it's another day.
and it's a thursday, at that.
therefore, it should be a good one;
what with all that thor-type thunder implicit in the name an' that.
there aren't any clouds hanging around,
so there won't be any actual thunder,
but the high-concept high-voltage of imaginary thunder
is almost certainly already charging the air around my head.
a holy halo of claps and booms,
a crown of lightning.
a circle of superstatic electric spirit and memories,
spiraling outward from my cow-licked ghost of a hairline.
today is the day.
and that's for serious.
maybe it was the intensive hang outs yesterday,
or maybe it is just well nigh time to make moves,
or maybe it's just an unsubtle kick in the clankers by the secret universal plan,
but i'm ready for whatever the F* is coming down the tubes today, neighbors.
i charged up my participation particles yesterday in preparation.
the cucch early a.m. surprise attacked;
austin had wind-chilly outdoor coffee-time with us;
me and my main man visited our homegirl andra for lunch;
ian came over from vermont for dinner;
and thatcher came by to look at my wood.
that's a true story.
i made the dreamiest, creamiest, chocolaty-est, eleventh-level treats,
off the cuff and on the fly.
check the mutha-flippin' teleport:
it's only ever all about getting expert.
that's a thing.
i make lots of tarts because i like lots of tarts.
what else would i do, right?
cocoa-activated graham cracker crusts,
packed into the cups of a muffin pan,
are more work than you might expect,
but it's what's gotta happen if you want that new hottness.
and i hand-whisked and whipped up some custom doo-doo mousse
with unrivaled poise and aplomb for a duder stirring up some
aerated and underrated magical light brown sh!t.
it's good, too.
dumb stupid crazy good.
i, for one, am completely unsurprised by that.
...you probably are as well, unless of course, you're an A*-hole.
so it's gonna be a stormswept day,
with or without the weather permitting it.
there's a raging berserker kind of fury in my heart, y'know?
it's that kind of whirlpool drain-circling cyclone sh!t that greek poets
wrote epics about as divine punishments.
that's no jokes.
spinning around and around in tighter circles until that's just a bowl-circling
big-flush swirling single-point pivot
on an inescapable axis that bores straight down;
through the bottom beneath the bottom under the bottom-most base-levels
of base behavior and basic instinctual infinite nature,
at the same circumference forever and ever with no room to spread outwards
nor upwards- a dizzy drill into the doomways of the end days.
that's kind of a hard style.
truth tellers can never stop, y'hear?
you can say goodbye, and wave, and walk away a thousand times,
but until you really mean it, the bigger belief that bests better judgement
is that it's just a silent secret segue in a louder, harder, fresher folio
of more and more and more and more.
....except it's the thing you get to have in order not to have the rest of it.
goodbyes are uneven trades, y'all.
one goodbye is worth everything else,
and that's a skewed ratio of value and price.
it all costs something, kids.
nobody rides for free;
never quiet, never soft.....