somebody is kidding me.
vacationary summer tourist season is ending,
and it is ending in a knotted mess of
tangled traffic, sh!tty kids, rainy weather,
and mislaid and waylaid and unlaid plans.
yuuuuuuuuup.
september has got itself off to a pretty ridiculous start.
i may need a new pottery mug to get it poppin' ninjas.
just sayin',
when i drink the last cup of tears, pressed, fermented
and fomented into a witches' brew of b!tches' sap,
i want to feel the heft of the heart of the earth in my hand.
stoneware, fired clay, burly blops of rugged elemental
hottness, dug out, shaped up, and fired away,
formed and folded, manhandled and molded,
into a great big sexy-A* mug,
a chalice of malice,
a stein of frankensteinian liquid containment.
y'know,
like,
a kiln-fired cup made out of dopeness,
so i can have a cup of tea later on.
sorta like this one:
lemon-custard-colored happiness?!
i think so.
haha.
yeah.
that's it, neighbors.
it doesn't take a lot to elevate the expertism to eleven.
small specks and motes of light,
incandescent twinklings to give out an inkling
of that bright, bright, bright tightness free-falling
out amongst the dark shadows and freestyle hard styles
of the dichroic and archaic recesses of the long nights,
sleepless stretches, and empty expanses in between
the spikes and spears of self-involved importance
here in the woodsly flippin' goodness.
get it?
umm,
thinking about how sh!t-smeared the weak sauce
of a long weekend is doesn't mean that there aren't
good things happening alongside the lame ones.
even the lowest points and worst days aren't without
those brementown battle-beast bandmates.
a better fate than death awaits us anywhere?
(admit it, brad, it wasn't ALL bad......)
y'heard?
just sayin'.
***********
shotguns.
you know 'em,
you love 'em,
jeezus kee-rist you wanna hold and touch and shoot 'em.
well, ninjas,
i doo-doo that double barreled berserker business,
and i do it damn well.
after a long, hard, grueling, mewling, no fooling
and no refueling day of doo-doo buttery tattbombing,
a box of 1oz. lead slugs spewed forth from the smooth-bored
business end of a manly kamikaze cannon is what's up.
shoulder-bruising finger-snapping hot fire,
flung from the mouth of a magma-spitting monster,
pumped up, and popped out,
and performing bulimic barbarian binging and purging,
like a serious series of fortunate flamethrowing furious
glorious gargantuan gunfighting greatnesses.
and when it's going on with rad duders alongside you?
well,
good friends make good times better.
that's a thing.
and young friends usually make it look better.
shallow values?
no way, mutha-'uckers-
i am grateful for the folks who make up the majority
of worthy warrior poetics here in the woodsly goodness.
i span time alongside some pretty flippin' good ones.
it's all really happening;
never quiet, never soft.....
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