chronic robobotronic dreams of warrior poetry.
sleeplessly long nights at the last minute,
unable to articulate actual words,
as my chest congests, my lungs collapse,
and my throat scrapes itself free of my vocal (dis)chords-
but still letting actions activate a filibuster of fresh-to deathness
across the floors of the Folk Life & Liberty Fortress.
i made it, barely, into the realm of hallowe'en costume cosplay creativity,
and i was still smelling of spray paint as i put the pieces on for the big day.
literally, the actual last minutes were spent gluing sh!t in place.
what was i?
i sure was.
check the space-viking-type teleport:
i OVE to make the magic happen over here.
sure, time kept me from going much crazier,
and sucky sickness sidelined me as much as mangling my face.
losing my car in the clutch,
on a weekend where literally everything is closed in the rural north didn't help, either-
i pressed on, regardless, heedless of the legitimate excuses on the table,
and persevered, because really real mutha-effers WORK.
anybody can b!tch-out and take it easy,
but that's not how we rep our styles, is it?
no dang way is it ever gonna be okay to do less.
too much is the right amount, and that means fighting through the suck,
and turning up the hot fire.
i doo-doo that endurance-of-the doo-doo-style sh!t,
and for my efforts in the end stretch,
i ended up like this:
i think it's pretty good.
check out the face:
it's dress-up make-pretend costume time,
so i ALWAYS give myself hair.
that's a thing
the faux-motor iron trapjaw jaun has some style:
i made the most of it.
i did the thing.
it'll go into storage, in the vault, along with all the other other ones,
as my rogues' gallery of made-up characters grows by one yet again.
every year, forever and ever.
and it's awesome.
even when nothing is going on, it's ALL really happening;
never quiet, never soft.....