Upon the Platter Rested Two

Two whales.  In Buffalo and Mustard.

Did we overestimate ourselves?

But even as we finish up the bits, there’s something just left  enough for the scavengers to come calling, but not enough to hold them back one more trip to earth.  Vultures fishing for the leftovers, like the dregs, cleaners, Untouchables, bottom feeders, but there isn’t even half an ambulance to chase.

Awkwarturtle.

In a perfect circle, without sound.  Imaginary snow angels on the stone.  And trance and broncos and dangerous activities.  And love stories, of course.

And cheesy endings, or advancements or wannabe interpretive dances.

And way out yonder, and cooler friends.

Still awkwarbut not as much.

But now cool words filtering through steel and plastic with cool beats and cooler air.  Something singing, too, but hotter air.  Hot hot air.

Some like it hot.  But some like it slightly cooler, or maybe colder.  Then again some like it even warmer.  *insert suggestive sound*

What’s a PZone?

It’s apparently socialist.  A Communist revolution.  A lot of bubbles rising and popping, a nice fannie.  Marx, but the one that can speak properly.  Not a draft-dodger, not a Brooklyn/LA-dodger, but certainly not a Yale Grad.  Or Williams grad.

Prank-Call

My refrigerator is running.

God has type-2 diabetes.  The jury is still out on what were his dietary problems but reporters speculate it’s a mix of In ‘N Out burgers, Diet Cokes, and everything else in McDonalds.  We hope he recovers, and our prognoses are more than likely optimistic.

Bump it outside.  But we can’t, not right now.  A bit of alliteration does the soul well.

Don’t say it.

And a giant spider somewhere in the third act.

And don’t ask.  Cause we might have overestimated ourselves, but God apparently smokes cannabis, bongs like the rest of us, Bong Hits 4 Jesus man, forget Gonzo, bed time for Reagan’s Bonzo.

Latina beats–sorry, Latino beats.  A big cluster.  See the Old Testament’s view of the Universe.  It’s probably easier, more feasible, more lolable.

Sorry, 1337 > Ebonics.  I’m not a racist.  Seriously.

But I did try to pay for a parking meter on a Sunday morning.  Just awful.  Like a fucked up bailout.

Tomaas thinks its time for the Marxist working-class revolution.  Overproduction.  Maybe of houses but not of oil or anything we’re supposed to know about.  Like Looser Change.

Yes on Q2, No on QE2.

And then there as an infinite inkwell, fires igniting, minds reclining, stars defining.  Aisle Passenger Seats and easier piano parts.  With good vibrations and sparkle motion.

Did the Hugenots go extinct?

And a strong sense of evergreen.

Do they collide?

Not if we try.