I love to write. My greatest joys come from laying it out there. am i empassioned when i tear into a subject and do i relish the opportunity to leave my mark, even my shitstain? fuck yes. influenced by critical opinions of my work? As if!
there are many dudes that are bad ass out here. people have opinions, people can spell, you know, and put two, four eight or twenty words together, then before ya know it, ideas are being exchanged and people begin anew the age-old human condition; an empassioned response to a civilization-threatening stimuli becomes a larger human consciousness
whereby a paradigm shift occurs
you know, like
Talkin ’bout a girl that looks quite like you.
She didn’t have the time to wait in the queue.
She cried away her life since she fell off the cradle.
i envisioned a waif type from the English fashion scene of the late 60′s.
You are at once sinewy and strong, wide abreast and strong-shouldered. In spite.I feel for ya out there. i am yer strongest advocate, although you must think lo’ it seems not. any more pain would send me reeling. i have not a clue about where the line is that people cross that makes it foolhardy to follow. how it is breached. the conscious letting go that is required of turning off the caring gene in the human psyche.
i’m full of shit there are two roads but one solitary solution
the best a person can offer is to attract the other to a better way of living. Do not go down any path where even one step in that direction is foolhardy. and destined to fail.
No Time to Think About What She’d Done. And She Was.
End of Story.
My daughter Abby says we’re living on a farm. Someday.
that’s right. start with chickens a rooster and two pigs.
add a couple sheep and a goat year two. cow if necessary
maybe a mare for her if she finds she has an affinity.
Abby and Daddi-O haven’t discussed this at length with mommy.
we believe we have an agreement in principle, still contingent upon, you know
…performance. But we’re living on a farm.
End of Story.