panniecakes,
baker man!
that's me, and that's what i'm about.
i mean it.
this past week,
but perhaps more importantly,
these last two days,
my favorite bakery spot has been closed for new year restocking or something.
that meant no fancy bread for toasting in the mornings.
it also meant getting busy with my skills on a skillet for breakfast.
i'm not gonna sit around not having breakfast.
i mean, c'mon.
that'd be so lame.
besides,
panniecakes are good for you,
and my methods make 'em extra expert.
check the teleport:
a well-lit morning, full of panwellness for my whole face-
with all the buttery hottness,
and real maple syrup.
that's the way i want to eat everyday.
the thing about that is-
unless i became a real-life lumberjack,
i'd just be a thousand pounds of blarpity loser
for all my early morning mealtime satisfaction.
and that's not cool, neighbors.
the other thing of it?
i did do it two days in a row:
this time,
i'm up and at it before the breakabreak o'dawn,
and the darkness is moderated only by the coffee (instead of tea) in my mug.
i mean,
i'm getting older, and wiser,
but not much better....
i figure that maybe a few days of gluttonous morning masochism,
and overactive self-inflicted overindulgence might be the appropriate
sort of sharkbitin' flapjackin' send-off for my thirty-eighth year on earth.
no?
maybe.
it's too late to turn back now,
they're sittin' pretty sh!ttily in their coconutty belly-tomb.
yeah!
digested down to doo-doo buttery base elements by my own salacious,
sagacious sarlaac pit of a paunchy pouchy stomach.
ew!
oh, stop it.
i'm diving into the deep-end of double-butter pancakey business,
and i'm letting 'em flip out, as i flip 'em off,
it might seem like no big deal to have a few pancakes a few days in a row,
but i'm gonna tell you something, kids-
i feel gross.
what?
no.
not because i'm a F*ing pig at the trough,
gorging unchecked through the mornings....
that's not it.
i feel gross because i'm a filthy wild animal even when i'm at my best.
and that's a hard style.
too much breakfast,
too many words,
overthinking,
overacting,
overreacting.
yeah.
what can i tell you?
my infinite nature is uncivilized, unruly, and unrelenting.
and it pours out of my pores,
and rolls and roils off of me like smoke,
forming ring after ring, conjoined and overlapping,
interconnected events that put together bigger pieces of
more complicated and convoluted questions,
and all of THAT is holding me fast with ephemeral, ethereal bonds
of spirit and memory to the berserker barbarian battle-beastly side
of warrior poetry.
circles connected by smaller circles, inside of bigger circles,
forever and ever and ever,
and all of them, invisible, undetectable, weightless...
and all interwoven, like chainmail,
and just as heavy for all the insubstantiality,
yet so much less protective despite the density of the burden.
who gets weakened by armoring themselves?
all of us who diminish our flexibiltiy in favor of fortification,
that figures.
and that's gross.
and that's how thirty-eight passes into history;
never quiet, never soft.....
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