The last acts of a not-that-desperate man, or, do not, there is no try, or or, I'd rather be flying a kite than fucking around with this crap

 





As a famous man often types, *deleted bleggalgazing*

No Longer Waiting for Wotan

"We'll shoot ourselves tomorrow. Unless Wotan comes."

Battle for the Planet of the Night of the Lepus

Woulda coulda shoulda

Woulda seen those guys last night, save for a litany of rust-adjacent couldas & shouldas both short & long term and since I don't lay out my entrails for the zero haruspices I've got in meat world, no fuckin' way I'm gonna for you jokers and hence furthermore since my head still throbs, here's some fuckin' High on Fire, here in less than two fortnights, so pictures the following morn, or something.

Rust never sleeps?

Oh, you'll sleep, don't think you won't sleep!

Secrets

There's a rumor, not of gold nor Herodotean bizarrerie, but of a rare kind of joy, easy to experience, yet ineffable, chiefly due to no one knowing its origin story though there are plenty of quack theories. Advice: save your stack of mystical tricksy and psychological symposia 'cause my innards are busy spending their waking hours spirographing inside both chord progressions and unproductive [ed. note: who says?] daydreaming.

This joy has nothing to do with a "job well done" whose specifics are dictated by The Man, members of his cabal, or favor-grasping, middle-management initiates; the simple pleasures oft cultivated by the complex personality; nor young springtime love, the kind of overcooked slop that balloons the heart of a sap until the chest cavity is left melodramatic with cracked ribs and a buckshot of muscle, aorta, vena cava, caves and seeing and shadow and all that philosophical bullshit of Ideas and Forms, the ideal form wink nudge, ad infinitum vomitorium. So, this unexplainable thing: an illusion?



For three minutes and twenty-six seconds hell no, and then it's gone, like the leaves I yesterday raked & bagged. No, no, no, not mine, I like the crunch, and it has nothing to do with Van Halen or Indian summer or the club days, theirs or mine. This joy from out of nowhere just is, no Slick Willie allusions, thanks, and its emanations could be a striking passage in a book you're reading for the first time, the Beatles (doubtful), a shared guffaw over a string of dumb, your favorite brand of yogurt, a plane tree, plain pizza, a field of green, greenbacks, green jeans, a Route 66 roadtrip, Polaroided just like we used to do a long time ago because 35mm was a pain in the Fotohut.

Touch your wrist; no sparkly fizz, no blood in a tizzy, nothing but runny emulsion, as if a picture of a ghost, someone call Nimoy. No scary here, only a deep calm, and this is about the worst articulation job you'll ever read on anything I can all but guarantee. This is why I'm not a writer.

If you could crawl in my head, and thank Cthulhu that you can't, some of you hippies might collate these scattered bits into some Buddhist freeing from desire & thus cause for celebration, but I still want, believe me; think more along the lines of a cool, Dale Cooper need for coffee and a slice of that cherry pie. Emotion brandishes an iron fist, but on occasion drops its guard, bounding off black entropy onto one of Technicolor, and fires smooth.

The coffee and a slice of cherry pie ain't sat in front of me, so I wonder what the secret is; bet I can find it. That's the illusion.

Helen Lovejoy approves this message

Only a dumbass wouldn't check out this merry cavalcade of acid straunge.

Carmageddon

The rust bucket is tottering on its last good leg, thus,
time to commit a random act of senseless capitalism.

Oh yeah? Well, my tapeworm was this big*

*of course this is a carefully constructed allegory of our political system. Duh.

Vote by rote gets my goat; stick it in a tote, row row row this boat, toss it in the moat, or, fuck that shit, here's some nature of note

I, for one, welcome our new insect overlords.