Sunday, September 25

dawn's early light.

the brightest sky. clear and crisp and vast,
with stars like candles.
and the moon, a floodlight,
bathing the whole of the woodsly goodness in azure and cobalt-
....and me,
watching crabtree take a thunderous and unholy sh!t at 5 a..m.
it's called ruining it.
and that's the way we doo-doo our daily rituals.
i rep a very hard style,
and it includes early mornings,
late nights,
strong language,
and enthusiastic violence of action,
i enact, inflict, and ultimately endure explosions and outbursts
of creative self-destruction,
and deconstructive self- exploration-
rolling around next to,
and punctu(punctured)ated amongst the sharp sharp teeth of,
this F*ing dog.
in between bouts of barbarian battle and beastly break-beat bard business,
i bake things.
and when i do,
i make sure to snap a shot,
so i have something to show you guys.
i made cookies.
maple sugar cookies.
double-buttery maple sugary crispy crawnchy snappy shapes of leaves and stars.
wanna see?

the cookies were so straightforward,
i had to sexxx up the shot, with autumnal hottness and accoutrements.
i'm not even gonna tell you how to make these cookies.
it's butter, sugar, flour, vanilla, baking powpow and soda, salt, and maple syrup.
i used a lot of butts.
that's all the help you get.
i've got oatmeal bread in the oven,
and i've got strawberry chocolate crisps that just came out of it.
these days are the type that blur by too fast.
you always think you've got just a bit more time,
you don't.
i've got not enough  groceries in my ever-emptier fridge;
i've got too many unfulfilled chores piling up at work-
simple little somethings-
like cutting dropcloths, and organizing disposables-
that become a messy mountain looming in my line of sight
as i run a little late each and every day
it's not the schedule, it's the supply chain.
i'm forever trying to make the experience memorable,
and enjoyable, and relatable to the clients who are smart enough,
lucky enough,
dumb enough,
or just plain' ol' indifferent enough to end up in my chair for the big show.
that requires the exxxtra-effort you'd expect from someone
who believes in instigating loud, fresh, hardness for your face.
i don't want mundane experiences.
i don't want boring stories.
i want to have more to do than i could possibly fit,
and still get more finished than you'd ever expect.
i promise to leave exhausted.
that's how i know i'm doing my best.
too much is the right amount,
and everything else is wasted time and energy.
if you aren't ready to take it to eleven,
you need to take that weak sauce elsewhere.
tell your story walkin', diaperbabies,
there's too much work to do to sit around.
on top of all of that,
as i double-bucket bail away on the rising water inside the sinking ship
i'm sailing off into the sunset of my mutha'-lickin' life,
and as the other boaters seem to be pogo-sticking augur-bitted bottom-bursting holes
into the hull of my whole income-generating situation.
when do i plug my nose, and hope i float as the floor beneath me drops away?
on top of THAT,
today is the day, again.
another last day,
another 'nother see-you-later-maybe moment.
what can i say?
goodbye, probably.
i'm grateful for the time i'm given,
to span across expanses,
to carry across chasms,
to burn behind me these bridges that meet in the middle.
that way,
there's no turning back, or looking behind us.
the way forward is paved with goodbyes,
and while that's the pricetag for every new hello,
it seems like no level of inflation can devalue that kind of currency.
i guess that's that.
it's all really happening,
and i'm sure there's a point to all of it;
never quiet, never soft.....

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