lunar scarface

                    his tricky eyes

not that he was . . .  complaining

they threw him more curves than Satchel Paige ever did

he saw Paige throw three innings during an exhibition game at Wrigley Field

faced nine batters

Kd four who went fishing after his curveball

at least his curves allowed him to repent

look again

and see what it was he screwed up

surface

       not scarface

but even then corrected he remained fond of his eyes tricks

they were after all just another way of seeing things and he was fond of their new perspectives the curves when they occurred

however they couldnt all be tricks of his eyes

his temperament must have fed others or else he wouldnt be susceptible to his dyslexia

how many happy accidents happened in Mankindes existence that SUDDENLY and unexpectedly were incalculably valuable  the humanoid beast that first picked up a broken tree limb and clubbed its attacker and that shard a brilliant accident fleeing across searing the gulf of collective unconsciousness and stuck in every worthwhile beasts brain on every farflung escaped clod  every continent

every gnarly club  refined to a spear  the long bow and arrow  a sling 

every survival incurred

then Thoughtfulness latently provoked 

unfortunately outstepped by violence

scarred face

See the barren moon?

1459,  Twosday,  23  8. 16

1507,  Day-between-Two-Ts,  24  8. 16

(a redux)

there was a barcode

stuck to the end of his cock

it wasnt a Fresh-By  a Birth or Expiration date

it was # 0667528744757

                       $5.00

$5.00

shameful

if someone had the keen imagination to affix a tacky sticker to the head of his cock 
Thats it  Five bucks

Hell  hed kick down five bucks just to learn how the tagger managed the sleight-of-hand

 

he was feeling like a bit of a scientific experiment like he might have been lifted up during the night in his sleep
or in an induced sleep and explored by Aliens 

or impressive Churchgoers

  

there was no way to tell 



                                             he was a heavy sleeper and was intoxicated with dreams
filled with enormous red yellow and black fires burning in every direction he looked fires undiminished burning in full throat and fury their fuels impossibly not rendered  not the sailboats at sea or tied to a quay  not the automobiles sprawled on crying and sputtering tarmac stuck fast by black-taffy tires afire  not the shimmering walls of trees or singular plumes throwing off swarms of fireflies ash and sodden pitchblack smoke  not the wood buildings shaking like epileptics tipping their tinroofs like bright shining fedoras or mad locomotives and traincars snaking on ochre rails  and the fires themselves their magnificent whirling sheen painting and marbling the faces and bodies of onlookers as if their skins were made of paraffin and they marveling as intently as he

he woke and pulled on his dirty buttonfly jeans to work the fruit trees in the yard  turned the copious compost  watered and tendered the young plants to assure their best starts to flourish

he cleaned and refilled the halfdozen hummingbird feeders

then stomping his work boots to shed soil slapping the dirt from his knees and thighs and seat he and she jumped into the truck and drove over to the Mercantile for groceries  the butchers for fresh meat

they stopped for a coffee and talked over the stained white ironstone mugs

somewhere in there or prior he was tagged

he wasnt one to pay attention to discomfort or pain  both lubricated his sense or presence

being  in a word  alive

small ticks between the GONGs of waking and falling asleep

spice for his food  a clean glass jar for his drink

tagged

somewhere in there

he hadnt a clue 

she hadnt a clue

but she laughed something fierce and said she was sorry when she recognized the consternation in his face

then laughed again and again something fierce

she even laughed when they went to bed as he nuzzled the back of her neck wondering over her shoulder across her dimpled cheek if he remembered to wear protection

--   Yah love  Five bucks worth

1557,  Day-Between-Two-Ts,  18  6. 14

1423,  Sunday,  22  6. 14

“ . . in my dreams I’m always running . . ”

Give credit where credits due he always said while in more instances than he cared to admit he found people preferred to claim something as theirs until it was blatantly proven not to be  such craven liars   but not until their brilliant sunlight was shot through with black holes

Ghostpoet

Massive Attack slipped him the name which he thought was either the name of their new album or a song from it and was pitifully jealous they conceived of it named Ghostpoet before him only to discover that it was Obaro Ejimiwes AKA stage name 

he was jealous of its concept frankly how it looked written out  Ghostpoet  its spacing its os and ts that spoke to him related to his particular tastes(Peculiar is more like it mate  No accountin for tasteeh)

for what it was worth however Ghostpoet couldnt lay claim to running in his dreams

not the hard running that went nowhere the mad sweaty running ahead of a horrid tormentor gaining and gaining on him the hungry beast its hot foul breath at his back his neck its snarl in his ears the hopeless running dodging side to side fleeing behind barriers behind this and that to keep something between himself and what pursued him and out-of-body over him watching himself run and lost despite his every effort

some startled dreamers wake rather than take their medicine adamantly starting and realising it still moved inside them they clasp their hands to their heads No no no no to defuse it abandon it forget it that their dream wasnt worth anything that it hadnt occurred to them for any reason(Nonsense mate just a nightmare)

he preferred witnessing the many ways he was chased  horrified    and died

What was one more

 

he was spitefully curious which one it would be which one would finally take off their training wheels and deliberately ride him to hell

he discounted those hed gone beyond  his death as a young man 

he wasnt young anymore

not superficially young not physically  but also not young or immature regarding the intrinsic workings inside his head

he struck those  pushed them into the River Lethe to forget

if anything

         those failed dreams only made him more curious of his eventual demise(Look at dem eyes hid behind silver coins a souleater gobbling the food set around his body eating his sins so he could go to Heaven)

hed have no souleater

his sins if he believed in sin were his

he didnt believe in Heaven 

he didnt believe in sin

he didnt believe in living a life to the compulsion of others or compelled by or comporting to any teachings any religious orthodoxy or slender obscure skein

so  ". . in my dreams I’m always running . ."  to learn what I can from them  ". . in my dreams I’m always running . ."  to be a good man 

1537,  Day-between-Two-Ts,  24  8. 16

1138,  Thursday,  25  8. 16 Happy Boithday Joel

Ghostpoet  One Twos Run Run Run  https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Ua-N0_LQVuo

Ghostpoet  Nothing in the Way  https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=V0az9TZG9i4