thirteen ways to say some things.

sunday morning.
the thirteenth.
unluckiest of numbers,
lamest of days,
hardest of styles.
even a t-n-t breakfast of tea and toast
may not be able to pull up from nosedive like this one.
wrenches abound, duders.
in every way, on every nut, and every pipe.
metaphoric sausage-squeezing tightening-vise constricting?
yep.
you know this, my ninjas:
really-real mutha-uckas should be getting busy doing so much more
than just working and sleeping and eating.
that's word.
we only get this time we've been given,
and not one extra day for perfect attendance,
or additional work-ethic related drive or motivation.
a finite fleet of fleeting hours,
and an empty vessel for the contents therein.
jeez.
what the F* are we gonna fill in all these blanks with?
lightning.
vikings.
barbarian battle-beasts.
bullets.
bread.
puppets.
and participation.
especially participation.
passive aggressive just won't work with warrior poetry.
aggressive aggressive? that's more like it.
shore-storming berserker attacking and sacking.
we plunder whilst we bring the thunder,
and what we're taking is time.
our time.
that's exactly it, kids.
we take our time, at breakneck pace.
sunday, bloody sunday.
like a british epithet,
or a dry-air woodstove nosebleed.
we doo-doo that pulse-pounding hard-pounding real sh!t.
it's that time.
every time.
*
halfway to march, already.
march into spring,
and spring into summer.
it's a just a short series of walks, skips, hops, and jumps,
and before you know it,
we're out of time.
...again.
which means, in the meantime,
there are sure to be some mean times,
and hard-styles,
to beset and besiege the big business and big action
of a woodsly, goodsly, Folk Life & Liberty lifestyle.
things, neighbors.
things happen.
and if you aren't at eleven on the hottness scale,
you're probably already out of time.
it's all really happening.
all these things.
the lamest day,
the unluckiest number,
the easiest morning,
the hardest styles;
never quiet, never soft.....