#JealousAgain @ricoSacto #ricoSacto #GotNoTimeBaby

#CloseYourEyesWideOpen

STICKCROSS, JIM DANDY’S RESCUE*

by

Richard Joseph Stephan · Tuesday, March 26, 2019

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You’ve got nothing to do since you’ve retired, you always thought you were your job, oh blues

Without a job but getting paid for not going to work any longer, the future’s real dark, snark

In between the birth of your body and mind, here and now, just be happy, snakes in the park

Some living things not only never get your privilege but also can never walk in your shoes!

Cards played, dice rolled, horses on Lasix, people and cows on steroids for muscles to move

From an alternative universe to another, suns’ infinite, irrational calculus, checkmate groove

Give up and relax from your head to toes, even without legs you have the ghost afoot to fuss

For the sake of pure reason, the syllogistic formal logic of my brain’s function is in Calculus.

In English or any other language created by man prehistoric or not, microscopic virus’ Id

A thing itself, that hides within every atom of everything, electronic trippin’ balls to cough

Inside the nucleus of every cell, this thing itself exists in perpetuity, no air or food, no-shyt

If and only if you’re tough enough to handle a Truth I’ve discovered, get ready or back off.

On the level, there’s a beat of the drum that goes on when you’re out of the cosmic mix

It’s the same one before and after the sun’s original Big Bang nature, y’all need this fix

You don’t need anything other than your hearing and understanding, ready to de-bone

Green light all the way to the end of the runway where you’ll ghost fly a solo flight home.

Gratefulness for the liberty others fought and died for is lacking, that’s life, an unholy Liberty

Freedom to be or think anything, logical, irrational, either way, #FakeNews’ illusion come, be

Alive and waiting to die in a vacuum with nothing but the risky work, Marx’ gold, old God sin

Tom-toms, snares, bass and high-hats, #BeatMe in a Ninja con-game, wooden sticks, begin!

by

r j j stephan, i { * PackMySpaceSuitForTheTrip NoSpaceWalkForFemaleAstronauts }

c. Tuesday, March 26, 2019 A.D.@ 11:11 AM PDT

{ drafted while gettin’ caught up on the Trumpism of the day on Rush Limbaugh’s EIB network broadcast on NewsRadio KFBK youTube link https://www.iheart.com/live/kfbk-fm-am-217/?pname=15400&campid=header&cid=index.html }

W.W.A.R.D.?

#LovelyDayForPlayinComicCons @JoeSatriani #Squares & #ShreddedFretology

7TH SON, SUSIE Q & A BOGEYMAN *

by

Richard Joseph Stephan · Monday, March 25, 2019

sssssssssssssssssssssssssssss

I came down to Bombay to save y’all from yourselves, got so hungry for my flesh and blood

Y’all almost ate everything born and raised on Earth, burrowing or flying could not get away

Future shock to know your presence is locked into someone’s empty stomach, a dope head

Playin’ along for the ride until you can figure out the avenue of escape from the water flood.

Hydrogen and oxygen have their place here and there, rivers run through land like bleeding

Around in circles around the brain and heart to show the minions the Way to Be, live to die

Like all of the rest before you and I, angels and devils all made up back of a widow’s tin cup

In the center of the forehead that puts the horses before the carts, makin’ irrational chit up.

Here is a pain for you in your heart, in your chest to make you think about the pain of Being

Alive and dealing with the pushers and junkies on the back and front streets near Sing Sing

A prison inside a super-fly skull to keep your mind in the prison where you think it’ll survive

A momentary lapse of our mother’s contraception, father’s lack of reason, therefore we live.

It’s all good and it’s too bad that what is good, better and best is just the invisible, ghostly one

Smokin’ and snortin’ the shots and beers like there’s no tomorrow, suddenly, you’re dead son

Time to reminisce about the time you spent alive, presence of the ego, repeating a wet dream

What hurts and causes the most pain is a stab in the heart with a girlfriend’s mocha cream.

Born in a nest, a bed of straw or stuffed sponge foam, maybe right in the mud, all to be alive

Pain and suffering of the host matters little but there is much of that to go around the hive

Where the honey is made and stored in the combs for the queen to munch durin’ the hatch

Cajun queens chasin’ hoodoo in the bayou near New Orleans, 7th son born in a swamp patch.

Sound off on the sweet words that make the little girls go out their adolescent, fat deadheads

They rock and roll, they groove to the rhythm and beat until the motion of the oceanic bleeds

Orgasmic twitch of the nervous system’s bad, ugly seeds, deposited goodness into the friction

Left in fertile quicksand, grounded in a secret microchip sucking me, #LetsRide original sin!

by

r j j stephan, i { *header is #VeronicaLodge from Archiecomics.com ready to shred her Fender Guitar and Amp Society! }

c. Lundi, March 25th, 2019 A.D. @ 2030 hours

{ drafted while listenin’ to Creedence Clearwater Review #SusieQ & Multiservicios ZztopHITS on youTube link @ https://youtu.be/6l3owsZJRAs }

W.W.A.R.D.?

Runaway June - Buy My Own Drinks (Live)

 W.W.A.R.D.?