this isn't good news.

birth and death?
what the F* are you talking about?
oh.
well, maybe stop looking for meaning, duders,
and just look at the picture:

skull-acorn redux.
i've been redrawing old images,
honing, tuning, refining, and redesigning
all the kinky stinks and stinky kinks out of 'em.
i much prefer the new hottness.
that's a thing.
i'm composing prose in glyphs of gypsy encryption.
if you aren't a raging stormswept savage,
you'll probably need a translator.
trust me, though....
the i's are dotted,
the t's are crossed,
and so are my eyes-
c'mon.
bleary, teary, weary...
all that.
i've been busy,
staying up late riding nightmares
into infinite insomnia,
and then waking up early to reenter the world
of hard-styles and brutal truths.
i write these memorandums to the spirit of
active participation in the interest of preserving
some small sliver of the ghosts of worthy warrior poetry.
i'm sayin', neighbors-
really real immersion in expertism exists,
woodsly goodness persists,
weak-sauce waterbabies resist,
and real life documentarians subsist
on a steady diet of gratitude, generosity, and honesty.
 it's all happening, all the time;
all at the same time, even.
i'll keep reporting the deeds and derring-do and doo-doo butter
as long as my spindly spiderfingers can tippity-type out the
true stories of what the F* is going on around me-
cross my heart and hope to die,
cross my fingers and hope it's you instead.
yuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuup.
**********
it's sunday,
and it's sunny,
and it's F*ing biker d!cktard week,
and they are out in full force in their full regalia-
with a heavy accent on the gay in the middle.
yeah.
i hate it.
like, secretly studying shamanism and sorcery.
just for the annual summoning of a swarm of vermin;
an unholy host of indeterminate pest and nuisance creatures,
to clog roads, mire tires, and flow like a hungry wave
of all-consuming unstoppable righteous fury,
to stop up and then whittle away the nancyblasters
on their steel horses with mandibles and claws,
until only scratched chrome and chipped bones remain.
hard styles are, in fact, my flippin' specialty.
i've got a molten core of thermonuclear disgust firing it's
ions and protons into protected space.
the radiation, however, of my white-hot hateful heart
is glowing through my pores like a punched-tin lantern.
a toxic patterned picture of professional polka-type dots.
yeah.
if i knew what i know, and i wasn't me?
oh sh!t!
i'd keep clear of the fallout from today's sour mood.
it's super-sunny, and sorta warm all over the mountains-
it's also dark and cloudy, and pretty forkin' cold,
but just on the inside.
i'm making wishes and ouija-boarding for bovine ghosts
to manifest and mangle the meathead men wearing their skins
over their legs and arms, but not their butts.
chapped buns from A*less chaps?
they deserve it, duders-
a simple spell to reanimate those tanned-up wrappers,
and give them a shot at squeezing a life for a life.
it's highly unlikely,
but it's definitely where i'm at;
never quiet, never soft.....