NEW/OLD SAME/DIFFERENT

i can't paint another skull the same as the rest.
i'm serious.
i'm not stopping.
i'm not out of candle tops.
i am sort of out of time,
but i'm squeezing in little hints of color and hue here and there.
so, there's still MORE, just slightly less often.
teleport:

SPACEMAN SKULLHEAD!
yup.
i mean, what the eff else am i gonna do in between appointments?
this one seems like it might be start of somethin' newish and betterish
and maybe a little more sci-fi pulp novel weird.
i like the sounds of that.
so here's to MORE of what there already is, only improved upon,
and continuously progressive towards being expert and taken to eleven.
that's what i need in all aspects of my life.
my jump off just happens to begin with cheap paint and recyclables first.
***********
time keeps on ticking away.
and deadlines and birthdays and big debuts keep creeping up and encroaching
on the overlaps of life and love and obligation and intention and objectives.
it's all really happening.
babies and toddlers and kids and adults and work and school and birth and death
and all of the things that form the closed-circuit circles of ghost ring smoke rings
that continue to echo from each of us, as epicenters of the infinite,
overlapping into venn diagrammatically incorrect vitriolic vexations,
exultant exaltations, explosive exclamations, lamentations, and sensations.
we're all at the crux of circumstance and choice.
there's fortune and failure and blood and love and loss and gain
and good and bad luck in between,
but each of us is connected, to greater or lesser degrees, with each other
through spirit and memory.
the closest ones are the hardest to hold, like nature's first F*ing green, an' that.
and time is the tether that binds us together, for an instant or a lifetime.
what does that even mean?
it means that when i say it's ALL really happening, i'm really not kidding.
it's the intersections of our story arcs that form the stars, or the flower of life,
or the wrinkle-dots or wrinkles in time, or tempo, or breakbeat heartbeats,
as the resonation of each detonation pushes outwards like bomb-burts-
and they're all the same shapes, and the circles that concentrate and spiral from
every last moment are traveling distances
that aren't measurable in any amount we can count.
it's all really happening, and that's the whole point;
never quiet, never soft.....