kneel. diamond.

bow ties and battle-bard barbarian breakbeats
just aren't impressive enough
to regular mutha-F*ers.
it takes a special someone to recognize
the take-it-deep hard styles,
the level of fresh-to-death flavor louder and harder than ten,
the just be dopeness of refusing doo-doo buttery weak sauce,
in other words:
the hottness.
not everyone is a believer.
most folks around these parts
just don't get it.
to them,
the hottness is more like a hott ness monster.
sightings abound,
but hard proof of it's existence remains elusive.
and the bow tie isn't convincing anyone of anything,
except maybe my impending conversion to super-gayness.
which was news to me.
still,
despite the beliefs of many being imbedded exclusively in science,
or fast food and pickup trucks,
i'm an old druid,
rockin' the old ways,
woodsliness,
goodness,
and berserker furiousness,
putting full faith in ley lines and laymen's terms.
the nexus is in my solar plexus,
and i'm gut-feelin' the warmth spreading from my hated guts....
the hottness, ya'll.
you can kinda see it, 
just not exactly.
like the radiant asphalt warping wavy gravy mirages on the road-
it's happening,
and you can feel it for sure.
the hottness.
i'm sayin'.

i mostly travel between four places, now.
my house,
to pack up stuff, and bag up crap.
the storage unit
full of axes and bicycles and appliances,
tetris-stacked and rearranged almost daily,
to accomodate more and more and more.
the conway waste management and recycling plant,
to unload flavorful threads and acres of refuse.
and work,
which may as well be a mariana-trench remote-operated sub,
because taking it deep is a synonymous saying.....
moving can smoke a veiny raging one, my ninjas.

i put a big, blue, balls-out future-destroyer on a nice young lady's neckhole.
that's a hard style.
nineteen and life to go.
a diamond around a billion karats,
a proposal, even,
from the wrench to her.
forever and ever.
i can respect that kind of dedication.
she said yes, by the way.
choosing the wrench in a marriage of ink and metal spikes.
in that instant,
we shared a kindred moment.
briefly.
it seemed fitting she was getting a big rock that will wreck her world.
that's who i am.
that's what i do.
word the F* up.

it's really F*n' hot out, too.
armpit aromas and crotchsweat cologne are oozin' and exudin'.
nothin' says success-story like a day of tatblastin',
swathed in sweat with nostrils full of humanity.
who's winnin'?
me, baby;
ne'er quiet, ne'er soft....