Master-baiting repo dickheads 3

3. What is it like to be continually unwelcome? What is it like to be always pretending to be going home when driving his car or her truck, but knowing that, truly, there lacks destination? Geometry suggests of straight lines that you are forever going away from home. This state of perpetual unwelcomeness does not seem eased by the driving of his car or her truck. I ask of these things because I wonder, aloud, about causality: What compels a state of perpetual unwelcomness into being, as a choice of future being rather than a starting point (such as poverty)?

The movement of dollar bills, possession of dollar bills, but specifically, a sense of belonging to the chain of dollar-bill movement, is temporary motion. Surely this is clear.

But perhaps the driving of his car or her truck, that is, to be continually unwelcome, is confused with food, shelter, and family.

To understand the separateness of these things is also to understand the snowplow of big fat cocks he and she wish to inject you with as you drive his car and her truck away from home.

But this misunderstanding on their part: dickheads cannot be injected with cocks, though it is always dickheads they wish to inject. Instead they must cum prematurely and wither.

This is much like the master-baiting done by the Los Angeles Police Department. This word, "baiting," suggests an initial intention which is to lure. This seems especially dishonest because dicks and pussies are easily lured. An ethical boundary is penetrated because all Los Angeles Police Officers are forever fighting the urges of either their dicks or her pussy.

Usually we are in line waiting. This happens so often that probably once a day there is a pussy ahead of us in line we may have the pleasure of having temporarily and in secret, on the house, for our wait. But our having it is not an intention of the pussy, so it is not "baiting." What these dickheads do with pussies is ratchet rims to her clitoris, splay her on the counter and say in succession:

Stick your fingers in my cunt.
Stick your fingers in my cunt.
Stick your fingers in my cunt.
Stick your fingers in my cunt.

Dickheads do not have fingers, they are uniformly obelisks or rhino horns, so they are not lured by this specific configuration of words, and thus must be separate of the baiting.

But when the dickheads take off their uniforms surely it is clear fingers are involved again. What if the baited one was a dickhead without a uniform? Or, more probably, what if we are all dickheads either with or without uniforms? How do we reconcile?

Regardless, it is clear there will be dicks and there will be cumming on.

Re-run, as if Wishing to be Circular 2

2. It is this way, a drunken and bright-lighted bar where growth of the spirit is possible. Cheers then Frasier. Roseanne then a more capable, more wise and more decisively forceful (like passenger train) Roseanne in which Becky has become more beautiful so beautiful she's almost a different Becky, but we know better. These things, drunk, growing, happen in tiredly 2 a.m. brightness, like graveyard halo, in a period of weeks, months, childhoods. It is the drunkenness of sleepless wanting. Our spirits are hungry! And exhaustion also is needing sustenance.

Why, I write sternly, do the networks replay these re-runs of our drunkenness at midday? Why ever repeat repetition of programming? The way leftovers grab and rip off our testicles. Remembering the orgasmic dinner (itself a remake, thus the writing of recipes) becomes like remembering God. Remembering God is like remembering fucking, neither of which is at all like am fucked or, simply, am.

In conclusion, please do not continue to play these shows before 1 a.m. or after 3 a.m. These times specifically are crucial. Without them witticism, and also profoundness, dull and become a shade of grey.

I cannot eat a turkey sandwich while observing a shade of grey, because the turkey itself becomes grey, and as you know my stomach is a chameleon.

paper view 1

1. As I write this I feel I am more fucking brilliant than you, who are fucking dumb, I do not think this, but I feel it. Then I sit to write seriously, and don the mask of a dullard. To this the response is television.

A Guiding Hand in the Garden

A directing of pedestrians, with a teacher's whistle poised to expel.

I now accept the prose poems.

It is a process, no? Like crossing.

Yes, like crossing.

Matter

How to become unsilent?
Scream that I love you violently and selfishly.
Love self, that voilent ly I scream, you fish.
Become how unslient, to?

It is a matter of volume.
Actions, silence, words. In that order.
Act sil i, on silence s, order words. t in hat.
It is a volume of matter.

Ode

He was my enemy. He is my friend.

Horticulture

I thought perhaps of making this story the third-persona type. "He came unstitched at the razor's rip along his neck. Soon his beard was again neat and the edge of sophistication sat where the neck met the underbelly of his words. Then he worried that no one noticed the red in his eyes, both the lateness and the earliness of 3 a.m. as he stood before a restroom mirror and had not understood the prose poetry he had read for a college course."

But the complications in viewpoint of such a story would be no more useful to me than the prose poems I could not understand, merely words, as upturned and annoying as the pop of my dog's tongue along her snout, producing an anxiety like an unkept lawn beneath my cheekbones. Fire!

So to hell with stories that aren't written for me. I'd rather the unpleasantness of horticulture.

Jean Luc

Jean Luc is a diplomat the color of blood across his chest a star along his breast a red-haired woman in his heart.

And on a farm in southern Illinois one day he turns to me and smiles and says it is the way of people to kill.

He said Don't read too much into the things they do but walk among them and believe in them even if you don't believe in them.

So at the speed of light we look into the eyes of one another and the way the stars reflect against the worries of our lives.

It is the slowest thing there is he said to grow into a man and then you rocket through the sky into your death in all the black but I have never seen a thing so fucking beautiful and if there is a God he's sitting there in emptiness.

Jean Luc is a patriot if space were like the USA he'd bleed just so Orion and his friends could spit on him when he returned from war and just to find his red-head had moved on.

And so it goes of the broken hearts of diplomats
and farm boys
and reading men
and mirrors
and rocketeers
and patriots
and dreamers with a star along their breast.

Boots (inspired by Dan Bern)

Cookaburrah
How ya doin'.
How ya doin'.
What'cha chewin'.

Cowabunga.
Eat my shorts.
Eat my shorts.
Life is short.

Alligator
Catch you later,
Then we eat.
Boots on feet-steps.

Even then,
Even then,
We are friends,
Even then.

Abue

Sleep well.
Pero despierta también.

Dream like a bird.
Pero des us paso adelante despues.

Kiss the hand of your daughter's daughter.
Pero recuerda su sonrisa.

Speak Spanish.
Y di lo que sientes.

Forget this place.
Recuerda porqué despértastes.

An outstretched hand

Does # love &?

Does & hate #?

If # said # was sorry, would & forgive #?

What if &# became &  #?

Every time ^ thinks of ^, ^ understands that ^ is not &#, ^ is only ^ and will never be more than ^.  If only ^ could tell &# what it is to be ^.