back to the grind

d'y'ever feel like everyone else is like oil?
canola, or peanut, not motor.
not in the sense that they make cookin' easier and more delicious,
but more like as a counterpoint to interconnectivity.
bloppy glops of fatty monounsaturated b!tch-sap,
ready to gloss over,
weigh down,
and clog up anything and everything they get their greasy little mitts on.
i'm talkin' about the difference, ya'll.
between fortune's bold favorites, and everyone else-
oily-type folks are only as slick as the hot fire around 'em enables high-viscosity.
not enough and they goop up,
too much and it burns 'em.
oil.
that's just not us, is it?
if you are a warrior poet, (and you probably are if you've read this much)
and as such are absolutely brimming with a boiling batch of both piss and vinegar,
then we can reasonably surmise that both of those fluids,
despite certain compositional deviations,
aromatic and otherwise,
moreso resemble water than more viscous liquids,
and especially in the sense that when it comes to hangin' out with oil,
they just don't mix.
no matter how much you shake it up;
you can mingle, and stay unsettled, so to speak,
or relax and instantly resume the inescapable seperateness.
that's just the infinite nature of things.
believe me,
i put it to the test almost every time i leave the woodsly goodness...
not that we're not exposed to slime-time up here;
in fact,
i spent yet another 'nother entire sh!thouse-salad, doo-doo dressing of a day with a 
long line of over-eager, undercompetent, oily mutha-uckas,
tryin' hard to smother my salty sauce under a blanket of 'baggery.
yep, you guessed it,
it's a school/family vacation week in the white mountains,
how do you survive a seige of boiling oil butterbabies?
you saturate your sovereign free-state surroundings with caustic caterwauls,
get-busy glee club choruses,
lung-bustin' bellowing be-dope ballads,
and year-end clearance on all your most menacing, mesmerizing material,
everything must go, everyone must pay, one way or another.
and the only way to feel clean,
physically and mentally,
is to take your truth-tellin' really realism,
use it like Folk Life lye on all those oil-stained hydrogenated a-holes,
simmer and stir with a hefty handful of hot fiery hottness,
and make a little soap.
y'heard?
i'm all scrubbin' bubblicious and squeaky at the expense of all those personal-space invaders.
you feel me?
when life hands you sour grapes,
ferment 'em in a flagon of furious urine,
and make a batch of balsamic barbarian viking vinegar.
(you've seen 'fight club', ya'll. how else do you think i stay safe around all the no-lie lye?)

alright, my little potatoes,
now that we've been boiled in oil and come out harder for the experience,
let's stay salty,
and bitter (that's where the vinegar comes in)
and keep it crisp.
never quiet, never soft...