three-oh.

some dudes bequeath, from beneath their seats,
some secret treats when they leave.
it's true.
i've seen it.
sometimes,
it's some candy,
like maybe some dark chocolate-covered raspberries;
(i eats up those globule men. oh, so quick)
other times,
it's ninja self-portraits on your camera, taken when you weren't looking.
i got both of them jauns this week.
see for yourself:

hey, it's THIS guy's big milestone of  irrefutable adulthood today!
thirty mutha-b!tchin' years!
a triple decade destination!
the same roman toga party notation as 'nography and hooch and straight-edge:
XXX.
say it slowly- therrrrrrdeeeeee.
and with, or without, the man of the hour,
we're having a party tonight!
in the rain, even.
paul c.
the cucch.
thirty years old.
in absentia.
in martha's vineyard.
which is to say, in massholechussetts.
which is to further say:
weak sauce.
rationally, i can understand that not everybody can hang out
forever and ever in the 'goodness, i guess.
some folks feel obligated to rove, roam, range, and wander.
not that time or dates give half-a-sh!t where you are,
not when it's time for a big day.
and today's the day.
6-5, or 5-6,
month/day, or day/month,
whichever continent or country you're in, on, at, or around,
it still all adds up to eleven.
so it's happy berfday to you, buddy.
h.s.p as far as the eye can see.
doo-doo that b-day business.
berfday suits are the perfect attire, and everything.
***********
so,
is it super slow at work, you're asking?
yep.
what happened, you'd like to know?
well, so would i.
out of the clear blue busy-bodied business,
the bottom dropped out of the hottness express.
po' people and not-so-dope doo-duders have been the rule,
instead of the exception.
maybe it's been all the nice weather,
and maybe not.
but, my ninjas, on the real, one thing is clear and certain:
somebody is obviously kidding me.
there's a lesson in it somewhere-
the ant and the grasshopper, maybe.
i haven't gotten the planagram presentation from the secret universe, yet,
so it's anyone's guess what's going on.
there is only ever more of this.
my cramped-up hands are turning into beige banyan tree roots;
my wallet has got moths in it instead of moolah,
which isn't all the way the worst thing ever;
and i still look like a half-gay 1930's dockworker,
sans mighty-man muscles.
it's all still happening.
it doesn't ever actually seem to show signs of stopping, either-
broke, broken, ugly, and dope-
all ears, all eyes, all the time;
never quiet, never soft.....