The rage machine dwindles and shimmers on the horizon, always a tiny dot in my rear-view, or just over that far hill.
The reptilian brain. The oldest part of sentience, the first thing that is truly ours. Rage.

Raging as you wake up hungry in a wet diaper, cold, some hippy left the window open after they burned the lentils again. Sharing the rage with the world at the top of your tiny but expressive lungs.

Getting into it now as you hear them coming for you, to shut you up with lies about love. Well, this time they are going to hear the full story, feel it's dark cavernous empty depths, respect my authority!

"There, there baby, you are all wet you little silly-pants, Aww!" A nipple in my mouth shuts up an awful lot of my rage and why is it so easy to get me in line with a promise of a full belly like this mouthful right here and life is in the moment, baby, and this is starting to get good with the bouncing and let's see where she's going with this, I'm STILL mad, YO.... Just sayn.

Resistance starts to fade, can't we all just get along, but no, they will never learn if you cave in this easily, stand up for our rage rights baby boy, resist the rocking and the cooing and what is this awful trick? This is a rubber nipple, not a bottle tip! I refuse to be pacified so easily, you had better call in for an airstrike, get your napalm buddy, because this baby rage is entrenched!

Another be-diapered terrorist cell becomes activated.
The torture never stops.



Thursday, September 13, 2012

worldview shift in effect
glamorizing booze?  for who? for what?
acting like im retired out here on the farm
the perfect time of year out here
great sleeping weather
its just about to start turning orange and red
but im naturally inclined to chillax
priorities on the cusp of fifty
as i enter my fiftieth year
arms raised in triumph
still free, still free
improbably, still free
no boss, no woman, no addictions i cant shake
acres of words to sling
here at the word farm
get up at dawn
get my word on
all of a sudden its noon
my brains goes zoom zoom
soaring to heights and plunging to depths
ima write me some shit
and sell it out west
east coast flaovers for you crapperr
east coast flavors for your crapper
a magazine designed specifically to be left in the john
doubles as toilet paper
three pages in every issue left blannd for your shit
figurative or literal
its a magazine party ya'll

 

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