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Every time you try to balance a beach ball on your tongue. Every time phantom power massages nointment in the happy bits. The bloated weesle carcus of james deans puss filled bladder still doubles as something
interesting in the 21st century. If you must fist your way through the finest carnivals that the crucifix has to offer, then go ahead. Get yourself a law firm and stay the fuck away from me. But if you like to write poetry, go into your basement. If you dont have a basement, find a garage, if there is no garage, shove a feather in your eye. It doesnt matter. Get a bucket, carry that bucket proudly. Find a sandbox, where kids shit, piss, jack-off, and play. Fill that bucket with mudd, glorious mud. Bring the bucket inside your home and set it on the kitchen table. Bring your family outside, from inside the suitcase. Southe their lips with beeswax. Dip a comb into the bucket, if there is no comb, use your ribs. If your ribs are soar, and the past is thick between them, and your chest cavity feels like a broom closet, filled with the unsettled dust of the last great commotion. Then imagine your heart is the belly of a yak! Crawn inside that yak, and ZAAAAAAAAAA!!!!

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