eleven.

i went back to the fair,
in the dark,
all by myself.
again.
it really becomes a deep dark pit of despair
when you do it like that.
i mean,
even the filthiest fattie mutants have a whole other
'nother fattie mutant at their side,
gorging at whatever fried food trough they've set out
for their greased-up dim-witted dead-eyed faces.
and i'm the one flying solo through the stalls?
F*!
harder and harder go the styles i rep, neighbors.
that's a thing.
but i'm not gonna let a little bit of that
everything-feels-worse-when-you're-all-alone derail my plans,
am i?
no way.
not once, not never-
so,
i lightning-strike activated a berserker ball-out barbarian dash
through the press of obese monsters and their offspring,
and made a single-pass through the gates,
to the fancy soda-pop spot, around the expositions,
and to the sweet sweet dinnertime magic zone.
yeah.
check the falafel-to-eleven-type teleport:

that's the only way i'm prepared to get busy,
even if i have to swallow sadness in every other mouthful.
small joys and the fullest bellyhole all derive
from those deep pockets right there.
uh-huh.
the outsides of the bread have that flame-grilled blackness burnt on!
the outsides of the individual mini falafel nugs are so crispy,
and the insides melt into hot chicky peepee baby bean butter.
it's good for you, y'all.
like those eagle's eggs-style nutrients jauns an' all that.
trust me.
eleven falafels is a good gosh-damned number.
it made sitting under a dim worklamp, surrounded by moths,
at a lonesome table, out of the way, chewing softly,
and taking big bites all seem not so bad.
***********
i do this thing, duders.
yeah.
it's real.
once in a great while,
somebody catches my attention.
it's never just any old average everyday individual, either.
therefore,
it almost never happens.
so when it does?
ugh.
i get dumb,
and go heavy on the sweet-hearted feelings.
awwwwwwwww.
uh huh.
hot ears and wild hands and squinty stares and all that.
real talk,
i am derailed by the rarity of genuine real life hottness-
and that's not a thing that almost anybody actually has.
i guess,
when it comes to girls,
i'm only interested in the best ones.
which is another way of saying that i don't really get it.
i mean,
it can't always be competent communication and worthy warrior poetry.
otherwise,
i'd probably be better at it.
no?
yes.
words are great, but actions speak louder....
so stopping short of shutting up,
and going along on the up-and-up instead of giving in
is the way it goes.
instead of exalting in activated synchronicity,
along the overlaps of circles and lips and hips and hands and hearts,
long nights and empty beds are what i reap from my abject affections.
true story.
c'mon.
i'm a professional hard-stylist, after all.
just sayin'-
what would hank F*ing rearden do?
duh...
he'd hold on,
and let the grip lose him before he loses his grip.
strong hands hold it together.
damn.
-
i can find the loveliest, intricate, most excellent,
gracious, and graceful, and grateful one.
yep.
without question,
i know what to look for.
the thing is,
i just don't know what happens next.
more of all of this, most likely.
that's the way it goes.
the secret universal plans unfold, slowly,
and it takes forever to see what the big picture is supposed to look like;
never quiet, never soft.....