Wednesday, October 25, 2017
"...exploding 'C'abbage head...!
I'm as I was at my birth; naked, as if I had just dropped off of the cabbage patch truck when the farmer made his sharp right hand turn onto the road for his morning deliveries. Now! What does a head of cabbage do to survive in such foreign lands. Because every day the farmer makes another hard right hand turn onto the road for his deliveries, another head of some sort drops off his truck landing into these foreign lands. We are all naked felons in these foreign lands; we have become the farmer's droppings. They call us felons. Who will help socialize us so that we too can become one with society again? Now! Until someone steps forward with a plan to socialize the ever growing population of felons existing in these foreign lands, I'll be as naked as I have been since my birth. And! If you look up into the picture's center you will find me exploding into pieces because I have become unglued due to the stresses of being naked in these foreign lands. It's kind of like the tale of "Humpty Dumpty": there are just so many pieces to put back together that one is forever fragmented through out time. It's my memory being molded by fragments yet found; therefore, all of life is situational depending upon your resources, or lack thereof. So now the secret is out: sperm is all protein.
Tuesday, October 17, 2017
...pink eye...!
I went out dancing the other night, came home with "pink-eye." Went to the doctor, got tested; I'm on some antibiotic for two weeks. Yes! I'm contagious if I'm not careful. Anyway! The dancing was great. I had the floor to myself for about an hour. I was with my niece celebrating her ascension to the next year; she too knows how to occupy her space on the dance floor. I even did a few squat type moves touching the 'toes'. You know! Now I have a theory about those dance moves because I was washing them down with gin; a very good gin poured over crushed ice with a twist of lemon skin. Just the skin, no pulp from the lemon. The club's interior is grounded in the Black jazz age of yesterday, solid & comfortable around the dance floor. The floor's apron contained tables with two chairs apiece, and there were the booths with table and mirror wall to free up the room, exposing its patrons' reflection off of those glass mirrored walls; accenting each and every patron's presence at play, dancing & prancing back and forth between the bar and their seats. It was nothing like Tiny Tim 'skipping through the tulips' on the Johnny Carson TV show.
Sunday, October 15, 2017
a Picture's portrait...
Friday, October 13, 2017
Chelsey's affect....
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