supernatural infinite nature.

berserking whilst being barbaric,
and at the same time behaving battle-beastly,
and also lunatic lycanthropic,
and simultaneously savage and stormswept.
wow.
that's a pretty damned grand plan, huh?
well,
yeah,
as a matter of fact,
it IS.
in fact,
i think it's a rule, actually.
that's right.
today is the day.
neighbors,
it's friday the thirteenth,
which is of course the jinxiest day they make,
and it's also a full F*ing moon.
infinite nature is all set to wild out,
shed it's tame temperament,
and flip out all over the place with high fives and toe kicks,
jazz hands and spirit fingers and roundhouse round-offs
putting the cartwheels before the horseplay,
and utilizing them as catherine wheels to pulverize the
plausibility of notional superstition being nominal and superfluous.
y'know?
no.
i guess that's reasonable.
you might not want to follow sentences like that....
the thing is,
ignorance may often be blissful,
but in this instance overpreparedness will rule the roost.
that's a thing.
full moon irradiation is the primary cause of irrational ragnarok'n
magnetic iron-filing blood-filling pulse-pounding gypsy animal fury.
really.
and when you add in the double-barreled overdose of friday-style
thirteenie-tiny triskaidecamania,
and the supercharged intuitive aversion to good luck and happy circumstances??
unlucky days, werewolfen moons, rainy weather,
and rough edges wearing away even the thickest skin.
c'mon.
today is the DAY, duders.
the big bad wolf''s big bad luck thirteen big bad-to-worse bad news buffet.
look out.
what?
am i jinx-proof?
oh, i don't think so.
after all,
i suffer from a case of perpetual blood-poisoning.
like,
my marrow, the platelets and plasma, my DNA, the whole works,
are all made out of poison.
yeah.
get it?
vitriolic vital fluids, susceptible to the variances of environment
and the caustic cause-and-effects of affectations and aspirations,
and their aftermath.
y'feel me?
like,
the fickle fangs of fortune and favor,
the capricious claws of calamity and catastrophe-
they course along a closed-course lightning-strike network
in fits and starts,
ebbs and flows,
pushes and pulls to the bass-drum thunder of a blazing barbarian boiler,
building pressure above hot fire furnaces,
full-moon flaming and forcing the toxins
to the farthest reaches of my fingers and face.
ugh.
hard styles and long nights are what me and mine are made out of.
it's loud fresh hardness and howling and hair,
and hurt feelings and hot heads and hard hearts and heavy hands.
the meek might inherit the earth,
but only after a hefty estate tax is levied by those who've inherited the hottness.
believe it.
the books get balanced by indelible bloodlines,
and there's plenty of room for error,
but absolutely no tolerance for any...
warrior poetry involves a whole lot of crossing out and tearing up,
but never ever any erasing.
we won't disappear what we don't like,
we'll destroy it.
because when it's broken, it's fixed.
there isn't a lot of time for inspection, introspection, or circumspection-
fortune favors the bold,
but more importantly,
it activates the experts.
mmhmm.
we do what we do.
and on days like today,
under the clouds,
which in turn are under the full moon,
which as it orbits delineates the date,
which is friday the thirteenth?
what we do is repairwork,
which,
in this and every other instance,
means demolition by our own volition.
nature wins,
outside.
infinite nature wins,
inside.
it's all really happening,
but it won't all meet up like this again for another thirty-five years.
oh, don't worry...
i'll be there,
a mangy grey grizzled and wizened world-weary wolfman,
worn out, rheumy-eyed,
wheezing as much as howling,
letting that lunar loophole draw my bitter blood back up to the surface,
and losing whatever is left of my lust and luster.
after all,
rules is rules;
never quiet, never soft.....