w16sh 35-37

now for a REAL con… eff to edit. but enjoy a rare time i try to describe twice as much as usual.

music: Janis Joplin – me and bobby mcgee – for the line I’d trade all my tomorrows for one single yesterday… kris kristopherson’s tune but most contrasting to her version vs. his is he wrote a buddy tune Janis sang it more as to a lover and worse…very quickly had no more tomorrows to trade – I hope you conned the lord into a mercedes, J!


  • contains a line from
  • oil, dog fish, huevos rancheros, estranged sibling, pocket knife
  • something that happened in first grade, a Winnebago, a rocket kit.

With Winnebago(R)ed Huevos Rancheros rumbling, We myesstranged sibling embark across these our land til now unknown to find what redemption they may contain. The Sun rings out upon anvil Earth little spark-cloud os insects sparkling.a-toot toot tooting down the road farting fuel  spent vapors as poisonous as breakfast of ill cookedeggs over corn tortillas with a salsa set upon arguing with the dog Fish IPA’s that sound then and now…burp… just right.  you know, absolute blissfully conceived idiotic and illegal thinking?… Freeeeeedom! he screams out the window as a disgusting belch.   Janis jumps all over this moment with “freedom’s just another word for Nothing left to lose…and honey, i’m nothing if i ain’t free.”  I of course look uselessly into the mirror to check whether i should hide the naughty breakfast fuel.  the wind laughs silently elsewhere…  you’d think at highway speeds there’d be some…  Someone forgot to import some.  we’d die in an instant’s agony of physic reality if we stopped suddenly going this fast….but there not a whisper from the wind.  The funky cloth seats stick to you as if to bleed yester years awful ideas then chic into the you of now.  There is an odor…yes without wind or seemingly any air at all but the foul kinds…but even that notion is starved to death in this foundary flippin nowhere awash in this airless ocean of gras fried alive. me and bobby mcgee…what?  the radio volume refuses to communicate consistantly.



somewhere in first grade i see as if from the swingset the ground coming as i fly to the sun coming up.  it wasn’t but five minute til the little asshole pushed me and the bushes called to me moses of the moment to push him back sayeth dad playing the lord.  I did.  it didn’t help.  I look again in my now savouring this bitter brew , a cup of hemlock, for my freedom to skip suddenly lose as the noose of the laughing law blink it song for us towards the roadside of real redemption.  i think Iwrote a badly bungled sentence and i do not care.  the oil of this moment is as rank as cypress of the swamp waters…. so is this seat.  I want a smoke.

Support groups, nicotine replacement therapy, and other medications can help you quit.

he doesn’t need to say it.  the thoughts sprung  still knew within our pogo stick of choices and reactions.  it remains a chasm.  he wuit to keep her forever and managed it even if she pawned forever at the first call of we pay cash for gold.  i want a smoke.  my pocket knife digs into my hip. which thought will win?

it isn’t much of a heralding but prairies offer up the signpost miricals of the lord in their way just as the haze of which sparking glint of insects within the sunlight of their millions tide distracts with its random monotony…a tree and a house on just a shadow of landscape threatens to be blinked a mirage.  it’s about time to feel the sun smile in a crescendo of increasing intensity… we turn down what is road to hell and dust as styxx sings of those long night and impossible odds keeping my eye to the keyhole.  classic rock?  classic crock of mouldy nostalgia spoiled by a mullet being just the thing.  to be a laura ingalls wilder of a hundred years before this year wanting a lunatic fringe and the hot new rage of a greeting card… all the fancy whoo-dbe-whoos had them…her museum says almanzo traded her his and did so first.  is not this romantic?  romance….wheni’m not sure where the stink is, or where it is on my pants…. and the seat reveals two new old oatmeal lumps.  romance. i want another beer.  i want another smoke. but i see the excitement build as trees magically apear just as bird do every time…you are near…shit, the carpenters… I mean once in a while but buy me a single… i don’t need no thrity rack of that.  that smile competes with the sun as he dreams as you can clearly see of wht fun that rocket kit’ll be…yep, right on time a lake.  we’re almost intelligent about fire.  where’s my lighter?.


By Starman Jones

Everything and Nothing interests me. I cook read, write and even have to clean. I SHOULD NOTE: I'm 40 something.

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