howls and cowls and scowls.

wolfen second-skins, frowns, fuego, fumos puros, and freak-outs.
...that's a good saturday night.
the luminous lunar brainwaves, duders-
they affect all forms of canine, with insane brain stains-
no joke:
olive the dog wanted to eat our friends.
just a little bit, and only at first, but still...
matt and amy came over for some hot fire
on their long weekend up from A*holechussets.
the loafie-dog thought it wise to attempt a teeny-tiny taste-test.
a little gettin'-to-know-you, digestively.
relax, she's a jumper, not a biter.
plus,
those duders don't have enough legs to warrant chompin' on.
"> two" is the rule,
which leaves out people, but includes birds?
besides,
even more than proto-wolfen bloodline magic,
she really really wanted to munch up
the big, burly, black battle-beast in the backyard.
yeah,
a bare-assed embarrassed bear, b!tchbags.
out prowlin' with her two little baby just-righters,
trying to munch up on the compost an' that.
adding baby bears to this goldilocks moment is what makes it so good.
otherwise,
the big mama would never try to swat, swipe, smash,
or otherwise maul your weak-sauce interfering A*s.
be easy, worrywarts-
nobody had any problems,
as far as we could tell.
...unless she took her cubs out to
snack on the van-campin' hippie across the way.
(which would be fine with us anyway.)
***********
talking with our out-of-town visitors,
i realized some hard-style sh!t, too.
i may sound like an actual crazy person.
beyond the kinder subjective adjectives, i mean;
y'know: eccentric, passionate, opinionated, etc.
alas, that's the infinite nature of our natures, innit?
we all just do what we do.
worthy warrior poetry is composed primarily in solitude.
hermits and hard-hearted heated haters are the last fluent bards.
i'm sayin',
there aren't a lot of truth-tellers left spitting out that heat, ninjas-
trying to explain the foundational tenets to young folks
is nigh unto impossible.
just be dope?
moths?
XI?
c'mon.
that's space alien hieroglyph baby-talk to these modern youths.
unconsecrated characters will listen patiently to the loud fresh hardness.
and then resume believing in the exact opposite.
not that it matters all that much-
the furnaces don't stop smoking,
the bass-boosted breaks don't stop beating,
and the miasmal magma still makes the magic happen-

look closely inside that hot fire.
there's a struggling roman numeral.
do you see it?
yeah,
it's the harder way-
actually, it's the only way-
it goes to eleven;
never quiet, never soft.....