Thursday, May 23

two thousand.

that's right.
two thousand posts.
right now.
this is somehow still what's happening.
more and more and more.
that's all there is, all the time.
an inexorable unstoppable compulsion to tell y'all all about it.
two thousand times over.
how does that feel, you ask?
sort of like this:
unusual, beautiful, bloody, and sad.
for the record- that's a partridge.
a roadside casualty of being absent from my guide to new hampshire birds.
i'm sayin',
ninjas shouldn't be where they don't belong.
there was no family on a bus to get happy with, y'know?
oh, actually you probably don't.
the partridge family?
that's a thing.
ah, how about a pear tree?
oh, c'mon.
amidst the rainiest week this year,
there are remnants of warrior poetry waiting to be recomposed
and disposed of in the decomposing dead birds
and deposed barbarians, as well as bees, trees, and so on....
it's infinite nature-type sh!t.
concentric circles slightly skewed to make a spirographic tornado
of overlapping scraps of spirit and memory.
two thousand times, kids?
nature wins.
two thousand magic missile missives, in a row...
i've documented the really realness of this
woodsly goodsly Folk Life,
live and direct from the Folk Life& Liberty Fortress.
how many times have i had something good to say?
two? twenty? two hundred?
i have no idea, actually-
but what i DO know is that i'm participating in it every time.
that's the only thing to do, so i doo-doo that active sh!t.
speaking of activating-
check the smoothie-styles on the teleport:
c'mon, you mutha-b!tchin' fruitlickers,
how expert is my expertism?
i know!
strawberry-vanilla-orange juicy puree on top,
a silky coconut milky lime-laced middle bandwidth,
and a brutal blop of blueberries and vanilla and oranges on the bottom.
those're the three phases of drinkably elitist breakfast time.
and the extraneous kiwi garnishes take it to eleven, too.
i'm celebrating.
that's right, friends.
i'm ringing in a brand-new era of obvious, inaccessible, extroverted introspection.
because that's what berserker barbarian battle-beastly bards are all about.
real talk.
we compose paeans to the truth and sonnets to the sun, skin, seasons, sex,
and everything else.
it's the only option available,
as recording it hurts like hell,
and is therefore mandatory.
you know it.
written in wrenches, tightened and loosened, and monkeyed around with.
it's all really happening.
that's the whole point.
two thousand times.
am i overstating it?
all this time later,
what's the big picture that the secret universal plan keeps alluding to?
i think i have a little better understanding than i did when this all started.
it goes a little something like this:
stay ugly, stay dope.
when life hands you sh!t, you make sh!t salad.
no jokes.
all the rest of it is just garnish.
today is the day.
two thousand.
i'm sorry, and you're welcome;
never quiet, never soft.....

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