Big Heads Home

Flamboyant leopard print dishes out the daily lunch special to a couple of blues.  Flies in the soup pound on and cancel out the empty calories.  Treat your elders with respect while killing them with cholesterol… The in-house motto clogs our genitals.

Buy low.  Sell High.  Date young.  Marry rich.  Her Jewish mother directs; these virtues are derivatively unbiased claims to be naturally sweeter than the banker whore’s solicitations.

Inversely proportional.  impulse drives the habit of a hungry heart.  Taste the rainbow.  Accept the community; it forecasts reign.

Face paint burns the conscience in a sweaty circus of good intent.

Trust the malice.  Emphasize the corpulence.

Talk it down, off the ledge.  Then, date it once upon its forbidden shelf-life has expired.  A doctor-patient past life promise pact in fast-forward retrospect.  Home-based delusional abstraction negotiates sympathy.

Intoxicated conduct predicts tonal conjugation and piratical visitation.

Drink only the sap of virginal mocumentaries.  Yet avoid monologues, they cost too much attention.  Relapse in relation,  but take me home before tasting the whip cream in my racy underoos.

An enchanted evening to go, please.  Cheesy and aged to perfection, like a blue cheese burger, chewy and consumable.

Oedipal complexity divides the vexatious revery of contact hours.

Crimson cookies dipped in milk, the season reruns with lacy emancipation.

I offer only the friendship tip.

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Pretzeled Thoughts

The temporary enamel of our childhood, hanging in by a single dying root, wiggles.  Soon, it will be discarded under a pillow, for imposed value, governed by a fabled relic.  Gone- like past-due milk in the fridge.  Forced out- for the next in line.

Rows of bleached baptists, biting at the unsaved.  Chomp.  Chomp.  Chomp.  On occasion, they bite a fallen brother creating the jam in a peanut butter sandwich, Darwinian classic combinationism.  A fallen soldier of the pearly gates is an uncomfortable sticky mess.  Similar to the way veneer plastered pubic hair sprouts like corn stuck between rows of teeth, awkward and uncomfortable.

A martyr, an innocent victim, yanked, tied, pulled, twisted, and molested by its original tongue.  In such pain are the hand-cuffed wrists while being read their rights. Left alone. Stained in guilt, miscarried, and Died with age.  The rootless tree falls from its infantile sanctuary.

And then the blood.  Drip. Drip. Drip.

Flavored tears, strong like iron (FE-fi-fo-fum), purify the gully where a tooth once lived.  News of the menstruating landfill travels quickly.  Its aroma is reminiscent of the smell of burning cheese in a dutch-oven on Thanksgiving Day.

Streeeetch, seep and drool, dirty mastication.

Absence and emptiness chew away.  The impulsive machine gumming for comfort.  Through this empty passage, Acceptance ensues.

Then,

From the fertile land, in a big city amongst the skyscrapers,  filled with frothy winter breath, emerges anew the plateau of adulthood.

Delta H2O

Truth cuts like butter, but rarely sells.

And at what price?  The vision of a greedy old man blinded @ sea?

Out of a fish once swam a g-d…

now bottom-dwellers only greed for their own demise.

Wooden boys, donkeys and blue fairies…

Wood burns,

Donkeys jack ass,

Blue fairies sell sex for alcohol.

No love in the belly of the corporate beast.

Only shallow greed and lamb’s blood.

Out of water, this fish walks all over the public’s  average-sized feet.

Bringing nations to their knees.

Who prays to who anymore?

Lemonade at a Red Neck Truck Stop

Sweep the cancer under the rug before his mom comes to pick him up.   Waiting in the welfare line does not take as long as it used to, since the drug testing for acid-free food stamps.

Wipe the shit out of the corners of his dirty little mouth.  We want MeeMah Granmama to see a tidy face-hole down to his empty stomach.  There is a reason why it is called “free and reduced” lunch.

Stomp the erasers to empty his mind of knowledge; children cannot, must not think for themselves.  No, not while their parents are playing as kites or out tempting AIDs.  Children MUST think for their parents.  Forget about play, until they metamorphosize into their “adult” stage of life.  Then, they will probably get some.

(You have an obligation to) Make the call.  THEY Won’t take their children away from her.  Mother does not know who the father is.  And no one can love them better.  Each day, each parent is doing his or her best, even if it means a family of six is living in a Toyota Corolla.  (Talk about curb appeal!)  Besides, when they are removed, only the children suffer, not their parents or grandparents or legal guardians.

We need to do our best as teachers to instill hope within the broken value system niche.   After all, we are held accountable.

Gills and Jointed Leg Theory

Take a moment, a precipice, to clearly identify one of your irrationally obscure fears.  Then, jump off into the deep end.  What are you afraid of?  Now,  justify the why?  Ignore the culturally biased warnings and swim towards deeper meaning?

Why the fear of gills and jointed legs?  Isn’t evolution a spiritual experience after all?  We swam to walk and walked to think.  Now, we are so hesitant to do any of it for ourselves.  Wearing top-rated safety belts, fear drives us to the doctor and gives us placebos to live in limbo with, rather than to dance on.  Manufactured false senses of securities act like loud colorful dinosaurs, thus once again move men to live in caves.  Hiding.

All in all, I am still afraid of the dark.  Aren’t we all, a little bit?  Close your eyes… is your mind at ease?  (probably not.)  We cannot hide in the dark.  Faint light, even dimmer than the defaced reflectors on a fat person’s running sneakers discarded in the Everglades on a cloudy night, shines in though our eyelid lampshades.   Live in the light.  Superstition or truth, fear saves lives.  Blah, blah, blah, blah…

And the truth lives on glaring like the sun as we grow into more complex biological machines, housing the lightening of our breath.  The crackling thunder roars quack in the night over a field of bionic sunflowers and tall poppies.

I hope this does not delay my flight.

(So, i started a blog after a few 1/2 glasses of red wine.  i need an outlet for my mind.  It is getting too thick inside.)