potatopotamus

oh, right.
because most friends give you a
'thanks for being the last visitor before we move' present.
right?
oh, well, neighbors,
my friends are all so much better than yours.
check the parting-gift-type teleport:

hahaha.
my bedroom now has one more pair of eyes to watch
how little magic and mayhem get conjured within those walls.
even a nonplussed potato headed hippo lump face
will be bored to tears by the empty bed and loud snores
that echo outwards from under so so so many covers and blankets.
yeah.
a little piece of louderhorn accoutrement,
proudly hung in the Folk Life & Liberty Fortress,
because expert recognize expert,
forever and ever and always an' that.
***********
we went to the bare bones puppet thing last week.

it was the twentieth anniversary of those hippies getting rad
in some park in st. paul.
it was also my first time.
and it was also also the biggest turnout that they ever even heard of,
according to the outraged left-leaning line-standers waiting to get in.
and lastly,
it was also dope.
they said a cool thing to recap the overall theme.
check it out if you know how to click links:
barebones carry on jauns!!!!
^^right?
sometimes,
hippies get it right.
other times,
you freeze your whole A* off in a crowded-up
clove, patchouli, and armpit scented park.
runny noses from gelid temperatures make it impossible to absorb
any but the most offensive aromas, tho,
so there was that to be grateful for.
*
...the thing of it is,
i'm prepared to do a lot of things.
but,
to relive the unrelieved and unbelievable past,
in paraphrased overlaps and eerie similarities?
yeah.
oh, i'll do it, for sure;
but only because i have to know if there's even a chance
to change the ending if you know what the outcome was last time?
uh-huh.
some styles are so hard,
i can't even imagine how it they could happen in the first place,
let alone more than once.
the circles of spirit and memory,
the cycles of cultivated coincidence,
and unresolved word problems masquerading as logic traps
and
ugh.
harder and harder styles must just set in and set out
to see me through some sort of unlearned lessons about
life and love and lust and blood.
damn, duders.
that's some serious sh!t.
but,
i mean, c'mon,
it's called real-life documentarianism
because it's all really happening....
there're no idealized idle idylls here,
it's warrior poetry, after all.
all savage, furious, fraught with perils and pitfalls.
and it's always stormswept,
all raging winds and high tides and full moons,
gypsy camps and minor keys,
false lights, false doors, and false dawns,
there's a lot of not-quites,
a few more almosts,
and scores of tied-up knots and not-even-closes.
the battle is joined,
the frey is frayed and the fringes are all loose-ended
and up for grabs.
that means nothing is F*ed,
and everything is.
i'm fighting for something,
and i'm maneuvering into position at all times.
i've got 'em all surrounded,
and i, in turn, am surrounded.
concentric circles keep echoing outwards.
that's a thing;
never quiet, never soft.....