LINE UP THE WHISKEY SOURS
Skipped the parts that I couldn’t understand, taking tests about the content of my character
Vacant of matter and energy which is lost if it’s ever found within the thing itself, I hurt her
Hometowns are accidental and depend solely on whether or not a Soul is ready to be alive
On the subject of the action verbs that move the objects and predicates, it’s all illusory jive.
I know one thing only, that is a tautological argument, I know Nothing, Everything is Void
In the condo, on the beach, on a date or deep in trouble with the order of the laws of psychos
Preening their feathers dead underground, six or three feet under, depending on Pink Floyd
Breath is taken out of your face and lungs, like it or not, Time and Space’s clock of cuckoos.
Seven up and Seagram's 7 flow the conscious animal into the river current of pure happiness
Way before the last call for alcohol, three sheets to the wind and passed out in the high weeds
Everybody lost track of my boots, so did I, my bare feet missed my @TonyLlama hot cowboys
Stumbled in and out of the saloon always gettin’ a shot and a pitcher of Ale, need some toys.
Unionized for the imperfect pouring of whiskey into empty glasses, need to think hard about
Facts and pretensions to help make it through the daily grind of moving in and out of doubt
Mothers, fathers, sisters, brothers, cousins, administrators, employers, y’all wanna be astute
I can’t create Reality, survival of foreign bodies is God’s double vision, so urgent to be caput!
She said I was out of line and there wasn’t a line at all, straight or curved, fast or slow, so true
Perfect to be a function of all there is, First Cause and the Big Bang fornicated the Big Bangs
Resolved by friction and spontaneous combustion, absence of form’s shapes’ crimson screws
Turning into the ultraviolet violins and the infrared trombones, holy rhapsody of the blues.
Fallen from trees, plateau cliffs and just tripped over my own size 10 clod hoppers, my Words
It sounds a certain way, leaves an impression of what can be repeated, tweeted like Freebirds
In or out of a pickle’s costume, dancing like everybody loves your moves, show off the delight
No chance to fail, success is the narrow Way I’ll always be right side, being wrong, let us fight.
by
r j j stephan, i
c. Samadhi, August 29th, 2020 Anno Domini @ 4:11 PM PST
{ Took it down a notch, while listenin’ to the Brothers Osborne to #SlowYourRoll link @ https://youtu.be/0eERCG_pBUs )
FINIS
W.W.A.R.D.?
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