of your 24 hours are accountable to something else.

Giraffes we, chopable necks comfortably grazing.

And what of affability?

It might be the easiest pretense to live with, but hardest to maintain. I think we should take a classical look at this phenomena throughout history. In the early days, there was little need for affability, since everyone just had a club and fought each other for pine nuts covered in caveman mayonnaise.

A bitter stew indeed, this affability. In his manic letters to the press before he died, Sir Arthur Conan Doyle prophetically explained the importance of affabilities cousin: amiability.

"
In these, my last, of Sir, I must impart the invicibility of amiability. Just as we, mortal humans catch our wang in the proverbial single-pant zipper, I think the problem is that I am simply about to die. That is why I always have one amiabilee sidekick.
"

His death rattle shook the house.

Hoistening the Marrow!

Its a difficult plane to plow, fellows.

I set it this way: I woke up recently, in the banks of some garden, hosted by a group of beneveolent man-eating plants. We sat, had tea and discussed the economy of man-eating plants. While not entirely sentient, they still manage to sway a good argument. They stand tall as a man, and have teeth of thorns, their laughter is like hisses, and their hisses laughter. Its all the same, they may as well be snakes. There is not a reason that they find, other than, of course tea.

Tea lets them know that they are still proper gentleman, man-eating plants or no. While they dont wear storks or dignify most answers with anything other than gnashing thorns, you can be sure that these are the plants to be around.

And thats where I have been, lately, suckling thorns. Apparently there is good value to it. Values and propositions always meet, apparently. So of course we all end up swimming in thorns.

They, apparently, think I would benefit from "Water Horse of the Deep". Maybe its my online identity, maybe its my professed love of horses. And my well-publicized hatred of the same horses. Is it? IS IT?!?

Mungrunchers at lifespeed.

Your update is complete. I am a fucking menu.


First Prime: A weel in Cleveland!
Second Prime: 2 weels in Cleveland!

Here's the deal: we're still here. At some point I think an ad agency decided that we should all still be here, and we were like: "cool". It could be like that, or at least in a slightly more coherent sense.

Y'know, because you see movies like the matrix and stuff are like "yeah, i could totally be a computer programmed dream." Pretty sure those guys got it right.

And there are some nomads, somewhere who used to herd sheep and ideologically believed they were their nihilist prophets property. The surrounding government put fences around their livestock, and showed the men airplanes. Things will never be the same.

And past that, there are formal introductions: like "Hello," and "Hello,". And this is still accepted, even in todays multicultural rage.

Boys, I'm not asking for a kaleidoscope. not buried sentences or patient raconteur. Just building a rapport. With an 'e'. But you should have already known that. "If we see the progress bar, in our goggles, of our liv-"

"Damnit, Jensen! I'm an attorney, not a raconteur. Are there any other options?"

Of course there were options. Jensen had only been out of the attorney army for 12 days. There he had subsisted for what seemed like years on spoonfuls of wallpaper paste and chili powder. Attorney armies were tough in this day and age.

I sensed movement above my head and to my right!

I am reminded of cliff divers in Acapulco!




I feel the lurch in my own stomach as if I were falling and realize that I am actually watching myself sitting in a surgery at 2:00 am with drool on my chin and a hissing Nitrous mask in my lap.

I am a little embarrassed by the setting and sweet sludge of drugs involved; it seems like something which should have happened out in the middle of the dessert after fasting for a week and eating Peyote and people on 'Peyote'. Sometimes I think these visions find us, despite all our efforts in surgery.




Kremlin, please don't try this at home. Experienced driver on closed miasma.

Actually, I have wasted many years of precious life-death using a variety of drugs responsibly. My advice is to stick to the carnivorous plants and be careful with them. I'm very grateful for the insights gained, but cannot close without quoting Henri Michaud:

Hey everyone!
O! I have nothing to brag about: Small! Small!
And if one were to hold me,
One would make of me what one wished.

Tinticture of Dickcheese.

Lets Haiku Time!



I need advisors,
Its "to eat or not to eat"
The brains of sparrow



Look! The homeless man
Todays blanket, tomorrows dinner
To mans best friend (dog)



Hateful documents?
I am afraid so, good sir.
Until the arraignment!


Jesus, only the
biggest heartflob in the world.
I mean you, vincent.

Its a civil war.

Its in the news and papers everywhere, people. This country is being plagued by dissidents. The world doesnt seem to want to take notice, they care that the airport is back open. The germans are happy, in their ugly ways of the veins of the sex-trade opened again. The ideals being paraded around, puritanical, mostly, but I think I see the real truth.

The factions have broken all over, there aren't many who aren't rearing up for the conflict. The north siders have built their army on the backs of pygmy elephants struggling through the jungles, saddled with decorative spears, and cheap taiwanese speakers blasting the interminable bland techno that developing countries love. The factions are built to defend their own jungles, starved of all but the most basic staples of their diet: sugar, ginger, and rancid liquor.

The puritanical beliefs keep them away from that, but the liquor gives the elephants courage. They stamp the bottles with pictures of elephants, everything is a goddamn elephant out here. The paths through, that havn't been stomped with craggy cement blocks or sprayed with toxic pesticides, which threaten to melt the gaudy accouterments, and rebranded electronics, the real jungles hide the mounting factions.


The mountains buried by the smoke of industry, people too concerned with growth and survival than to take the arrogance that they should preserve it. This is more camouflage.

To the south I hear there are other factions, the islands overrun with fat Britons, swilling the same cheap elephant liquor with a nicer label. Folklore tells thats what make their noses grow. Cultural pomposity leaving their shirts off, arrogant, white flab roasting under peanut oil in the sun. Circled with crops of dead sandfleas, choking bite by bite the toxic white rumps.

The factions leave them be, and in fact are almost unnoticed. Mulim frogmen, wrapped in linen with scuba gear pass calmly through the waters unbeknownst to the Britons, snoring through their big fucked up teeth, mumbling about white pudding.

Indeed, the political strife in the center. The airports, was just political theatre, pawns in a war to never be described. The techno elephants, the muslim frogmen, drawing closer together, but never crossing the main paths. To keep the tranquility, to keep both sides funded quietly, to keep both ends sustained, oxygen tanks full and elephants drunk. How else could it be.


Im in the city. A large one, up at the north end. I havn't seen elephants. There is a tourist trap nearby where I can pay to watch them fuck. I havn't taken up that offer yet. The city is bustling as always, chock full of peasant women too busy working to try to be pretty, the men too busy catcalling the white people to hustle to waste on the women.

In the city they dont know about the war, what the war to be is. The people who write the papers tell me its political theatre. The yellow jackets, and the red jackets, who all scream the same words, but want different things. Its probably not that.

The future, the past is all war, war and resources. War only makes sense when there is money to be made. There is no money in drunk elephants, no oil in scuba muslims. We pine, and bitch about the inconvenience, cast a worried eye to the endless charades.

"At least we don't have these problems in South Africa".



The charades moved on, but threatened to cut the only real resource. The corpulent westerners, who drink down the elephant poison.

It might just be under my feet. Or scurrying around in the walls in front of me. I couldn't tell anymore. Cities are all the same in the end. Washed up gentrified restaurants selling the safe parts of animals. Always an odd linger of farts in the air.

The great american cities all smell like farts, too. I can't think of one that doesnt. The europeans were built on their own shit, damn near wiped them out. A civilization has arrived when they can hold hands and say "our cities smell of farts, the equal of Paris or New York".

Farts are still a better smell than gunpowder and blood. Leave that to the jungles, to the mountains, the mosquitos and elephants. The man made ponds skimming with floating fish. The paths carved by solvents from the coke huts.

You can hear development, can tell when it draws closer. Its the same repetitive techno beat wherever you go. Cheap to make, inoffensive, but equally terrible. A lure to westerners, out for a good time with no taste, but lots of resources.

You wont hear the elephants until its too late.

Stranded with the oriental mind.

I read a book recently. It was by a halfrican-canadian.
It was about success.
It was supposed to tell me how I could be a success.
Instead it told me I wasnt.
That I wouldnt be.
But that it wasn't my fault.
It was the year I was born. Maybe even the day.
It had pages of stories, of koreans who would rather crash airplanes and send hundreds of people to the hell of burning wreckage than be slapped by their bosses.
It told me of robber barons and modern capitalists, and they all had the same birthday, of Jewish lawyers from public schools who overtook the nords.

They all had the same birthday.


He said orientals had better numbers and could count quicker. That they could hold more numbers in their heads, that rice paddys made them good at math.

The chinese worked harder because they had to. It was the oriental mind.

Occidentalism is my plague. I dont have a laundry, or a small grocery to stake a claim. I dont have the right birthday. I dont have the oriental mind. I couldn't level a rice paddy. I can't wake before dawn.

The great oriental mind. The suncrunchers. The jew-laywers and white monks in the birthday club, merrily toasting each others good fortune. The oriental mind will soon overtake them. They have no artifices, no need for dialog, simply a lifetime of backbreaking servitude to the sunken marshes of rice.

The nords lost, didn't they? Tall men with cold blue eyes and starchy suits. Lined row-upon row, whiter than their teeth. The nords have the wrong calendar, the wrong birthdate. They organized, standing in pyramids on each others shoulders, building scaffolds of nord, short-cropped hair tousled by the wind.

The nords stood strong with each other: a human crystal, walls of aryan blood lashed together for the benefit of nords. They crumbled, they fell, succumbing to the oriental mind. Helplessly twisting, their woolen suits tearing, strong bones crushed to meal.

Maybe the world was better off.

Orientals can't all do math. At least not the ones I know. They all count in english, too.

The lawyers, the Jewish ones, I hear live in New York. I dont know any of them. They didnt crumble the nords, they stayed well away, they built their human monuments low to the ground, and out of the way of the nord towers. They held hands and shed law, weeping, bleeding pages of what they could grab. I am told that they too were occidental.

Who owns the world, these days? The ones who make the television sets. In the orient, there are paper doll factories, stuffed to the gills with orientals making entertaining pirouhettes, stuffing them in the televisions to be shipped to us.

My occidental blood is diluted, I am a mongrel, ethnically and culturally. I have been exposed, as I suspect you have, to the oriental mind. I have built it as a lattice in my mind, unravaged, built as twisted vines from my slow counting brain.

And it always lingers. The nords never asked me to stand on their shoulders, the jews never asked me to weep the law. The orientals sell me their overstock from their quick-counting over-farmed paddys. I gladly give it to them. My complacence will never built a nordic human tower.


I have never wanted to be a lawyer. I have never wanted to wake up and farm three hundred sixty days a year.

The halfrican-canadian had more stories, but they weren't about me. They weren't uplifting, they weren't about me or anyone like me.

We are all mongrels, we have the wrong birthdates. We, and the others like myself simply stumble drunkenly between the shoulder standers, the suncrunchers and the weeping lawyers.

We buy our rice and bury it with water and drink the rotten juice.

Until the halfrican told me, i had no idea my birthdate was wrong.

Now i know, but don't care.

He is an editor, really. A lovely job where you take other peoples ideas and give them pretty words. Its an effective job, thats how they wrote the bible.

There was a point to his musings, his well trimmed anecdotes, which all seemed to universally point to something. Vague pleasant whispers of unattainable sweetness: hope, change, access, opportunity. That self-made men come from a culture of success, and also had the right birthdate.

He ignores the crumbling nords, the jewish pornographers, the orientals covered in flaming jellied gasoline burned and buried under their paddys, as quick with math in death as in life.

Left behind is the club with the right birthday, but stilted minds, the whiskey laced vagrants who lie idly between the structures, senses too dulled to bother with the images drawn around them.

The ones who work their whole lives to be mediocre at living.

I got the book at the airport. It was better than the in-flight movie.

And the food.

Tinker Tailor, Dick

Golem hatred punk, let's move outside the ice cream solids.   

I believe you have been optimized, doped for poop and left out of tigh-time to regret your strength.

Don't regret it o hey.

Bulb the sofa, lewd armchair radior destroy the particulars

I don;'t care :(

This is just something cared for, something sacred and knife junk rodeo baby

I cable carred your face?

No cream on my steam.

No weight lifter peppered with and oxygen belt and saved until the rape of humanity became my

fuzziest dice.   

No what?

Who believes you?   

God believes you and can;'t stand the fact that you above all else have swollen up

to the size of a creotene monument to the poopific bobisha of extremee and unintelligeably tight knowledge.   

I don;'t even know which bank or which vashon island to call you from.

I called a slick onion out of the dark 

and what happened you ask?

Well, tiny whats' his face left the podium.

Tiny whats the skeleton and I once saw my hand giving a handjob.

NIGHTBULB, LIGHTBULB, GORE

Dear Forest McDonald,

It has indeed been a long year since the husks fell off the corn.   

Nightrogen timebomb might say I asked for it, but is a sweater really and truly the kind of sweater you can see yourself wearing?   I often ask myself.   

Surely there are better things to wear.

I ran out of fire at the barbeque yesterday?   I guess barbegue, is a better name for it.  Let's see...

Muddled cracked and disheveled.

Hello friends, I have been away tristing the horses for perpetual mastery lately, and have been letting my negligence get the best of me. Were I more prodigious with my alms, I could dispatch each of these putative teasings with the weight of each feathered hair.






This is really neither here nor there. Between the endless festoons of bewilderment, engendered mostly by the hair-lipped and snoutless children pushed wall-to-wall against each other in desparate futility; while the clenchant bouts fiercely through aneurysms and feeds off each labored breath; where weekly fears gnaw at harrowed childhood memories.






This is not that thing. Bishop and rook they took a walk into advokatskya class, into which bartender he said: 4 I will not cherish house fact not it was single token in limelight it said it did make or not it last Tuesday.






We are here instead => from each of the fly's thousand eyes focused on the coagulating blood drying in a pool from the hanging chartreuse gallows. Expeditiously, the fly flew 1.64 meters up, and then to the left, cherishing its glances wayward like a fat sack of stew hanging from the chartreuse gallows. This fly flain florth fluth flaying philanderous chartreuse gallows the.






Electric, babies. This thinking is electric. This is marketing. This is oreo fucking cookies. This is reality.

My Proverberbial Filth

Can I get you a hankerchief? I cried and cried when I found out you weren't going to attend the Sobetsukai. Sure, yes, a hankerchief, please. This doesn't mean I've been avoiding you on purpose, it's simply the room is filled with Olypian wrestlers at the moment and they're after the full-nelson. As I type, only a half-nelson has been achieved, and I bang on with one finger for your pleasure.
Anyways, besides this, I'm reaching the threshold. It's obviously moving into spring and I have done so many embarrasing things that I don't know even where to start apologizing. First, I told the lady down at the laudromat she was a Molting. Weird thing is, I felt bad about calling her an Oar, even though she is Creak, but not so bad about the fat part. Am I too sensitive? Well reason for it was perhaps a misunderstanding - I had put my clothes in dryer number 6E and gone off to pick up a cable for my toilet. When I got back, a couple of hours later, someone had taken my clothes and put them BACK in the washing machine, and they were covered in laundry soap. Well, the person who had put her clothes in 6A after me was obviously to blame, so I waited until they returned. In comes a very fat lady, blah blah blah on the phone 'anyo hamseeda' and so on. I see her go for 6A, and lo and behold, not there! Ho ho, who's laughing now - she's all 'ei ei ei' on the phone and wondering what happened to her clothes, checking other dryers, etc. Well, I come up behind her and say in perfect French, 'Je suis desolais, mais tes vetements, ils sont dans ma bouche, parce que tu es une Koreane gourmande!!!'. I take the clothes out, with all the teeth marks and put them in the basket.

WHAT CLOSET NIGHTSHADE? Puffed.

It bent me over its knee, fellas. It micro urgently puffed from the soil. I rotated my tarzan equipment and floated through each hour like a foam. I knew what it was called but I called it Repulse. I called it eyewear. I felt that you guys have something going on that I can sometimes imagine. I ran around the park, tusking the dogs. My dog wrestled a squirrel to the ground. My dog was a freak with white eyes, tiny specks of black in them! I got up close to him. Then I yelled into those eye places. Hello! I yelled. From down deep in those eyes, I heard a faint voice. I think it said what.

Revenge: Its whats for Dinner!

He's life is meaningess.
He has a a time-limited life.
so, he enjoy his spare life time.
making a video, and watching a reaction from other people.

The shiny Foott Elastic

Hey and Harp on this!

newyear!

Ground Zero is beautiful today!

I swaer it has been rumpled in the chambers, swearing and sweating through molecules of confabulated retardo jets. It desn't even make a baby! So how could it sing.

This morning I am SURE you woke up, sprayed around the kistchen for an hour or so, then moused your way back into bed to enjoy the fumes under cover? I know the weight of my smell Utami because it locks its shins together and hates the taste of water. Why would I ever come back for you? I'll tell you why. My knife.


When I woke up I moved and felt my ocular tick turn, and then it went south, and then it came back. I knew it was frothing but how many chamber candwiches does a man with a cane have to retract? I retract every statement I ever made. Can I? Yes, I can, Otamar.

My nose has become softer than usual in this form letter of a vacationspray. I knew my hair was wrong when one man came up to me and glistened my chin with his doo rag. So short I didnt even see him while looking at the ground zero.

I limped through breakfast today and saw my body break into tiny portions divvied up on the plates of any kind of frigid sodafountain my emotions could find. Betrayed by emotions?

No, more like a waitress with a bum leg who gives too much of herself in the spraycanister. I know. There is so much to give...if everybody gives, then everybody will have something.

But I dont want something, I want my stuff!

Alloted Fecund Thwang Wort!

Check out my blue coat!

Its hard livin here in the manger, what with the plaigarism charges. I cant keep hypnotic with my "lightspeak" but the outcome is still the same: cows fucking moo. It never stopped me, though, from moving foward with my plans. As the quite wise Nausbert once said: "Insignificant details are the rocks of our dreams tied around our collective corpulently belching throat, drowning in a sea of horsefat set ablaze by a million harrowed flog-dutchers."

Indeed.


There are more terrible things in the world than drabbery, but still it is something to be parished. While stalking hearty nuncicals may bring a canist smile to a once already bount of high esteem, our understanding of precocious surroundings alienates the lucidity shared by me and the commoners. Truly it is ours to behold.

If indeed the wretchid serif were one to falsely collaborate on nuances yet unspoken betwixt schallop and schallon, surely our bearances would unduly bequeth us nards?

Furthermore, what became my Reno pittance was little more than a personal sabotage, I was able to share a few details:
"It walked into the room, floculently.

-"


And then it was sin.

From Where Are the Runts

Fro what are the runts to break out of the mantlepiece? Is it fair? Who said there would be an oiven in which to make love like a turkey in the oven? Is that fair? I would promote a rash.


I would lay down and find tissue paper to hide under. I might even rearrange my hair and promote world fitness by a pop pop whizz, the fishing pole falling into the water, pulling in the fisherman, and then just going ahead and pulling the shore he's standing on in too. I might arrange things that way. I might. I honestly might.

Today is dustbuster day, so I'm vacuuming up some old ways of doing things and making them much more of a weird process of kissing all the hands of gentlemen in the world. Let me kiss your hands? Let me rub my belly along your knees until you say yeah yeah, thats more than I can handle, lets do it.

Braille-heart

The advantage between a cake decorator and a facade in the latest in mouse research. 1/2 cup of spongy cervical gear with the load patterns into your Facade, Proximinal Jowel, and Mom Factory (or worse, a flat tire), then keep it struggling underwater with the academics. But you don't just have the same problems as me... YOU ARE THE PROBLEM.

Cranky in Human Capoteville

Dear Shalimar...otamar lambquest...nishi nishermo, where are you? Did you fly off into the electric baloon salesman's smile? the ink? I will leave you a Tomaz Salamun poem for your troubles.







Feast


By the way of all spheres,
on steep rocks overgrown with segments of color,
covered with chalk that children have broken,
we watch fragments
that keep rising,
compressed as if under the weight of water,
their slow takeoff: a signpost,
white curtains raised.

There is no hardship in breathing
precisely here, in this circle,
no hardship in breathing,
and also onward, ahead, it seems
as if balance is built in, unbreakable;
each time widening caves,
widening and narrowing,
like the activity of an unknown (unimaginable)
respiratory system, magnified under a microscope.

Invalid are nostalgia, night, melancholy,
laughter falling as snow,
everything parallel, everything there that can be
reached from here, all “the way” in between.

We are watching the reactions to this condition,
slowly, step by step, the outer leaves of the artichoke
float away.
We can imprint optional memories of notions.

There was a circle.
There was one just because we could not
use it.

Whatever the notion, they are all concentrically
disposed, far and near.
A freckle that was once an elevator
is a priori a ray, secured by intangibility.
Initiation is incredibly slow work,
similar to the turning of summer, winter, and stars.

Is this about how we have eaten?
Did we make a meal each time?

Enough so that in the process a tiny crack is left
and everything regenerates incredibly fast, and therefore now is.

You who keep a diary of growth and victims,
look!
Maybe many of them can read it,
light falls around,
only here of course nothing falls, it gets out.
The center, the source of energy watched by us
during this procedure, is empty. The cosmos makes the locus vanish,
eats it up. Energy, not consciousness, jumps across, (is)
in the negative. Therefore everything is in something,
what roughly, because of a notion, can be described
as a grain of sand, all space the remainder,
like dust after sawing wood.

On one cubic micron there are endless
galaxies, and each this enormous
space, nights, moons, suns, with constellations
that confound us, compressing our membrane.
The intergalactic and, of course, these
‘injected’ communications, too, are only oppression.

Along this window, in this window
there are innumerable other civilizations,
innumerable other cosmological systems.
Thus suffering does not matter,
layers do.
This is what I show here.

Best Nest (Next Nest)

In this nest are the plans. They've been torn up but are better for it. They must be followed. I have managed to decipher the following from them:

Eschatology or scatolo. Sand in the diaper or staple my p[iper to the waiting room inside my multi-chambered bear. The bear? Yes, that old ursa bear brown and cinammon, crunching its way through the mountainside, roughage people, berries, and the ooooweeeee of certain unmentioable hiking fanatics (Larry). Eat the lawmaker. And you are my brothers.

Take my bag away cuz here I'm going to stay, with the rest of the plants. This here Mastrchomp beareatenursachompkid has decided it would be best if lawyers decided the fate of each of our sibflings. I dont really care, but it would be nice to find someone to take care of my brothers and their weightlifting retardation scales. And you are my brothers.

Who labelled whitey white rice white? Who labelled me a bag thrown from the forementioned tree, and hate guy, and slave robber, and mating chamber for thirsty soy sauce eggs. People. Lawyers. The only thing worse than a lawyer joke is smiling ones way through a jury ordeal by pleading Bear! Handlebear, mandlebear!, my brothers.

Reashination!

Its time to foreclose on our lastest venture: Goodwill. People! Say it with me: Goodwill! Long have the days passed when we would wish our brother on the street goodwill, the passions of the long-dejected plebians stewing in their remorselessly sown fertilization of their own malcontent. In ideal times, these good folk would walk shoulder to shoulder with our beasts, opening gates, bantering and other priceless vocations. And yet, there was one thing we shared: Goodwill.

And Erstwhile Melthorse

The Barista finger I marvinned out of the way has come back and taken over my busy busy me lifestlye. Sitting with you in that exotic museum cafe on that rainy day in Tokyo. First the hammock chairs, then the girl who despised us for being "ice creamu" lickers of the highest magnitude. Lets get ourselves involved in the grapes for a while, sandwich bob.

I wished we'd had more time on the playout, to rib cotton jumpsuits and crable the sizzling witness to the Elongated Clay penis? The pictures are fantastic. I in a radar flavored jumpsuit, slabs of monk meat souffled with a cranapple cooling pie. Felled trees playing the Gray Snyder horse head and horsehappy values and erstwhile melthorse.

A swaying trees? A Gu Cheng mightmouse on the New Zealand railroad kick finger. The damage has been done, no less. I moved my kids out into old time bobs hatemachine, and then my muscle flew out and sandiched a raisin bran commercial? Gu Cheng my ass?


How was the rave out in woodland? Are you a day trader? A headdress hunter? 34 hours in the middle of a spycake? Oh wo begone solid food blanket, here is a poem I am working on....

IT REVOLVES AROUND THE TIRED GUMS LIKE A HANDGRENADE, ROSARIO!

Posing as the mightmare of Overdrive, the weightlessness in a dolls bottom, it became easier to breathe. I'm not going to look up a new kind of disease, suss out its parts, and then pulverize it into a Robert Burns somnambulist radio show. Hardly. Nestled in my favorite tv show socks are the cameras.

The cameras that make weightlessness in a Robert Bruns style ascot.
Picture me screaming "Its not great the way a heart goes bad when its filled up with this American way!" Picture me above some family member of yours, running my mouth off, spitting all over that little character as i speak, then making love to them.


Picture a knife in the heart of a gallon of soup. Then talk to me. Then, talk to me.

Carbukle Praries Ride!

Hwllo!
I made new friends tonte! We were to make frends with the apollo, but instead we make waylay and try to argue new friends to courtship!



Not much more for us to realize we needed help; if only prarie manager and associated drinkingbuddy could assist us, we would to lose the nervouz. Bt, to swallow the ashtray mouth and try for forgiveness the banter-slap anguish and aching smart-hole.




Still, are we to be blamed for the snake-handlers, the boor-ish slovonites, nor the putemishly shaped brow of the esquimauex. Raather should we be the forebear, the provincial truth-shaper, the cacique malaysian? If anything, I think our apathy is our badge of laquadyciKalitty, something the "square community" would love to shut down.



Dijnoscars died because they lost favor of fashion.

I AM AN OUTLAW, YOU ARE MY GRANDPA, SHUT UP, I HAVE FIVE HUNDRED DOLLARS BURIED UNDERNEATH THE CORNER OF MY HOUSE.

peace,
Otamar.

Umbillically through its beckoning door--Come Awn!

Uncomfortable lemon rack, I am up to my tits in swiss cheese. It ain't that difficult to imagine possible worlds out of this. Picture David Lewis, as seen above, high in the loom of gmy face with a nightgown stashed away in his lung? Did you? Well, then you're one step ahead of the daily diary of "off you go when we need you most," vehicles. Nightly. A bride of blondinstein. Nothing more to say her except that there is no "our father" prayer left in me. Dear "our father" ...I don't get it. Our father, of the spritely vesicles, let corn flakes change thy name.