I broke my halo out at the shore, near Monterey’s Big Sur, Jesus Christ is all gone All answers were posited by the guessers who knew nothing, and then they died So, we all get the same old chances; if they get any chance at all, it’s up to a one On the feet & healthy, strong legs that take the weight, there’s a maximum load.
I won’t know anything the day I die, & to save some time, already don’t know it Flow hot to keep it cool, it’ll seize if you cause friction to be present in your ID Gods know nothing more nor less than the minions do, confused, false superego Bar fights are over before they start, where I hunt for things that come to blow. Beginning at the end and leaving the middle to stay at rest in the vacuum, on air Where you say what you think & we all agree or disagree with the evil, live stare Halls and markets are empty, everything’s broken beyond repair, you know it all What becomes of our natural longing for longevity, existence is a chimera ghost. Victims and the hunters need and want one another, boredom’s ennui last stand In front of the fear & behind the malfunction, it’s all that you are, one free Will Be an accident of lust of man & woman, it’s the same as a planned day 1 family It’s still a murder of crows whether you like it or not; it’s not my call, what’ll be.
It will be foretelling the story as if it is a means to the Way, Truth about a Pitch Never repeat the operation twice, or it’ll go on a roll & it’ll never stop the itch Homeless encampments have rats and trash from the many minions of ape ilk Education of the young orphans and mistreated children on 5150 parents’ milk. It may not get better than this, but for certain, it could be worse; it’s been said Only you and I know the meaning of life, get hungry, work to eat, or you’re dead Not to cast aspersions and blame on the innocent & wild-eyed boys led by nuns Fear & loathing of all the above leaves Nothing out, over & done without reruns.
Heard the herd approaching from the rumble of the ground, vibration warning Out of the way of the stampede is not only a good idea, but it’s about surviving Even if you hate your place in Space, you still don’t want to stop breathing, et al If you go too soon, you’ll return ad infinitum, just do the thing you do, play Ball!
by r j j stephan, i c. Lundi, May 11th MMXXVI Anno Domini @ 1:11 PMPST