jack o'lanternification,
to the fullest.
every single time i see some freshness,
i have got to get it for the Fortress.
for really real,
i love hallowe'en jauns:
that star-eye guy on the right?
heavy-metal hell night homeboy action.
i don't get it either,
but i know that i like it.
*
neighbors,
i write a lot,
but i'm not a writer.
i'm a storyteller,
and all my stories are true ones,
told truly by yours truly.
it's creative non-fiction.
unconscientous conciousness,
in narrative streams,
tippity-tappity typed for you face.
it's all really happening,
from the first to the last of it.
every day.
afternoon fires?
made from seasoned cedar construction debris.
nausea-inducing stumps?
to the bitter bottom-most ashes.
lunches and dinners with worthy duders from up here?
sandwiches and soups and candy flippin' beans, b!tches.
tattbomb career hunger from peer-inspired back-pat fraternizing?
uh,
noooooooooooooope.
sounds more like a john milton poem to me...
some things don't change.
has-been hermits,
reppin' obscurity in perpetuity,
and a few words of censure and sensation,
like a mordant midnight mothman.
dark, dirty, disgruntled, and dope.
that sh!t can't get gotten easily.
the story is the same every time:
infinite natures,
and their eleven-year intractability.
the gaps fill in themselves.
nature wins, kids.
and the true story hasn't got a happy ending.
in fact it's kind of a solo show.
punch and judy and a swazzle.
each act a self-injurious helping hurting hand[puppet],
and each aside a delusional denial.
bad, worse, and worst.
yet, so dope.
because it's all always really happening.
and it always ends the way it's supposed to.
...by being over and done.
okay,
my grapes are a little sour,
but it's vinegar i really wanted in the first place.
the more bitter the better.
it makes the sincere sweetness even more so.
right?
write;
never quiet, never soft.....
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