blarney.

i talk a lot.
like,
a LOT.
and i'm not exactly sure i'm ever really saying anything worth hearing,
but i also worry that if i hold it in,
my whole entire head will blow apart into syllabic shrapnel,
like a sentence-fragment grenade of percussive punctuation
wrecking each and every sound with a savage silence of unarticulated ideas.
ummm,
but, like, for real though.
so i say anything,
and i say everything,
and i'm never quiet;
and as hard as it is to be such a hard-stylist.
i'm never soft, either.
it doesn't make anything any easier,
but it sure as sh!t is what's really happening.
damn.

i guess the luck of the irish doesn't exactly apply
to those of us without smiling eyes.
yeah.
so while maybe everyone IS a little bitty bit irish on st. patrick's day,
st. patrick was actually a big greasy italian snakecharmer;
so i'm not sure if that cancels out or not?
i dunno, neighbors.
**********
me and my big mouth.
yeah.
my thin-lipped pursed pucker,
and the pearly tombstones i'm taking soundbites out of my own epitaph with.
yeah.
it's not communicating i believe in.
it's OVERcommunicating.
talking it to death, duders?
i hope not and i think so;
o'never mcquiet, mcnever o'soft.....