rorschach attack.

hey neighbors.
at a certain saturation point,
all inkblots look the same.
also,
at the same saturation point,
everything else looks like an inkblot, too.
that's some sh!t, kids.
three weeks of weak-sauce sleeplessness,
and i'm seeing spots and blops all day, every day.
a murky cloud of escaping squid squiggles has
compromised my immune system.
that's a thing.
treat your body bad enough,
and it'll treat you badly right back, b!tches.
believe me.
i'm under a pile of high-pile blankets,
in many layers of clothes,
and i'm still sh-sh-sh-shivering.
oh,
and my fever has got my joints disjointed,
and my throat feels like i've let a lifetime
of hot fire spit cauterize it closed.
ouch.
sick, sleepy, and starving, y'all.
it's all really happening.
i look like a blarpity blob,
full of puffy portions and sharp angles.
bones showing, ribs sticking, facepiece swelling,
lips chapping,
and no napping to recharge any of those blotted
and besotted bruises that seem to subconciously suggest
a brutal barbarian beating has been brought to bear.
i look and feel like my A* is kicked,
but there's nobody around to fight.
hard styles,
each and every single long night, y'all.
***********
in other news,
my emaciated frame will be a bit browner by the time
april rolls around.
uh-huh.
i'm taking the worthy warrior poetry program to
the land of poi and spam.
that's that aloha jauns.
sunkissed and saltwatered, friends,
starting wednesday.
for serious.
what could be better,
in a sabbatical sense,
than island livin' with my most bestest ace homeboy,
the cucch?
nothin', of course!
except a return home to warmer climes and environs
within the Folk Life & Liberty Fortress, probably...
awwwwww.
but the mean-spirited meantime will be loaded up
with a vacation-based conflict-avoidance nutrient infusion!
yuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuup!
i'm watching hawaiian island rorschach blots on maps,
and plotting indiana jones-style ley line red lines
for the red eye flying and temporal displacement
of westward past-mastery time travel.
that's that teleport jauns, son.
for the record:
beaches?
nope.
hot weather?
no way.
sand?
c'mon.
wind?
you all already know that march is my least favorite
because of the blistery blustery gusts of disgust that
bring change, kites, and answers a-blowin' on in.
however,
i'm marching to the far side of the pacific
for a little perspective on the vanishing point.
and for some family togetherness with my closest duder.
which is worth the inconvenience and discomfort
of activating an alien environment.
tropical woodsly goodness?
i suppose we'll see about those rainy forests.
maybe that lava business will take
the hottness back up to eleven?
i hope so.
the furnaces are cold, kids,
and the cas-iron kettledrum of my break-beat
bumping, broken, second-hand heart,
could use some reinvigorating in the most desperate way.
yes.
that's all true.
it always is.
true stories, told truly,
by tellers who can never stop.
what?
what about whom?
bob?
well what about bob?
ohhhhhh-
good call, mutha-ucka.
i guess i am on that next-level action.
taking a vacation...
... from my problems?
 i doo-doo that, it would seem.
wordimus prime;
never quiet, never soft.....