easier.

it gets easier.
that's true.
sunday morning?
yeah.
that too.
it's mutha-'ucking freezing up here, y'all.
like,
put on a sweater cold.
the sun's rays have been blue-blocked
and ultra-violently ultra-violet violated
by the solid grey gayness up in the air.
we're being smothered by cloudcover.
the warmth and light are taking the weekend off,
but the hottness remains intact.
something about the furnaces in my flesh,
and the hot fire spit exhaust system i carry with me
everywhere i go.
huh?
i'm sayin'-
there's a bass-boosted barbarian bellows blowing
gale-force gusts of the winds of war and change and answers
directly into the lava-lined combustion chamber
inside of my chest.
that stokes that sh!t, yo.
into an infernal conflagration of activation.
check it-
my heart is a raging, stormswept, savage,
gypsy siege engine, powered by perpetual motion,
or active participation, or really-realness,
or sometimes, even competent communication.
that's right, neighbors.
it's a flex-fuel fission machine,
far greener than the grass on the other side, even.
clean-burning truth and consequences and tasty vegan food.
it's a lot like biodiesel.
well, sort of, anyway...
my own greasy guido recycling plant,
self-referencing and self-propelled-
pumping, thumping, and bumping all the thunderclapping
beats of spirit and memory inside of me.
what are we laying siege to?
what aren't we storming like ramparts and battlements?
if you aren't making moves to rush, and rush, and attack
each and every single day,
i'm pretty sure you might be F*ing up.
everything gets easier when we remember that, y'know?
even hard styles and hard pounding,
even long nights and rough times,
even long stretches and low spots,
nadirs and dry spells and difficulties of all sorts.
surround 'em and wreak wreck on their fortifications.
right?
lay waste, an' that.
it's the true and proper way to make sure a sunless sunday
gets a bit brighter.
*
what's that about a silver lining?
cloud cover conceals the blindingly bright bulb
of battle-beastliness that begets that polymorphic shape-shift sh!t.
yuuuuuuuuuuuuup.
we're creepin' on a sleepless situation
wherein those who, what, when, and why jauns are
matters of less import than the big question-
where?
right here,
in the woodsly goodness,
there's a werewolfen warrior poet staying up,
eating words by the paperbackful,
and tempering his teeth and nails
with tamper-proof total immersion in What Is.
y'heard?
that's a thing.
facts. reasons. logical chains of events.
it's all really happening.
it doesn't change with waxing or waning,
with warring or warning or whatever else.
-
there's hot fire,
there's lightning,
there's a full flippin' moon.
a perfect overlapping set of concentric ghost circles,
making ripples, making waves, making moves.
it gets easier with practice.
being like this, i mean.
perfect practice makes perfection,
imperfect practices not really so much.
so we've got to make sure that we're on refined finery.
no, for real.
that fashion-savvy sensitivity to looking the part
of a poised and predatory prowler who
provides a preponderance of proof to support
his disproportionate powers of portable purporting.
practice makes perfect.
it gets easier with practice.
repeat it.
it gets easier;
never quiet, never soft.....