It smells like someone just did a big load of laundry. Down at the stockyards, next to the pulp plant. Like Yogi Berra’s been eating beans. Or potatoes from PEI.
But I’ve been fooled before. Once when the fruit man had his finger on the scale. Twice when the stories of the supreme being didn’t add up. Thrice under the dismal flag of patriotism.
And the time came to unearth my mother’s breasts, and to play ball like my father before me. Hollow Wood be thy name.
Let’s party like there were no tomorrow. Or wen’t there? Generations of philosophers can’t but disagree. They, the disagreeable generations, caught one of the chambermaids tapping into a keg of rum in the cellar. They salted her behind. They smoked her underwear. And in the end, they offered her another cigar.
HMS Beagle in the Straits of Magellan at Monte Sarmiento.
My unravelling was the result of a slowly acting poison: to no my bettors, to avoid the passive voice in the future, to unravel the knots on the Beagle. We have descended with the apes for a couple million years, but just realized it yesterday, my fellow amoebas twice removed, my protoplasmic cousins, my mitocondrial mothers. Have your ears tingled to the whisper of god? Then, my child, wash your ears with a depilating soap. The sooner the bettor, five cents on the dollar. Before the joker gets a hardon. Radon, xenon, and
The bongo girls had worked their position to the point that money in the bank was worth next to nothing. Cash was no escape from their cauldron. Cash is a bug. And when there’s a short circuit in your bug underpants, god help you Henry Kissinger, and all you ilk.
Hi, I’m hairy. I have a spine. I’m warm blooded. Mating may result in a live birth.
Please to forgive me, but I am also a primate. Prehensile tale, five fingers on my left hand, no end of words on the tip of my tongue, a couple thumbs, opposable. A spanner in the works.
My people used to run naked in the Africa, and spread to the warm California sun. In those days they used to appreciate a person with a little common sense. But those days are long gone.
I want to build a steam whistle so I could whistle down the wind with a full head of steam, and not piss into it.
Rigging from the R. Tucker Thompson